The Book of Dust: La Belle Sauvage

Ten Lord Asriel

When Malcolm showed Mr. Taphouse the new tool Mr. Croker had given him, and they’d tried it with the help of the anbaric drill, the old man was impressed enough to let him file down the heads of several screws for use in the shutters he was about to put up.

“They won’t get in now, Malcolm,” he said, as if he’d thought of the idea himself.

“But who are they?” said Malcolm.

“Malefactors.”

“What are malefactors?”

“Evildoers. Don’t they teach you nothing at that school?”

“Nothing like that. What sort of evildoers?”

“Never you mind. Get on and do us another dozen screws, will you?”

Malcolm counted them out and put the first one in the vise while Mr. Taphouse put a second coat of Danish oil on the finished shutters to keep them safe from the weather.

“Course, there’s other sorts of evildoers than human ones,” the old man said.

“Is there?”

“Oh, yes. There’s spiritual evil as well. Take more’n an oak shutter to keep that out.”

“What d’you mean by spiritual evil? Ghosts?”

“Ghosts are the least of it, boy. Night-ghasts, specters, apparitions — all they can do is say boo and frighten you.”

“You ever seen a ghost, Mr. Taphouse?”

“Yes. Three times. Once in the graveyard over at St. Peter’s in Wolvercote. Another in the Old Gaol in town.”

“What were you in gaol for?”

“I wasn’t in gaol, you half-wit. It was the Old Gaol, after they built the new one. I was working there one winter’s day, taking down some of the old doors and that so they could paint it up nice and make it into offices or whatever. There was this one room — big tall place, high ceiling, only one window very high up, and that was all thick with cobwebs, and this dismal gray light coming in. I had to take down this big platform, oak beams, heavy stuff, I didn’t know what it was. Had a sort of trapdoor in the middle. Well, I was down on the floor, setting up my sawhorse, and I heard this tremendous bang from behind me, where the platform was. So I jumped and turned round, and damn me if there wasn’t a rope hanging through the trapdoor with a dead man on the end of it. That was the execution chamber, see, and the platform was the scaffold.”

“What did you do?”

“I fell to me knees and I prayed like fury. When I opened me eyes, it was gone. No rope, no dead man, and the trapdoor was closed.”

“Blimey!”

“Give me a proper turn, it did.”

“You never knelt down and prayed — you fainted clean away,” said the old man’s woodpecker dæmon from the workbench.

“Well, you may be right,” he said.

“I remember, because I fell off the sawhorse,” she said.

“Cor,” said Malcolm, deeply impressed. And then, ever practical, he said, “What did you do with the wood?”

“I burned it all. Couldn’t use it. Soaked in misery, it was.”

“Yeah, I bet… And where was the third ghost you saw?”

“Right in here. In fact, now I think of it, it was right where you’re standing. It was the most horrible thing I ever saw. It was indescribable. How old d’you think I am, eh?”

“Seventy?” said Malcolm, who knew well that Mr. Taphouse had had his seventy-fifth birthday the previous autumn.

“See, that’s what terror does to you. I’m thirty-nine, boy. I was a young man till I saw that apparition right there, exactly where you’re standing. Turned me hair white overnight.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Malcolm, half sure.

“Suit yourself. I shan’t tell you any more. How you doing with them screws?”

“I think you’re just making it up. I’ve done four.”

“Well, get on with—”

But before he could finish, there came a furious knocking at the door, and a desperate fumbling with the handle. Malcolm was already primed for fear and felt his skin prickle all over and a lurch in his stomach. He and the old man looked at each other, but before either could say a word, Sister Fenella called, “Mr. Taphouse! Come quickly! Please come and help!”

Without hurrying, Mr. Taphouse picked up a stout hammer and opened the door. Sister Fenella stumbled into the workshop and seized him by the arm.

“Come quickly!” she said, her voice high and quavering, every limb trembling, her face white.

She didn’t see Malcolm standing behind him, file in hand. He followed the two of them out quietly.

“What’s the trouble?” said the old man as she hurried him along the path to the priory kitchen.

