Will returned at three anyway. There was an aspect of academic curiosity to him now: He had to know if it was possible to fix the knife. His stomach was twisted with nerves and his heartbeat thudded so strongly that he almost believed it was banging out of his chest like a cartoon character's. But John Burns was waiting for him just inside the door, and he took care to appear as dull and ordinary as possible. That trick still worked, anyway. He might not be hiding, but he didn't need any awkward questions.
"Ready, then?" said John Burns. "Got your knife? Good. My car's around back, it's about a twenty-minute drive out of town to our where we do the work—at our house actuallly. Got a little forge, an outbuilding sort of thing, like a garage. Do it all by hand—'individually crafted,' that's our thing, y'see? People want real things, with a personality, like, not this mass-production, factories, everything the same." He was leading Will towards the rear of the shop, where a small back door led out into an alleyway connecting to the main road. "We've got all the machines and things, of course, furnaces and the like, can't be too archaic or the business'd fall apart..." He chattered on as they got in the car and began driving, and Will got the impression that this was a speech most customers heard.
"But we've never had anyone want to come and watch," John Burns went on. "Fond of the knife, are you?"
"Yes," said Will, and went on impulsively: "It was a present, from my father, before he died."
"Ah." And the man fell silent, as Will had known he would. People didn't like to be reminded of reality. It wasn't a bad thing. It was just how people were.
Kirjava stared at him accusingly from where she was crouched on the edge of his seat. You're people too.
The Burns' home was large without having a mansion's foreboding air, but Will noticed little else about it as he left the car. His heart was beating strangely, in short pauses and rushes, and it was making it difficult for him to breathe properly. His hands were sweaty in the early autumn air, he felt lightheaded, and everything seemed much brighter than usual. It reminded him vividly of being on the verge of fainting.
His dæmon butted her head against the back of his knees, and he understood: This is a stupid thing we're doing but we've got to finish it now, so keep together, concentrate, it will only work if you concentrate... And he knew she was right, and he steadied himself against the side of the car and looked down and remembered how to breathe.
"Are you all right?" asked John suddenly. He had come around the side of the car and stopped, staring at the boy with the suddenly drawn, pale face.
"Yes," said Will, pushing himself upright. He offered no further explanation. John dismissed the episode completely and said, "Our forge is over there, just beyond the house. Mark and Elijah—that's my brothers—they're here, they'll be the ones doing the work with me. Not that it should take three of us, or even two, I shouldn't think..."
Will nodded but said nothing, and they walked to the long, whitewashed building that looked more like a miniature barn than any sort of forge.
But a forge it certainly was, he saw as they walked inside and felt the dramatically wamer air. A memory struck him suddenly, a memory of thinking that only the best tools possible could fix the knife: These were the tools he would have pictured had he known what kinds of things to think of. The room was dominated by a large, squat furnace, roaring hot and with a door in its side. Clustered around were other pieces of equipment whose purposes he couldn't guess at but which all looked immensely impressive.
Two men, both wearing face masks and thick leather aprons and gloves, came towards them. Will couldn't see their faces clearly, but he knew they must be Mark and Elijah Burns. They nodded to him, introduced themselves, and handed John his own set of apron, gloves, and mask. Before putting them on, John turned to Will and said, "Can you get the knife out? We'll need to take another look at it before beginning. There's a place over there," he added, nodding towards the wall where a long, scarred wooden block rested at chest height. Will walked over and the three men followed.
For the second time that day, he found himself removing the sheath and carefully placing the knife shards on a counter for strangers to see. It felt very odd, and odder still when he found himself off to one side while the men examined the knife. It was almost enough to send him into a panic of nerves again, but Kirjava leaned against his legs and he wondered, not for the first time, how he had ever lived without a dæmon.
The men were conferring in low voices: "It's very strong." "We shall have to heat the furnace considerably more." "Yes, and a vacuum..." "What's this metal, here?" "An alloy...titanium I think, but it is strange, isn't it?" "Titanium, yes, and, mmm..." "How did it break like this?" "Where did it come from?"
This was the question Will had been dreading. Could they have some way of telling it was from another world? They knew metals, and they didn't seem able to identify the second element in the alloy. But he was being ridiculous. The elements were the same here as in the Cittágazze world and Lyra's world, weren't they?
