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“Would you please look for me?” Lyra said, gritting her teeth. Pantalaimon obliged her at last and curled around her shoulders facing backwards to examine the buttons at the neck of her blouse. It was an extravagant one which she had bought purely to show up Annette Avery, the one girl at Saint Sophia’s School whom Lyra could not abide. Lyra was hot and itchy, and regretted her frivolous choice of clothing already. –
“They’re all closed,” Pan said. “And closed properly, not snaring or anything. You just look ridiculous.”
His disapproval was obvious in his low growl as well as his words. Lyra scowled. Pan had been like that all day, particularly when she had dressed in the morning, and had wasted considerable time fastening and unfastening the row of buttons which made her neck itch horribly when they were done up correctly, but which made the whole blouse and the pinafore under it look baggy and foolish if she loosened them.
“I told you Annette Avery wasn’t any kind of model,” Pan said into her ear. “I told you this was stupid.”
“Oh, hush,” Lyra snapped, even though she had to agree, and Pan knew it. Warfare between young ladies was not the sort of warfare she was used to. But she was passed throwing mud in the clay beds, even if it would serve Annette right to have some of her fine clothing spattered with a generous handful. Annette had no business looking down on Lyra for having gaps in her knowledge when she started school two years ago, or for dressing plainly, or lapsing back into her common speech when she was excited or concentrating on something else. Annette was also a hideous snob and laughed at Lyra for being “chummy” – really just decent – with the school’s servants. Once in her first year at Saint Sophia’s, Lyra had gotten into severe trouble for dipping a lock of Annette’s hair in her inkwell, after Annette had spread some rumours about Lyra. She’d said that Lyra must secretly be the daughter of servants or perhaps a street urchin herself to speak as she did and to smile at or tell jokes to the housemaids. Lyra’s face had grown hot with rage when she learned the source of the rumours, and she had wanted to slap Annette. The inkwell incident had been just retaliation, although Lyra wasn’t quite stealthy enough in doing it. Nevertheless, the joke was worth the lines Lyra had been made to write. Her only regret was that she had failed to teach Annette a lasting lesson.
Annette never seemed to learn much at all. As the months and years passed, Lyra began to hate that even more than Annette’s malice and gossip. What did this girl know of the world, or indeed, the universe that they lived in? Where had she been during all of Lyra’s adventures? Probably in a comfortable bedroom in her parents’ house dressing herself and her dolls in ridiculous, expensive dresses. What gave her the right to smirk at Lyra, or have her stupid blue quail daemon peck at Pan and provoke him into nipping back? Just last week Pan had retaliated again and earned both Lyra and Annette a reprimand from Miss Wilfrid. Getting into trouble usually didn’t bother Lyra, but being shamed or tricked by Annette Avery could make her blood boil, and she had glowered for the rest of Miss Wilfrid’s class that day.
“So she’s a conceited, vain little snob,” Pan said, coming to rest against Lyra’s front. “And there’s no need to be like her in any way, or look like her, or win at her games. We’ll win at other games.”
That part was true enough. A few days after that last reprimand, Miss Tregoney, the natural philosophy teacher, had given the girls back their examination. Pan spied Annette’s paper, and he and Lyra had laughed gleefully at the dismal result. Then Camilla Mason, a friend of Lyra’s, had joined in with her daemon. There were no reprimands then because they had been leaving class to head into the Common Room for tea, and it was normal for the girls to laugh and joke together when classes were over for the afternoon. She had seen Annette’s face get all cross and sulky, and it had been a pleasant sort of revenge. It was also much more comfortable than this infernal but fashionable blouse.
Lyra had enjoyed making Camilla laugh at Annette’s paper, and the disparity in results still made them giggle now, several days later. Camilla was a good sort. She was a bright girl with a raccoon daemon, also a strong student, particularly in natural philosophy, as Lyra was, and not too rule-abiding, which was their other friend Julie Harpp’s chief defect. Still, Julie and her beautiful greyhound daemon were clever and hardy, and the three girls with their daemons enjoyed many long, brisk walks around the north of Oxford, even if Julie did sometimes get annoyed when Lyra and Camilla wanted to make mischief. Lyra imagined Julie as an under-teacher in a girls’ school like this one someday, energetic, clever, and generous, but a little too concerned about making the girls do what they were told. She might become like Miss Wilfrid in a few decades.