Malcolm’s first thought was that a pipe had burst, but that wouldn’t account for the old nun’s terror. Then he thought there must be a fire, but there was no smell of smoke, no glare of flame. She was gabbling something to Mr. Taphouse, but he couldn’t make it out either, because he said, “Slow down, Sister. Slow down. Take a breath and speak slowly.”

“Some men — wearing uniforms — they came in and they want to take Lyra away—”

Malcolm could hardly stifle a cry. They probably wouldn’t have heard him anyway, over the sound of their feet on the gravel path, and Sister Fenella’s panic, and Mr. Taphouse’s hearing wasn’t all that good in the first place; but nothing was going to prevent Malcolm from following. He wished he’d picked up a hammer like the old man.

“They say who they were?” said Mr. Taphouse.

“No — or at least I didn’t understand — like soldiers, or police, or something — oh, dear—”

They were entering the kitchen as she said that. She clutched one hand to her heart and felt around with the other, and Malcolm darted to bring her a chair. She sank onto it, her breathing fast and shallow. Malcolm thought she might die, and he wanted to do something immediately to save her life, but he didn’t know what he could do; and in any case there was Lyra…

Sister Fenella gestured shakily towards the corridor. She couldn’t say anything.

Mr. Taphouse set off, slow and steady, and he didn’t seem to mind Malcolm coming too. In the corridor outside the room that was now Lyra’s, there was a group of nuns, all of whom Malcolm knew well, and they were crowding nervously around the door, which was closed.

“What’s going on, Sister Clara?” said Mr. Taphouse.

Sister Clara was plump and red-faced and sensible. She jumped slightly and turned round to whisper, “Three men in uniform — they say they’ve come to take the baby away. Sister Benedicta is talking to them… ”

A man’s voice was rumbling behind the door. Mr. Taphouse moved towards it, and the nuns all shuffled out of his way. Malcolm went with him.

The old carpenter knocked firmly three times, and then opened the door. Malcolm heard a man’s voice saying, “But we have all the authority we need—”

Mr. Taphouse said, “Sister Benedicta, do you need my help?”

“Who is—” the man began, but Sister Benedicta spoke over him.

“Thank you, Mr. Taphouse. Please stay outside, if you’d be good enough. But leave the door open, because these gentlemen are about to go.”

“I don’t think you quite understand the situation,” said another man’s voice, educated and pleasant.

“I understand it perfectly,” she said. “You are going to go away, and I don’t expect you to come back.”

Malcolm marveled at the clarity and calm in her voice.

“Let me explain again,” said the second man. “We have a warrant from the Office of Child Protection—”

“Oh, yes, the warrant,” said Sister Benedicta. “Let me see it.”

“I have shown it to you already.”

“I want to see it again. You didn’t give me a chance to read it properly.”

There was the sound of a piece of paper being unfolded, and then a few seconds’ silence.

“What is this office, of which I have never heard?” she said.

“It’s under the jurisdiction of the Consistorial Court of Discipline, of which I expect you have heard.”

And then Malcolm, peering around the edge of the door, saw Sister Benedicta tear the sheet of paper into several pieces and throw them into the fire. One or two of the nuns gasped. The men watched, narrow-eyed. Their uniforms were black, and two of them hadn’t taken their caps off, which Malcolm knew was bad manners, apart from anything else.

Then Sister Benedicta picked up Lyra with the utmost care and held her tight.

“Did you seriously think for one moment,” she said, sounding fierce now, “that I would let this little baby, who has been given into our care, be taken away by three strangers on the strength of a single piece of paper? Three men who practically forced their way into this holy building without any invitation? Who frightened the oldest and the least well of us with threats and weapons — yes, weapons — waving your guns in her face? Who do you think you are? What do you think this place is? The sisters have been giving care and hospitality here for eight hundred years. Think what that means. Am I going to abandon all our holy obligations because three bullies in uniform come shouldering their way in and try to frighten us? And for a helpless baby not six months old? Now go. Get out and don’t come back.”

