"Have you packed your thermals? I hear it gets very cold in the far North."

"Yes, Mum."

"And your hat and gloves?"

Hermione simply rolled her eyes at the suggestion that she'd forget those.

"And enough clean knickers to be going on with?"

"Mum!" Hermione blushed hotly. "I've packed everything. Stop fussing!"

Catherine eased down on her restless pestering and tried to run a brush through Hermione's hair, but it was getting so thick now that the teeth kept getting stuck.

"Perhaps I should give this a little trim before you go," Catherine offered, snatching up a pair of hair shears from the vanity table. "Maybe just an inch from the bottom ..."

Hermione turned and took her mother's wrist gently in her hand. She looked kindly into Catherine's fraught expression.

"I know what you're doing, Mother," Hermione whispered softly. "But you need to stop worrying. Everything's going to be fine, I promise. You have to trust me. I'm going off to do something really big and important. I'll make you proud."

"I'm already proud of you," Catherine cooed, smoothing her palms along Hermione's hair as she did her best to flatten it. "I'm going to miss you so much ... I hope you know what you're doing to my poor heart. You will be careful, won't you?"

"No, Mum, I don't see the point in that," Hermione replied sardonically. "I'm going to call every Tartar all the swear words I can think of, tell the Magisterium that their God is a woman, then ... just in case all that isn't enough to get me killed or thrown in prison ... I'll stick my head right into the jaws of the meanest, most vicious panserbjorne I meet to save him hunting for his supper! That's been my plan all along, didn't you know?"

"Don't be flippant, my girl," Catherine berated with a small frown. "I may not be your illustrious Mistress Lyra, but I'm still your mother, you know, and I can still stop you from going on this little adventure of yours before you set a single foot out of the front door."

Hermione looked grimly at her mother. "No, Mum ... you really cant."

Behind them, Papageno whimpered in shame and hid his badger eyes behind his paws. It wasn't like Hermione to be so brazen, and her dæmon was left to wonder what was happening to his human these days.

But Catherine seemed to understand, and she sighed by way of acknowledgement. "No, I actually don't think I can."

"Mum, look," Hermione started, her tone gentler. "I have to do this. I don't know where I'm going, or how I'm going to get there, or what will happen along the way. All I know is that this feels right ... more right than anything else I've ever known. So I just have to do it. And, when I'm done, I'll come back and tell you all about my adventure. We'll sit in front of the fire, and drink cocoa, and you can make some of those Banana Cakes I like so much, and I can tell you about all the exciting things that happened on my journey, and we'll laugh and cry and forget that you were ever cross at me for going at all."

Catherine dabbed at her eyes. "That sounds ... lovely. Yes, we'll do that. But, Hermione, just promise me that you wont do anything reckless."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know," Catherine mused. "Go looking for trolls, or something. I hear there are all kinds of monsters out there."

"Mother!" Hermione giggled. "This isn't a faery tale, you know. There're no such things as trolls. It's the night-ghasts and fire-drakes that you really need to worry about. They feed on the flesh of females who get lost on the ice ..."

"Hermione Granger!" her mother rebuked hotly, but there was humour behind her moist brown eyes. She hugged her daughter and they laughed together, before Hermione went back to checking her packing list for the third time.

An hour later and David Granger answered a knock at his front door. Lyra and Pantalaimon had arrived to collect Hermione, and a hackney-carriage was waiting behind them ready to deliver the party to Abingdon train station. After a heart-achingly emotional parting with her parents, Hermione gave her mother one last kiss, hugged her father as closely as she could manage, then followed her new Mistress into the carriage.

And away they went, to start out on a journey that would take them into an entirely new world. Despite her distress at parting from her parents, Hermione was aching with excitement now that they had finally set off.

"So, how are you feeling?" Lyra asked as they rumbled along.

"I'll be alright," Hermione snivelled, as Papageno became a nervous kitten and licked at Hermione's cheeks to remove the tracks of her salty tears. "Where are we going first?"

"To the Oxford aërodock, which is just behind the rugby pitch of Jordan College," Lyra clarified. "We'll get a train there from Abingdon station, and then I've booked us two seats on the six o'clock zeppelin to London. I hope you aren't afraid of heights."

As it was, Hermione was very afraid of heights, but not so much as to make her reconsider her decision at this very first challenge of her adventure. Besides, she had always wanted to ride in a zeppelin, but she thought it was very inconsiderate that they had to fly quite so high.

She put her little tremble of fear into her back pocket for now. "Why are we going to London? That's East, not North."

"Quite right you are," Lyra smirked. "But we have to find a way to get to the far North first, and London is the best place to do that. It's not as easy as simply jumping on any old boat and hoping for the best. The North is highly contested territory these days. Apart from studying the scientific phenomena, there is all sorts of interest in new substances that have been discovered up there, which are being investigated for use as fuel in atomcraft vehicles, and in terrible weapons too. Then there are the vast reservoirs of oil hidden deep under the ice. It means that the North is in a state of almost perpetual warfare ... and highly restricted to outsiders as a result. Getting there wont be easy."

"But you do think that we can?"

