His Dark Materials - Northern Lights

The Decanter of Tokay

Lyra and her dæmon 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 here laid already, the silver and the glass was
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 dæmon. "Behave yourself."

Her dæmon'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 come 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.

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."

Crouching behind the high table, Lyra darted along and through the door into
Retiring Room, where she stood up and looked around. The only light in here
came from the fireplace, where a bright blaze of logs settled slightly
as she looked, sending a fountain of sparks up into the chimney. She had
lived most of her life in the College, but had never seen the Retiring
Room before: only Scholars and their guest were allowed in here, and
never females. Even the maidservants didn't clean in here. That was
the Butler's job alone. Pantalaimon settled on her shoulder.

"Happy now? Can we go?" he whispered. "Don't be silly! I want to look
around!" It was a large room, with an oval table of polished rosewood on
which stood various decanters and glasses, and a silver smoking stand
with a rack of pipes. On a sideboard nearby there was a little
cahfing dish and a basket of poppy heads

"They do themselves well, don't they Pan?" she said under her breath.

She sat in one of the green leather armchairs. It was so deep she found
herself nearly lying down, but she sat up again and tucked her legs under
to look at the portraits on the walls. More old Scholdars, probably; robed
bearded and gloomy, they stared out of their frames in solemn disapproval.

"What d'you think they talk about?" Lyra said, or began to say, because
before she'd finished the question she heard voices outside the door.

"Behing the chair - quick!" whispered Pantalaimon, and in a flash Lyra was
out of the armchair and crouching behind it. It wasn't the best one for
hiding behind: she'd chosen the one in the very centre of the room,
and unless she kept very quiet . . .