Read Online The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman - Free Book Online Page B

world?”
    “ ’Course. This en’t my world, I know that for certain.”
    Will remembered his own absolute certainty, on seeing the patch of grass through the window in the air, that it wasn’t in his world, and he nodded.
    “So there’s three worlds at least that are joined on,” he said.
    “There’s millions and millions,” Lyra said. “This other dæmon told me. He was a witch’s dæmon. No one can count how many worlds there are, all in the same space, but no one could get from one to another before my father made this bridge.”
    “What about the window I found?”
    “I dunno about that. Maybe all the worlds are starting to move into one another.”
    “And why are you looking for dust?”
    She looked at him coldly. “I might tell you sometime,” she said.
    “All right. But how are you going to look for it?”
    “I’m going to find a Scholar who knows about it.”
    “What, any scholar?”
    “No. An experimental theologian,” she said. “In my Oxford, they were the ones who knew about it. Stands to reason it’ll be the same in your Oxford. I’ll go to Jordan College first, because Jordan had the best ones.”
    “I never heard of experimental theology,” he said.
    “They know all about elementary particles and fundamental forces,” she explained. “And anbaromagnetism, stuff like that. Atomcraft.”
    “
What
-magnetism?”
    “Anbaromagnetism. Like
anbaric
. Those lights,” she said, pointing up at the ornamental streetlight. “They’re anbaric.”
    “We call them electric.”
    “Electric . . . that’s like electrum. That’s a kind of stone, a jewel, made out of gum from trees. There’s insects in it, sometimes.”
    “You mean amber,” he said, and they both said, “Anbar . . . ”
    And each of them saw their own expression on the other’s face. Will remembered that moment for a long time afterward.
    “Well, electromagnetism,” he went on, looking away. “Sounds like what we call physics, your experimental theology. You want scientists, not theologians.”
    “Ah,” she said warily. “I’ll find ’em.”
    They sat in the wide clear morning, with the sun glittering placidly on the harbor, and each of them might have spoken next, because both of them were burning with questions; but then they heard a voice from farther along the harbor front, toward the casino gardens.
    Both of them looked there, startled. It was a child’s voice, but there was no one in sight.
    Will said to Lyra quietly, “How long did you say you’d been here?”
    “Three days, four—I lost count. I never seen anyone. There’s no one here. I looked almost everywhere.”
    But there was. Two children, one a girl of Lyra’s age and the other a younger boy, came out of one of the streets leading down to the harbor. They were carrying baskets, and both had red hair. They were about a hundred yards away when they saw Will and Lyra at the café table.
    Pantalaimon changed from a goldfinch to a mouse and ran up Lyra’s arm to the pocket of her shirt. He’d seen that these new children were like Will: neither of them had a dæmon visible.
    The two children wandered up and sat at a table nearby.
    “You from Ci’gazze?” the girl said.
    Will shook his head.
    “From Sant’Elia?”
    “No,” said Lyra. “We’re from somewhere else.”
    The girl nodded. This was a reasonable reply.
    “What’s happening?” said Will. “Where are the grownups?”
    The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t the Specters come to your city?” she said.
    “No,” Will said. “We just got here. We don’t know about Specters. What is this city called?”
    “Ci’gazze,” the girl said suspiciously. “Cittàgazze, all right.”
    “Cittàgazze,” Lyra repeated. “Ci’gazze. Why do the grown-ups have to leave?”
    “Because of the Specters,” the girl said with weary scorn. “What’s your name?”
    “Lyra. And he’s Will. What’s yours?”
    “Angelica. My brother is Paolo.”
    “Where’ve you come