Lyra and her daemon moved through the darkening hall, taking care to

keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen. The three great tables

that ran the length of the hall were laid already, the silver and the

glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were

pulled out ready for the guests. Portraits of former Masters hung high

up in the gloom along the walls. Lyra reached the dais and looked back

at the open kitchen door, and, seeing no one, stepped up beside the

high table. The places here were laid with gold, not silver, and the

fourteen seats were not oak benches but mahogany chairs with velvet

cushions.

Lyra stopped beside the Master’s chair and flicked the biggest glass

gently with a fingernail. The sound rang clearly through the hall.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” whispered her daemon. “Behave

yourself.”

Her daemon’s name was Pantalaimon, and he was currently in the form of

a moth, a dark brown one so as not to show up in the darkness of the

hall.

“They’re making too much noise to hear from the kitchen,” Lyra

whispered back. “And the Steward doesn’t comerunescape gold farming in till the first bell.

Stop fussing.”

But she put her palm over the ringing crystal anyway, and Pantalaimon

fluttered ahead and through the slightly open door of the Retiring

Room at the other end of the dais. After a moment he appeared again.

“There’s no one there,” he whispered. “But we must be quick.”