"It was a present," he said as they all turned to gaze at him for an answer. "From my father. I don't know where he got it from." He concentrated hard, harder than he ever had, on being so unremarkable that their minds simply passed over him. But further questions were deflected by an exclamation from John.
"Ah! It's manganese, I'm sure of it," he said, and Mark and Elijah left off looking at Will to return to the knife.
"I think you're right," said Elijah. "Manganese and titanium, what an unusual combination. But it seems to have gone well, doesn't it..."
Will suddenly felt sick and dizzy. He hadn't thought of this. There were so many things he hadn't thought of, and he was only now realizing that in avoiding thinking about the consequences of repairing the knife, he had unwittingly overlooked the consequences he wasn't already aware of. What if these men reproduced the titanium alloy, which had, so far as he knew, never been formed in his world? They could create things to sunder the fabric of the universe, create another subtle knife even. His world would become like Cittágazze, Specter-ridden, creating nothing, stealing everything. And Dust would leak out again, and he would have left Lyra for nothing.
"It doesn't really do anything," he put in carelessly, "that edge. It doesn't cut things, or anything. I think it was a sort of joke."
"Yes..." said Mark, "that's probably right. Their properties don't mesh, in any case, and I can't imagine how they were ever combined successfully. And then if they don't even do anything useful...it's just a waste of time and material." He shrugged, and John and Elijah nodded, and they thought no more of it.
Will relaxed slightly, but he didn't put the incident out of his mind. He could feel Kirjava's reproachful look, and he knew he deserved it: This whole thing had been a mistake, and he would have to be far more careful and think about things no matter how he wanted to avoid them.
John, Mark, and Elijah had finished their examination of the knife and decided how best to go about its repair. John put on his apron and gloves, and said to Will, "You'll have to stand well back. It will be hot." He pulled the face mask on, gathered the knife pieces carefully, and conveyed them to the surface of a metal block near the furnace. Mark and Elijah were behind the furnace somewhere, and Will could feel the temperature of the room increasing. He licked his lips against the heat, and moved forward as close as he could manage. He could see the knife, and feel it within him, and that was what mattered.
And John, taking up a pair of tongs, put the first pieces through the door into the white-hot heat.
"Ready, then?" said John Burns. "Got your knife? Good. My car's around back, it's about a twenty-minute drive out of town to our where we do the work—at our house actuallly. Got a little forge, an outbuilding sort of thing, like a garage. Do it all by hand—'individually crafted,' that's our thing, y'see? People want real things, with a personality, like, not this mass-production, factories, everything the same." He was leading Will towards the rear of the shop, where a small back door led out into an alleyway connecting to the main road. "We've got all the machines and things, of course, furnaces and the like, can't be too archaic or the business'd fall apart..." He chattered on as they got in the car and began driving, and Will got the impression that this was a speech most customers heard.
"But we've never had anyone want to come and watch," John Burns went on. "Fond of the knife, are you?"
"Yes," said Will, and went on impulsively: "It was a present, from my father, before he died."
"Ah." And the man fell silent, as Will had known he would. People didn't like to be reminded of reality. It wasn't a bad thing. It was just how people were.
Kirjava stared at him accusingly from where she was crouched on the edge of his seat. You're people too.
The Burns' home was large without having a mansion's foreboding air, but Will noticed little else about it as he left the car. His heart was beating strangely, in short pauses and rushes, and it was making it difficult for him to breathe properly. His hands were sweaty in the early autumn air, he felt lightheaded, and everything seemed much brighter than usual. It reminded him vividly of being on the verge of fainting.
His dæmon butted her head against the back of his knees, and he understood: This is a stupid thing we're doing but we've got to finish it now, so keep together, concentrate, it will only work if you concentrate... And he knew she was right, and he steadied himself against the side of the car and looked down and remembered how to breathe.
"Are you all right?" asked John suddenly. He had come around the side of the car and stopped, staring at the boy with the suddenly drawn, pale face.