“Well, it’s made, bought, and paid for,” Lyra said matter-of-factly, sticking a finger down the ruffled neck of her blouse and scratching her warm skin. “I can’t do anything about it now.” She leaned back in the window seat, determined to justify her silly extravagance. “And I didn’t have many nice clothes, so I suppose I’ll save this one for special occasions. It’s not bad to have it.”
“What special occasions?” Pan asked, twitching his tail. He was impatient for Julie or Camilla to join them, but especially for Camilla and her daemon, Evander.
“I dunno. Like taking tea with the Master at Jordan.”
Obviously Lyra’s guardian would know and care nothing about young ladies’ fashion. Still, people saw Lyra’s visits to Jordan College as a great honour rather than what they really were: invitations from a doting sort of grandfatherly-figure who loved hearing about Lyra’s progress. He invited her to tea on a Sunday afternoon at least once every other month, and more often during her school holidays. Perhaps she should dress appropriately for an honour, now that she was almost fifteen.
Another thought struck Lyra. She sniggered.
“Mrs. Lonsdale would faint from shock if she saw me in this,” she said.
Pan relaxed and laughed with her. “We’d have to get her salts to smell or brandy…”
“... And make sure she didn’t die of shock instead of just fainting,” Lyra added, imagining the scenario with glee. “So dressing nicely might be worth it, sometimes.”
It seemed doubtful, but possible. More likely she would stuff the itchy blouse into her trunk, never to wear it again.
“But no more fighting Annette on her own turf,” Pan insisted. “All right?”
Lyra stopped scratching. “All right.”
She wanted her friends to return from the sewing and embroidery class, which was optional and which Lyra never bothered with. That was one of the many things Lyra liked about Saint Sophia’s School: they were very modern in giving the girls freedom to choose some of their subjects, such as sewing or dancing. Julie took dancing because she was athletic and enjoyed it, and embroidery because her biggest flaw was doing what people expected of her, and people expected young women to do needlework. Camilla took the sewing class because she was dextrous and artistic and liked needlework almost as much as she liked drawing. Annette was up there, too, hopefully not making too much trouble for Lyra’s friends. Lyra had wanted Annette to come down and see her, Lyra, surrounded by her friends and looking as stylish and lovely as any other young lady, just to prove that she could do it. A young lady with brains and with more – and more important – life experiences than you could imagine. I fought in a bloody war; what have you ever done?
Lyra had told Camilla and Julie and even Miss Tregoney, Lyra’s favourite teacher, a little of what she had seen and achieved, of how she’d had a close call with that awful Bolvangar business and had seen some of the other worlds her father opened before he died. But Will and many other things were too difficult or sad or fearfulto discuss, even with friends, and they remained unsaid.
“Lyra,” Miss Tregoney said, walking briskly down the staircase and passing Lyra’s window seat. Lyra grinned up at her. While the girls who took sewing were upstairs in that class, the others had a free half-hour in which to read or study or write letters to their parents, which meant there were usually two teachers in the common room to keep them on task. Miss Wilfrid and her squirrel daemon had been alone in one of the big armchairs by the fire for the past few minutes. Perhaps Miss Tregoney had been delayed. Lyra hadn’t even realized she would come down to supervise the girls today.
“How are you, Miss Tregoney?” Lyra asked politely. If her friends weren’t available then she might as well pass the time with the best teacher the school had, in Lyra’s opinion.
“I’m well, thank you.” She smiled at Lyra. Her daemon’s tail was as straight as an arrow and curled slightly at the tip in a way that suggested they were pleased about something. Lyra wondered what it was.
“I must say, you look lovely,” Miss Tregoney added, cautiously, narrowing her eyes as she said it. Lyra knew what her wary gaze meant. The blouse and the new pinafore were so unlike Lyra they must have surprised Miss Tregoney, if not troubled her, as they were troubling Pantalaimon and, in fact, Lyra herself.
“Thank you,” Lyra said quickly, “although we were just saying it’s a bit too grand for school. We realized we – I – can’t wear things like this for every day.”
That comment pleased Miss Tregoney.
“Very sensible of you.” Then she noticed Lyra’s empty lap and neglected satchel of school books. “Have you anything to do? You know the other girls won’t come down for a quarter of an hour. Have you finished all your studying?”
