Will's trembling fingers dropped the letter to the floor. For a few moments, he simply stood there, remembering how to breathe, his heart thudding. He'd found it. He'd finally found someone who could do it.
Will ran upstairs to his room in the house he shared with Mary Malone, her husband Philip, and his mother. Still drawing his breath in short, jerky gasps, he pulled a small brown shoebox from a shelf high in his closet. Laying it down reverently on the bed, he slowly lifted the lid and stared down at the shining pieces of the subtle knife.
Mary didn't know he'd kept them. Will had hung back prior to following her out of the Botanic Gardens for just long enough to gather up the shards. And although he hadn't admitted it to himself, even then he was secretly hoping to find a way to mend the knife and return to his Lyra.
And now, almost two years later, he'd found a way. Will had written to thousands of factories and independent businesses across the world, almost giving up hope each time he received a letter of rejection, but he kept searching. Because Lyra was worth it. Lyra was worth everything, thought Will.
Even Kirjava, normally logical and realistic, supported his plan. Will knew she missed Lyra and Pan just as much as he did.
As he lay in bed that night, Will fell asleep telling himself fantasies of himself and Lyra, together again. He would never leave her side. Will did not allow himself to think of Dust or specters, and Kirjava did not bring up the subject. Lyra. First he'd get to Lyra, then they could figure things out.
THREE WEEKS LATER
Will stood, trembling again, on the high banks of a river, surrounded by long grasses and varicolored wildflowers. In his hand he held a short, unremarkable knife with a wooden handle.
This was it. He would see her again. Will's hand was shaking so badly he couldn't cut through. Steadying himself, he reached out, and his mind ran swiftly down the handle and toward the tip of the knife, almost faster than he remembered. Almost immediately, he felt the stitch in the air that he recognized as Lyra's world. Will shuddered. It was almost as if the knife wanted to be used. Letting his mind go clear, he prepared to cut.
Then he hesitated. Memories flashed through his head so quickly he barely had time to recognize them.
Lyra, offering him the red fruit in their gold-and-silver grove. Lyra, lying beside him on the beach. Kirjava, his newly discovered dæmon, telling him what the subtle knife did. Xaphania, commanding him to break the knife. Lyra, again, that last glimpse of her tear-stained face as he closed the last window.
Or perhaps not quite the last. But specters...Dust...the dead... Will's mind was in a turmoil. "Kirjava!" he cried out in desperation. But his shadow-like cat dæmon was not there. He was utterly alone. "Lyra," whispered Will brokenly.
He didn't know how long he stood in that quiet sunny meadow on the river's edge. It seemed like forever to a fourteen-year-old boy who was making a decision that no one should ever be forced to make.
At that same time, a world away, Serafina Pekkala sniffed the air. It was the same as always, yet she sensed that something was wrong. Something to do with a boy...and a knife.
Will Parry stood poised to open another window. Surely one more, just one more couldn't hurt. He wouldn't open any others. He could leave this one open. It would be their secret. But Dust...the dead... Could he really do that to them? To himself? Did he really want to be trapped in that terrible wasteland for all eternity?
But for Lyra, thought Will. Lyra...
Somewhere in her own world, Lyra Belacqua, also called Lyra Silvertongue, cried out in pain and longing as the boy Will threw the once again shattered subtle knife as far out into the gleaming river as he could.
Will ran upstairs to his room in the house he shared with Mary Malone, her husband Philip, and his mother. Still drawing his breath in short, jerky gasps, he pulled a small brown shoebox from a shelf high in his closet. Laying it down reverently on the bed, he slowly lifted the lid and stared down at the shining pieces of the subtle knife.
Mary didn't know he'd kept them. Will had hung back prior to following her out of the Botanic Gardens for just long enough to gather up the shards. And although he hadn't admitted it to himself, even then he was secretly hoping to find a way to mend the knife and return to his Lyra.
And now, almost two years later, he'd found a way. Will had written to thousands of factories and independent businesses across the world, almost giving up hope each time he received a letter of rejection, but he kept searching. Because Lyra was worth it. Lyra was worth everything, thought Will.
Even Kirjava, normally logical and realistic, supported his plan. Will knew she missed Lyra and Pan just as much as he did.
As he lay in bed that night, Will fell asleep telling himself fantasies of himself and Lyra, together again. He would never leave her side. Will did not allow himself to think of Dust or specters, and Kirjava did not bring up the subject. Lyra. First he'd get to Lyra, then they could figure things out.
THREE WEEKS LATER
Will stood, trembling again, on the high banks of a river, surrounded by long grasses and varicolored wildflowers. In his hand he held a short, unremarkable knife with a wooden handle.
This was it. He would see her again. Will's hand was shaking so badly he couldn't cut through. Steadying himself, he reached out, and his mind ran swiftly down the handle and toward the tip of the knife, almost faster than he remembered. Almost immediately, he felt the stitch in the air that he recognized as Lyra's world. Will shuddered. It was almost as if the knife wanted to be used. Letting his mind go clear, he prepared to cut.
Then he hesitated. Memories flashed through his head so quickly he barely had time to recognize them.
Lyra, offering him the red fruit in their gold-and-silver grove. Lyra, lying beside him on the beach. Kirjava, his newly discovered dæmon, telling him what the subtle knife did. Xaphania, commanding him to break the knife. Lyra, again, that last glimpse of her tear-stained face as he closed the last window.
Or perhaps not quite the last. But specters...Dust...the dead... Will's mind was in a turmoil. "Kirjava!" he cried out in desperation. But his shadow-like cat dæmon was not there. He was utterly alone. "Lyra," whispered Will brokenly.
He didn't know how long he stood in that quiet sunny meadow on the river's edge. It seemed like forever to a fourteen-year-old boy who was making a decision that no one should ever be forced to make.
At that same time, a world away, Serafina Pekkala sniffed the air. It was the same as always, yet she sensed that something was wrong. Something to do with a boy...and a knife.
Will Parry stood poised to open another window. Surely one more, just one more couldn't hurt. He wouldn't open any others. He could leave this one open. It would be their secret. But Dust...the dead... Could he really do that to them? To himself? Did he really want to be trapped in that terrible wasteland for all eternity?
But for Lyra, thought Will. Lyra...
Somewhere in her own world, Lyra Belacqua, also called Lyra Silvertongue, cried out in pain and longing as the boy Will threw the once again shattered subtle knife as far out into the gleaming river as he could.