“You haven’t heard—”

“Oh, now, go on — tell me I haven’t heard the last of it. Get out, you bully. Take your two thugs and go home. And you might think of praying to the good Lord and asking for forgiveness.”

All this time Malcolm had heard Lyra and her little dæmon chattering away in their pidgin English. Now, for some reason, they stopped, and a thin, uncertain sobbing began to come from her instead. Holding her tight, Sister Benedicta stood firm and faced the men, who had no choice; they turned sullenly and came towards the door. Mr. Taphouse stepped back to make room for them, and so did Malcolm and the nuns, so that there was almost a guard of dishonor for the men to walk through.

Once they’d gone, all the nuns flooded into the baby’s room and surrounded Sister Benedicta, uttering little words of sympathy and admiration, stroking Lyra’s head. Her crying stopped, and Malcolm saw her smile and laugh and preen herself, as if she had done something splendid.

Mr. Taphouse took him by the shoulder and pulled him gently away. As the two of them made their way back to the workshop, Malcolm asked, “Were they malefactors?”

“Yes, they were,” the old man replied. “Time to clear up now. Leave them screws till next time.”

He wouldn’t say any more, so Malcolm helped sweep up and tidy, and fetched a bucket of water for the rags Mr. Taphouse had been wiping the Danish oil on with, to stop them spontaneously combusting. Then he went home.

“Mum, what’s the Office of Child Protection?”

“Never heard of it. Eat your supper.”

In between mouthfuls of sausage and mash, Malcolm told his mother what had happened. She had seen Lyra herself now — had even held her — and so she realized what it would have meant for the nuns to be deprived of her.

“Wicked,” she said. “What happened to Sister Fenella?”

“She wasn’t in the kitchen when we went back through. She probably went to bed. She was well scared.”

“Poor old lady. I’ll take her round some cordial tomorrow.”

“Sister Benedicta didn’t budge an inch. You should have seen the malefactors when she tore their warrant up.”

“What d’you call ’em?”

“Malefactors. Mr. Taphouse told me that word.”

“Hmm” was all she said to that.

While Malcolm and his mother talked, Alice had been washing the dishes in her silent, sullen way, and she and Malcolm had been pointedly ignoring each other, as usual. But just then Mrs. Polstead left the kitchen to fetch something from the cellar, and to Malcolm’s great surprise, Alice’s dæmon growled.

Malcolm looked up, astonished. The dæmon was in the form of a big rough-coated mongrel, sitting behind Alice’s legs. The hair on his neck was bristling, and he was looking up at Alice, who wiped a wet and soapy hand on her dress before stroking his head with it.

Alice said, “I know what the Office of Child Protection is.”

Malcolm had a mouthful of food, but he managed to say, “What is it?”

Her dæmon said, “Bastards,” and growled again.

He didn’t know how to reply, and the dæmon said no more. Then Malcolm’s mother came back, the dæmon lay down, and Malcolm and Alice resumed their mutual silence.

There weren’t many customers in that evening, so there was little for Malcolm to do. He went to his room and wrote a list of the principal rivers of England for geography homework before drawing them on a map. There were more of them than he’d thought. He supposed that they must all be full, like the Thames, if it had been raining everywhere as it had been here in the south. And if they were, then the sea itself would get fuller. He wondered how La Belle Sauvage would float at sea. Could he paddle across to France? He opened his atlas to the page showing the English Channel and tried to measure it with his dividers and the miniature scale at the foot of the page, but it was all too small to read properly.

But no, it wasn’t too small. There was something in the way. Something was flickering and swimming exactly on the spot he was looking at, so that he couldn’t see it clearly, though everything around it seemed clear, at least until he moved his gaze to look at something else and the flickery thing moved too. It was always in the way, and he could see nothing behind it.

He brushed the page, but there was nothing there. He rubbed his eyes, but it still didn’t go away. In fact, it was even more curious because he could still see it when his eyes were closed.

And it was very slowly getting bigger. It wasn’t a spot anymore. It was a line: a curved line, like a loosely scribbled letter C, and it was sparkling and flickering in a zigzag pattern of blacks and whites and silvers.