"Yes," said Will, pushing himself upright. He offered no further explanation. John dismissed the episode completely and said, "Our forge is over there, just beyond the house. Mark and Elijah—that's my brothers—they're here, they'll be the ones doing the work with me. Not that it should take three of us, or even two, I shouldn't think..."
Will nodded but said nothing, and they walked to the long, whitewashed building that looked more like a miniature barn than any sort of forge.
But a forge it certainly was, he saw as they walked inside and felt the dramatically wamer air. A memory struck him suddenly, a memory of thinking that only the best tools possible could fix the knife: These were the tools he would have pictured had he known what kinds of things to think of. The room was dominated by a large, squat furnace, roaring hot and with a door in its side. Clustered around were other pieces of equipment whose purposes he couldn't guess at but which all looked immensely impressive.
Two men, both wearing face masks and thick leather aprons and gloves, came towards them. Will couldn't see their faces clearly, but he knew they must be Mark and Elijah Burns. They nodded to him, introduced themselves, and handed John his own set of apron, gloves, and mask. Before putting them on, John turned to Will and said, "Can you get the knife out? We'll need to take another look at it before beginning. There's a place over there," he added, nodding towards the wall where a long, scarred wooden block rested at chest height. Will walked over and the three men followed.
For the second time that day, he found himself removing the sheath and carefully placing the knife shards on a counter for strangers to see. It felt very odd, and odder still when he found himself off to one side while the men examined the knife. It was almost enough to send him into a panic of nerves again, but Kirjava leaned against his legs and he wondered, not for the first time, how he had ever lived without a dæmon.
The men were conferring in low voices: "It's very strong." "We shall have to heat the furnace considerably more." "Yes, and a vacuum..." "What's this metal, here?" "An alloy...titanium I think, but it is strange, isn't it?" "Titanium, yes, and, mmm..." "How did it break like this?" "Where did it come from?"
This was the question Will had been dreading. Could they have some way of telling it was from another world? They knew metals, and they didn't seem able to identify the second element in the alloy. But he was being ridiculous. The elements were the same here as in the Cittágazze world and Lyra's world, weren't they?
"It was a present," he said as they all turned to gaze at him for an answer. "From my father. I don't know where he got it from." He concentrated hard, harder than he ever had, on being so unremarkable that their minds simply passed over him. But further questions were deflected by an exclamation from John.
"Ah! It's manganese, I'm sure of it," he said, and Mark and Elijah left off looking at Will to return to the knife.
"I think you're right," said Elijah. "Manganese and titanium, what an unusual combination. But it seems to have gone well, doesn't it..."
Will suddenly felt sick and dizzy. He hadn't thought of this. There were so many things he hadn't thought of, and he was only now realizing that in avoiding thinking about the consequences of repairing the knife, he had unwittingly overlooked the consequences he wasn't already aware of. What if these men reproduced the titanium alloy, which had, so far as he knew, never been formed in his world? They could create things to sunder the fabric of the universe, create another subtle knife even. His world would become like Cittágazze, Specter-ridden, creating nothing, stealing everything. And Dust would leak out again, and he would have left Lyra for nothing.
"It doesn't really do anything," he put in carelessly, "that edge. It doesn't cut things, or anything. I think it was a sort of joke."
"Yes..." said Mark, "that's probably right. Their properties don't mesh, in any case, and I can't imagine how they were ever combined successfully. And then if they don't even do anything useful...it's just a waste of time and material." He shrugged, and John and Elijah nodded, and they thought no more of it.
Will relaxed slightly, but he didn't put the incident out of his mind. He could feel Kirjava's reproachful look, and he knew he deserved it: This whole thing had been a mistake, and he would have to be far more careful and think about things no matter how he wanted to avoid them.
John, Mark, and Elijah had finished their examination of the knife and decided how best to go about its repair. John put on his apron and gloves, and said to Will, "You'll have to stand well back. It will be hot." He pulled the face mask on, gathered the knife pieces carefully, and conveyed them to the surface of a metal block near the furnace. Mark and Elijah were behind the furnace somewhere, and Will could feel the temperature of the room increasing. He licked his lips against the heat, and moved forward as close as he could manage. He could see the knife, and feel it within him, and that was what mattered.
And John, taking up a pair of tongs, put the first pieces through the door into the white-hot heat.