Lyra's eyes twinkled. "There is always a way, Hermione. You just have to know where to look."

The London zeppelin was full for Lyra and Hermione's flight. Ten other people were waiting patiently to board, but as Lyra was more famous and important than any of them, she and Hermione were allowed to get on before anyone else. The first thing that settled Hermione's sickening gout of nerves was the spaciousness of the gondola. There was a good three feet distance between her head and the ceiling, which offset the claustrophobia that she'd been expecting to feel after boarding.

Second, was the comfiness of the seats. They were plush red leather, with mahogany arm rests and bouncy purple cushions. Hermione chose seats right in the front row, which Lyra heartily agreed with, as it allowed her to stretch out her long legs during the flight. They stowed their luggage into the assigned racks, Papageno became a little ferret and perched on his paws so he could gaze out of the window, while Pantalaimon simply curled up beneath Lyra's knees and had a little nap.

And then they were airborne. Lyra gamely tried to offset Hermione's vertigo by indulging in hushed talk about the other passengers. And what rich talk it was! Hermione was intoxicated by it. Talk about the entangled society of High London, and the embassies and emissaries who brought news of trade, and far off war, and high politics, which was a dangerous game played, in some way or another, by most of the people sat around them now.

Then there was talk about banquets and soirées, and the intrigues between Whitehall and Westminster, and the spies the King had in both. Hermione was almost as fascinated by all that as she was by the changing landscape down below, which was becoming less and less green. More grey and concrete now, but with that long snake of blue, that was the River Thames, cutting a runnel right through the middle of it all.

They landed in Vauxhall Gardens, and from there it was a short boat ride across and down the Thames to the Embankment, where Lyra had a flat in the top floor of a converted townhouse. It afforded a good view of the river, which was brown right now, so maybe it wasn't quite so good, but Hermione drank it in anyway. The view that was, not the river.

"We'll just get settled, maybe have a wash and freshen up, then head out for some dinner?" Lyra suggested.

Hermione looked up in wide eyed bashfulness. "I don't want to be too much trouble, so you don't have to show me fancy restaurants or anything. I know my parents gave you an allowance for me ... and I'd rather not spend it all in one day."

Lyra hooted out a deep laugh. "Oh, honey, you're so funny! I'm quite rich, you know. My father left me a small fortune, and my career made me an even bigger one. Money will not be an issue for you now, so put that from your mind."

Hermione frowned at the declaration. "I'm not sure that I like that. I want to earn my keep and not be a burden, Miss Lyra, so I hope you'll give me a chance to do that. I'm not so helpless, you know. You said you wanted an Apprentice, but I can also be your Assistant, too."

"I'm sure I can come up with something, if you insist," Lyra quirked with a shrewd grin. "You know what? I think you're going to be quite the most fascinating and entertaining travelling companion, little Hermione. I'm more glad than ever that you invited me on this little quest of yours."

Hermione blushed at that. Then Lyra showed her into a bedroom, where the bed was big enough to get lost in and there was enough closet space to house a small family. After unpacking, which didn't take long, as it turned out Hermione had forgotten to pack extra knickers, Lyra ran a hot bath for her with rose-pink bubbles and fragrant soap. Hermione then set to the task of washing her mass of hair, with help from Papageno, who carried it out efficiently enough, but kept turning into a butterfly and making Hermione giggle heartily as he got trapped inside some of the larger bubbles, meaning the task took far longer than it ordinarily would.

Then they all headed out for dinner at a plush restaurant in Covent Garden. The curtains here were scarlet and gold, and there were charming pictures on the walls, and every table had its own anbaric lamp with lilac frills on the shade. Outside, a street performer sang songs from the latest hit musicals and told jokes to the crowd, who threw any spare coins they had into a basket as it was offered around.

Lyra and Hermione ate their three courses from plates of Dutch China, which was prettily patterned in white and blue, as Lyra instructed Hermione on how to use her cutlery sets in the correct order ... and how to do it wrong just for the fun of it and to annoy the stuffy patrons nearby. Hermione was treated to exotic pumpkin and pineapple juice - which she instantly decided was her new favourite thing - while Lyra sipped on red wines with complicated flavours, and tried to educate Hermione on how to tell the difference between a 'good wine' and 'pickling vinegar with a funny name and a fancy label'.

By the time they had finished dessert, Hermione was beginning to get sleepy. They returned to the flat, where Hermione permitted Lyra to help brush her hair before bed. She sat stoically in front of a large vanity mirror, which had pretty lights all around the edge and a carving in the frame that had been so worn with age so as to make it virtually unreadable now. In any case, Lyra was convinced it was in a written in a language that nobody knew how to speak any more.

"Erised stra - something something - oyt ube - something something - wohsi," Lyra tried to read, as Hermione masked a wince when Lyra tugged on her hair a little too roughly with the brush. "Oh, sorry, honey. You just have the thickest hair I've ever seen!"

"It's okay," Hermione replied grimly. "A brush hasn't yet been invented that can get through that forest on my head without tearing half my scalp off!"

Lyra laughed heartily. "Okay. I'll be more gentle, I promise."

"Thank you, Miss," Hermione grinned. "So, what language is that on the mirror?"