Asta said, “What is it?”

“Can you see it?”

“I can feel something. What can you see?”

He described it as well as he could. “And what can you feel?” he added.

“Something strange, like a sort of far-off feeling… as if we’re a long way apart and I can see for miles and everything’s very clear and calm… I’m not afraid of anything, just calm… What’s it doing now?”

“Just getting bigger. I can see past it now. It’s getting closer, and I can see the words on the page and everything through the middle of it. It’s making me feel dizzy, a bit. If I try and look at it directly, it slides away. It’s about this big now.”

He held out his left hand with the thumb and forefinger curved round, indicating the gap between them to be about as long as the thumb itself.

“Are we going blind?” said Asta.

“I don’t think so, ’cause I can see perfectly well through it. It’s just getting closer and bigger, but sort of sliding out of the way too, out towards the edge… as if it’s just going to float past and behind my head.”

They sat in the quiet little room, in the warm lamplight, and waited until the sparkling line had drifted closer and closer to the edge of his vision, and eventually just beyond it, and then was gone. Altogether, from beginning to end, the experience lasted about twenty minutes.

“That was very strange,” he said. “Like spangled. Like that hymn — you remember: And the Hornèd moon at night, ’Mid her spangled sisters bright. It was spangled.”

“Was it real?”

“Of course it was real. I saw it.”

“But I couldn’t see it. It wasn’t outside. It was in you.”

“Yeah… but it was real. And you were feeling something. That was real too. So it must be part of it.”

“Yeah… I wonder what it means.”

“Maybe… I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

“No, it must be something,” she said firmly.

But if it did mean something, they couldn’t imagine what. And before they could think about it anymore, there was a knock on his door, and the handle turned.

It was his father.

“Malcolm, you en’t in bed yet — good. Come downstairs for a minute. There’s a gentleman wants a word with you.”

“Is it the lord chancellor?” said Malcolm eagerly, jumping up and following his father out.

“Keep your voice down. It en’t the lord chancellor, no. He’ll tell you who he is if he wants to.”

“Where is he?”

“In the Terrace Room. Take him a glass of Tokay.”

“What’s that?”

“Hungarian wine. Come on, hurry up.”

“Has it suddenly got busy or something?”

“No. Gentleman wants to see you, that’s all. Mind your manners and tell the truth.”

“I always do,” said Malcolm automatically.

“News to me,” said his father. But he ruffled Malcolm’s hair before they entered the bar.

The Tokay was a rich gold color and smelled sweet and complicated. Malcolm was seldom tempted by the drinks they sold in the Trout: beer was bitter, and wine was usually sour, and whisky was abominable. But if he could find the bottle later, he’d take a sip of this, all right, once his father’s back was turned.

Malcolm had to stand in the corridor outside the Terrace Room for a moment to regain his sense of reality. His mind was still absorbed by the spangled ring. He took a deep breath and went in.

The gentleman waiting gave him a start, though all he was doing was sitting by the cold fireplace. Perhaps it was his dæmon, a beautiful silvery spotted leopard, or perhaps it was his dark, saturnine expression; in any event, Malcolm felt daunted, and very young and small. Asta became a moth.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Your Tokay what you ordered. Would you like me to make up the fire? It’s ever so cold in here.”

“Is your name Malcolm?” The man’s voice was harsh and deep.

“Yes, sir. Malcolm Polstead.”

“I’m a friend of Dr. Relf,” said the man. “My name is Asriel.”

“Oh. Er — she hasn’t told me about you,” Malcolm said.

“Why did you say that?”

“Because if she had, I’d know it was true.”

The leopard growled, and Malcolm took a step backwards. But then he remembered how Sister Benedicta had faced down the men and stepped forward again.

Asriel gave a short laugh.

“I understand,” he said. “You want another reference? I’m the father of that baby in the priory.”

“Oh! You’re Lord Asriel!”

“That’s right. But how are you going to test the truth of that claim?”

“What’s the baby’s name?”

“Lyra.”

“And what’s her dæmon called?”

