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Source global Wall Street Journal     time 2022-12-17 15:03:11
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She could hear his claws as he moved carefully over the floor of the attic, and then his gold-fringed black face appeared in the opening. She understood at once and followed him through, waiting to let her eyes adjust. In the dim light she gradually saw a long attic where the dark shapes of cupboards, tables, bookcases, and furniture of all kinds had been put into storage.

Three weeks after the moment Lyra had watched Will's hand closing his world away forever, she found herself seated once more at that dinner table in Jordan College where she had first fallen under the spell of Mrs. Coulter.

Will and Lyra had been asleep all afternoon, and they were just stirring now, hearing the noise. Lyra sat up groggily to see Mary talking to five or six of the mulefa, who were surrounding her, clearly excited; but whether they were angry or joyful, she couldn't tell.

The witch herself was still just alive, and her mouth moved shudderingly, saying, "Something coming, something else… coming…"

She understood, though she was frightened. The little packet of powder was in her breast pocket: she'd checked it a dozen times, and she and her daemon had rehearsed the task so often that she was sure they could do it in total darkness.

She spoke more awkwardly than she did with Atal, and she was afraid she hadn't made her meaning clear. It was hard to know where to face when you had to gesture as well as speak, but they seemed to understand.

"Thank you," she said to her, her what? Her steed? Her cycle? Both ideas were absurdly wrong for the bright-eyed amiability that stood beside her. She settled for, friend.

Finally Will said, "Balthamos, come here."


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