"I have no idea," Lyra replied. "And I've had at least a dozen linguists and dialect scholars, even cryptologists and code-breakers, take a look at it. Whatever it is, nobody around here speaks it anymore."

"So, what does it mean?"

"As we don't know, it could means anything you like," Lyra grinned. "It could be a clue to seeing your heart's desire, for all we know."

Hermione frowned at that. "I doubt that. It's still just a plain old mirror, isn't it?"

"Who knows," Lyra answered. "That might be a sort of spell around the top. The world is full of mysteries like that, Hermione so never rule anything out."

"Or it could just be a dedication," Hermione pointed out logically. "To my darling, Erised, you look just as pretty now as the day that I met you. I bought you a mirror so you can see for yourself. Happy Birthday, love Wohsi."

Lyra rumbled with unrestrained mirth until she was forced to wipe tears from her eyes. "Yes, I think you're probably right! I've never thought of it that way. You really are the cleverest girl of your age."

Hermione flushed crimson again. "Thank you, Mistress."

"I'll have you calling me Lyra before this trip is over," Lyra huffed. "That's my new mission in life. But one task I don't have is guessing what your heart's desire would be if the mirror could show you it."

"And how would you know that?" Hermione queried. "We don't know each other well enough yet for you to get that right."

"Why, it's easy," Lyra twittered. "You'd want to see the face of this mystery boy of yours, just so you know who to look for when we reach that other world. It wouldn't hurt to know if he was cute or not either ... it might even make you want to go a little faster!"

Lyra chuckled to herself, but Hermione frowned back. "I don't know that I'm that vain," she argued. "I'm not really that concerned by anything like that. So no, that wouldn't be what the mirror would show me."

Lyra ceased her brushing and looked at Hermione's staunch reflection in the mirror, her own curiosity stirred. "Then what would it show you?"

"I think I'd like it to show me that he wasn't afraid," Hermione mumbled, timidly. "Wherever he is, he might know about this threat to his life, and he might be frightened, and alone, because I think that's how I'd feel if I knew something like that might happen to me.

"And that's what upsets me the most when I think about it. I don't like the idea that he might be scared out there, thinking that he's facing this all by himself, when I'm here with no way to tell him that I'm coming to help."

Hermione stared hard into the mirror. "So, if I had one heart's desire, it would be for this boy to know that whatever happens, however frightened he might get, that someone will always be with him and thinking about him. That I'll always be thinking about him. And I'd hope that knowing that might give him the strength and courage to not be afraid anymore. That's what I'd want to see."

Hermione blushed as she caught sight of Lyra's fond expression reflected over her shoulder.

"And that's a goal that I will do everything in my power to help you achieve," Lyra hushed, loyally. "But my more immediate one is to get you nice and refreshed for the morning. We have a busy day ahead. So come on, it is time for sleep."

"Why? What will we be doing tomorrow?" Hermione asked, as she allowed Lyra to guide her over to that huge bed and tuck her in.

"We will start our day at the Royal Arctic Institute, just to get the latest news from Trollesund," Lyra explained. "That's where we will be going first. Then we have to find a charter to take us to the North, and find out how much it will cost to bribe the relevant authority for the pleasure, and how much more it will cost to keep their mouths shut about it. Then we might need to get someone to forge us some authentic travel documents, and then invent a convincing story about why we're going North in the first place. I think you should do that, as my imagination is shot to pieces these days.

"Talking about shot, I need to find us some guns, too. Failing that, some people to use them for us. Once all that is done, we just have to wait for Malcolm to get here, then we can start the detailed business of planning how to pass this journey without being seen along the way. That may be the hardest part of all."

"What will happen if we get caught?"

"We'll be killed ... or worse," Lyra replied, darkly.

Hermione gulped deeply. "Worse? What's worse than getting killed?"

"There are many fates worse than death, Hermione," Lyra told her in that grave undertone. "I hope to keep you from all of them, no matter what world we are in."

Hermione blinked at all the information. She burrowed down into the fluffiness of her quilt and pulled it tight under her chin, as Lyra bade her goodnight and flicked off the light. And as the dark gathered in her head and out of it, she glanced up at the shadowy mirror and paused at what she saw.

For the reflection in the glass was giving Hermione an amusing case of pareidolia ... the phenomenon of seeing random shapes that the mind converts into a familiar image or pattern. The wall facing the mirror was adorned with decorative round plates, which Lyra had brought back from an expedition into the Himalayas many years ago. Two of them were arranged in just such a way, so that when they were viewed in conjunction with the wires of the mirror lights, they resembled a bespectacled face framed by messy hair.

Hermione chuckled lightly as she looked at the 'face' staring back at her, wondering what it might be thinking and if it knew it was trapped by glass and the perspective of a rapidly-tiring mind. A shaft of moonlight fell across the image just then, jaggedly split by the gap in the curtains. If Hermione squinted just right, it looked like a bolt of lightening had struck the face just above it's eye. She hoped it didn't hurt when it hit, which was the last thing she thought as she drifted off to sleep.

If only she'd waited a few moments longer ... for she might have seen the reflection disappear back to the world where it came from.