“Pantalaimon.”

“All right,” said Malcolm.

“All right now? You sure?”

“No, I en’t sure. But I’m more sure than I was.”

“Good. Can you tell me what happened earlier this evening?”

Malcolm went through it as fully as he could remember.

“The Office of Child Protection?”

“That’s what they called themselves, sir.”

“What did they look like?”

Malcolm described their uniforms. “The one who took his cap off, he seemed like he was in charge. He was more polite than the others, more sort of smooth and smiling. But it was a real smile, not a fake one. I think I’d even’ve liked him if he’d come in here as a customer — that sort of thing. The other two were just dull and threatening. Most people would’ve been dead scared, but Sister Benedicta wasn’t. She faced ’em off all by herself.”

The man sipped his Tokay. His dæmon lay with her head up and her front paws stretched out ahead of her, like the picture of the Sphinx in Malcolm’s encyclopedia. The black-and-silver patterns on her back seemed to flicker and shimmer for a moment, and Malcolm felt as if the spangled ring had changed its form and become a dæmon, but then Lord Asriel spoke suddenly.

“Do you know why I haven’t been to see my daughter?”

“I thought you were busy. You probably had important things to do.”

“I haven’t been to see her because if I do, she’ll be taken away from there and put in a much less congenial place. There’ll be no Sister Benedicta to stand up for her there. But now they’re trying to take her anyway… And what was that other thing I’ve heard about? The League of St. Alexander?”

Malcolm told him about that.

“Disgusting,” said Asriel.

“There’s plenty of kids at my school joined. They like being able to wear a badge and tell the teachers what to do. Excuse me, sir, but I told Dr. Relf about all this. Didn’t she tell you?”

“Still not quite sure about me?”

“Well… no,” said Malcolm.

“Don’t blame you. You going to go on visiting Dr. Relf?”

“Yes. Because she lends me books as well as listening to what’s happened.”

“Does she? Good for her. But tell me, the baby — is she being well looked after?”

“Oh, yes. Sister Fenella, she loves her like—” He was going to say like I do, but thought better of it. “She loves her a lot. They all do. She’s very happy — Lyra, I mean. She talks to her dæmon all the time, just jabber jabber jabber, and he jabbers back. Sister Fenella says they’re teaching each other to talk.”

“Does she eat properly? Does she laugh? Is she active and curious?”

“Oh, yeah. The nuns are really good to her.”

“But now they’re being threatened… ”

Asriel got up and went to the window to look at the few lights from the priory across the river.

“Seems like it, sir. I mean, Your Lordship.”

“Sir will do. D’you think they’d let me see her?”

“The nuns? Not if the lord chancellor had told them not to.”

“And he has, eh?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. What I think is they’d do anything to protect her. Specially Sister Benedicta. If they thought anyone or anything was a danger to her, they’d… I suppose they’d do anything, like I said.”

“So you know them well, these nuns.”

“I’ve known ’em all my life, sir.”

“And they’d listen to you?”

“I suppose they would, yes.”

“Could you tell them I’m here and I’d like to see my daughter?”

“When?”

“Right now. I’m being pursued. The High Court has ordered me not to go within fifty miles of her, and if I’m found here, they’ll take her away and put her somewhere else where they aren’t so careful.”

Malcolm was torn between saying, “Well, you ought not to risk it, then” and simple admiration and understanding: of course the man would want to see his daughter, and it was wicked to try to prevent him.

“Well…” Malcolm thought, then said, “I don’t think you could see her right now, sir. They go to bed ever so early. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were all fast asleep. In the morning they get up ever so early too. Maybe—”

“I haven’t got that long. Which room have they made into a nursery?”

“Round the other side, sir, facing the orchard.”

“Which floor?”

“All their bedrooms are on the ground floor, and hers is too.”

“And you know which one?”

“Yes, I do, but—”

“You could show me, then. Come on.”

There was no refusing this man. Malcolm led him out of the Terrace Room and along the corridor and out onto the terrace before his father could see them. He closed the door very carefully behind them and found the garden brilliantly lit by the clearest full moon there’d been for months. It felt as if they were being lit by a floodlight.

“Did you say there was someone pursuing you?” said Malcolm quietly.

“Yes. There’s someone watching the bridge. Is there any other way across the river?”

“There’s my canoe. It’s down this way, sir. Let’s get off the terrace before anyone sees us.”

Lord Asriel went beside him across the grass and into the lean-to where the canoe was kept.

“Ah, it’s a proper canoe,” said Lord Asriel, as if he’d been expecting a toy. Malcolm felt a little affronted on behalf of La Belle Sauvage and said nothing as he turned her over and let her slip silently down the grass and onto the water.

“First thing,” he said, “is we’ll go downstream a short way, so’s no one can see us from the bridge. There’s a way into the priory garden on that side. You get in first, sir.”

Asriel did so, much more capably than Malcolm had anticipated, and his leopard dæmon followed, with no more weight than a shadow. The canoe hardly moved at all, and Asriel sat down lightly and kept still as Malcolm got in after him.

“You been in a canoe before,” Malcolm whispered.

“Yes. This is a good one.”

“Quiet now…”

Malcolm pushed off and began to paddle, staying close to the bank under the trees and making no noise whatsoever. If there was one thing he was good at, this was it. Once they were out of sight of the bridge, he turned the boat to starboard and made for the other shore.

“I’m going to come up alongside a willow stump,” he said very quietly. “The grass is thick there. We’ll tie her up and go across the field, behind the hedge.”

Lord Asriel was just as good at getting out as he’d been at getting in. Malcolm couldn’t imagine a better passenger. He tied the boat to a stout willow branch growing from the stump, and a few seconds later they were moving along the edge of the meadow, under the shade of the hedge.

Malcolm found the gap he knew about and forced his way through the brambles. It must have been harder for the man, being bigger, but he didn’t say a word. They were in the priory orchard; the lines of plum trees and apple trees, of pear trees and damson trees, stood bare and neat and fast asleep under the moon.

Malcolm led the way around the back of the priory and came to the side where the window of Lyra’s nursery would be, if it hadn’t been hidden by the new shutters. They did look remarkably solid.

He counted once more to make sure it was the right one, and then tapped quietly on the shutter with a stone.

Lord Asriel was standing close by. The moon was shining full on this side of the building, so they would both be clearly visible from some way off.

Malcolm whispered, “I don’t want to wake any of the other nuns, and I don’t want to startle Sister Fenella because of her heart. We got to be careful.”

“I’m in your hands,” said Lord Asriel.

Malcolm tapped again a little harder.

“Sister Fenella,” he said quietly.

No response. He tapped a third time.

“Sister Fenella, it’s me, Malcolm!”

What he was really worried about was Sister Benedicta, of course. He dreaded to think what would happen if he woke her, so he kept as quiet as he could while still trying to wake Sister Fenella, which was not easy.

Asriel stood still, watching and saying nothing.

Finally Malcolm heard a stirring inside the room. Lyra gave a little mew, and then it sounded as if Sister Fenella moved a chair or a small table. Her soft old voice murmured something, like a word or two of comfort to the baby.

He tried again, just a little louder. “Sister Fenella…”

A little exclamation of shock.

“It’s me, Malcolm,” he repeated.

A soft noise, like the movement of bare feet on the floor, and then the click of the window catch.

“Sister Fenella—”

“Malcolm? What are you doing?”

Like him, she was whispering. Her voice was frightened and thick with sleep. She hadn’t opened the shutter.

“Sister, I’m sorry, I really am,” he said quickly. “But Lyra’s father’s here, and he’s being pursued by — by his enemies, and he really needs to see Lyra before — before he goes on somewhere else. To — to say good-bye,” he added.

“Oh, that’s nonsense, Malcolm! You know we can’t let him—”

“Sister, please! He’s really in earnest,” Malcolm said, finding that phrase from somewhere.

“It’s impossible. You must go away now, Malcolm. This is a bad thing to ask. Go away before she wakes up. I daren’t think what Sister Benedicta—”

Malcolm didn’t dare think it either. But then he felt Lord Asriel’s hand on his shoulder, and the man said, “Let me speak to Sister Fenella. You go and keep watch, Malcolm.”

Malcolm moved away to the corner of the building. From there he could see the bridge and most of the garden, and he watched as Lord Asriel leaned towards the shutter and spoke quietly. It was a whisper; Malcolm could hear nothing at all. How long Asriel and Sister Fenella spoke he couldn’t have guessed, but it was a long time, and he was shivering hard when he saw, to his amazement, the heavy shutter move slowly. Lord Asriel stood back to let it open, and then stepped in again, showing his open, weaponless hands, turning his head a little to let the moonlight fall clearly on his face.

He whispered again. Then there was a minute — two minutes, perhaps — in which nothing happened; and then Sister Fenella’s thin arms held out the little bundle, and Asriel took it with infinite delicacy. His leopard dæmon stood up to put her forepaws on his waist, and Asriel held the baby down so she could whisper to Lyra’s dæmon.

How had he persuaded Sister Fenella? Malcolm could only wonder. He watched the man lift the baby again and walk along the grass between one bare flower bed and the next, holding the bundle high so he could whisper to her, rocking her gently, strolling along slowly in the brilliant moonlight. At one point he seemed to be showing the moon to Lyra, pointing up at it and holding her so she could see, or perhaps he was showing Lyra to the moon; at any rate he looked like a lord in his own domain, with nothing to fear and all the silvery night to enjoy.

Up and down he strolled with his child. Malcolm thought of Sister Fenella waiting in fear — in case Lord Asriel didn’t bring her back, in case his enemies attacked, in case Sister Benedicta suspected something was up. But there was no sound from the priory, no sound from the road, no sound from the man and his baby daughter in the moonlight.

At one point the leopard dæmon seemed to hear something. Her tail lashed once, her ears pricked, her head turned to face the bridge. Malcolm and Asta turned immediately, ears and eyes tightly focused on the bridge, every separate stone of which was clearly outlined in black and silver; but nothing moved, and there was no sound but the call of a hunting owl half a mile away.

Presently the leopard dæmon’s statuelike stillness melted, and she moved away once more, lithe and silent. Malcolm realized that that was true of the man as well — during their journey over the river and through the meadow, into the orchard and up to the priory wall, he had not heard the slightest sound of footsteps. Asriel might as well have been a ghost, for all the sound he made.

He was turning now at the end of the walk and making for Sister Fenella’s window again. Malcolm watched the bridge, the garden, what he could see of the road, and saw nothing wrong; and when he turned, Asriel was handing the little bundle up through the window, whispering a word or two, and silently swinging the shutter closed.

Then he beckoned, and Malcolm joined him. It was very difficult to make no noise at all, even on grass, and Malcolm watched to see how the man set his feet down: there was something leopardlike about it — something to practice himself anyway.

Back through the orchard, to the hedge, through the brambles, into the meadow, across to the willow stump—

Then a stronger, yellower light than the moon stabbed the sky. Someone on the bridge had a searchlight, and Malcolm heard the sound of a gas engine.

“There they are,” said Asriel quietly. “Leave me here, Malcolm.”

“No! I got a better idea. Take my canoe and go down the river. Just get me back across to the other side first.”

The idea occurred to Malcolm in the same moment he said it.

“You sure?”

“You can go downstream a long way. They’ll never think of that. Come on!”

He stepped in and untied the painter, holding the boat tight to the bank while Asriel got in too; then Malcolm paddled swiftly and as silently as he could across to the inn garden, though the current wanted to whirl him out into the open water, where they’d be visible from the bridge.

Asriel caught hold of the fixed line on the little jetty as Malcolm got out; and then Malcolm held the boat while the man sat in the stern, took the paddle, and held out his hand to shake.

“I’ll get her back to you,” he said, and then he was gone, speeding with long, powerful strokes down the river on the swollen current, the leopard dæmon like a great figurehead at the prow. La Belle Sauvage had never gone so fast, Malcolm thought.