With an effort Lyra stifled a protest. She tried not to mind Miss Tregoney’s gentle admonishments – not when she was one of the first women Lyra had met who encouraged girls to study chemistry and particles and the natural world. She even encouraged using the phrase “natural philosophy”, rather than the older-fashioned “experimental theology. “Natural philosophy” was becoming more common now. Since large parts of the Magisterium had collapsed in on themselves, more and more scholars had asserted their independence by abandoning the phrase experimental theology. Lyra had actually asked about the difference in her first natural philosophy class. The answer had bored most of the other girls, but Miss Tregoney had looked very pleased, and her orange cat daemon had puffed out his fur in pride and interest. Miss Tregoney had explained that natural philosophy was coming to mean several related subjects together: chemistry as well as the study of anatomy and physiology in the body, which were so essential to medicine, and experimental theology, or the study of particles and how they formed the basis of everything in the universe. Miss Tregoney had explained, also, that the two phrases had somewhat different priorities. All research in natural philosophy was experimental, she had said, but scholars in natural philosophy were beginning to think that God and the theological domain were best left to theologians. Lyra, who had only mistrust left for the church, could not suppress her eagerness when she heard that answer.
Later it had occurred to her that Miss Tregoney might get herself into some trouble. After all, Saint Sophia’s did have one elderly nun on staff. Even in these liberal times, Miss Tregoney was very brave and very forward-thinking for a schoolteacher. But while the old nun, Sister Edna, sometimes clucked disapprovingly at new ideas while her ladybird daemon flapped around in bewilderment, she was very old and, in fairness, very mild. She was also utterly useless. She could hardly even keep the girls’ attention during their prayer and theology lessons. Lyra had heard from Dame Hannah, the head of Saint Sophia’s College and a good friend to Lyra’s guardian, that Sister Edna had little influence in the school.
“I’ve read what I was supposed to,” Lyra replied, giving Miss Tregoney a blank and grave look. It was technically true, for she didn’t like lying to her favourite teacher. She had some French exercises to finish, but grammar bored her. Besides, the French teacher only came in three times a week, so she had plenty of time to do them.
“A novel, then?” Miss Tregoney suggested. She sounded hurried, and yet something about her cat daemon’s eager bearing made Lyra think that she had good news. She wondered why Miss Tregoney would not share it with her and started to frown until Pan said into her mind, Not our business. It’s probably something personal.
“Maybe I’ll read ahead in the natural philosophy book,” Lyra offered. She meant it. She could flatter her teachers very well when she wanted to, but she was sincere now. Miss Tregoney’s class interested her more than most of the novels in the school. It was hard to take literature for schoolgirls seriously when she had lived far greater adventures herself.
“That would be very good, Lyra,” Miss Tregoney said. The cat at her feet purred. “You’re already the top of your class – though I’d expect no less from the ward of the Master of Jordan College.”
Lyra grinned. “Thanks, Miss Tregoney. I –” She hesitated. “I shan’t keep you longer right now.”
“Thank you.”
Then Miss Tregoney was bustling across the common room, greeting other girls, and holding the skirt of her grey dress distractedly as she made her way toward Miss Wilfrid.
“That was nice of you,” Pan said suddenly, “to let her get on. Not to - you know. Take up all her time.”
Lyra shrugged her shoulders before reaching into her satchel for the natural philosophy book.
“I’d almost say you’re starting to listen to me,” Pan added.
That remark begged for a response – but a good-natured one.
“You can’t take all the credit for sensible or polite things,” Lyra countered. “It’s obvious she has to talk with other girls or other teachers, too.”
Miss Tregoney and Miss Wilfrid were walking over to sit on the sofa on the right side of the room, closer to Lyra’s window seat. Pan turned his marten head towards them, and Lyra gradually realized that they could hear the two women’s talk.
“I’m sorry for coming down late,” Miss Tregoney was saying, “but I was very absorbed in the newspaper, and I think you’ll agree the story I was reading is very significant to our school and our profession.”
“Which story?” Miss Wilfrid asked.
Miss Tregoney took a folded sheet of newspaper from her pocket. Lyra looked down at her book, assuming the newspaper story probably would not interest her. Pan, however, remained riveted.
“The first female student admitted to Brasenose College…” Miss Wilfrid murmured after a moment. She was staring at the paper intently, and her squirrel daemon gave a startled squeak.
Lyra jerked her head up to look at them. She completely forgot what sentence she had been reading in her book a moment ago.
“I didn’t think they’d actually allow it,” Miss Wilfrid went on. Lyra frowned, concentrating, and unsure what to make of this development in the wider world of Oxford.
“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Miss Tregoney said. Lyra gaped at her shining face and triumphant smile, too intent to remember that the two teachers might think her very forward if they caught her listening in. “At least, I hoped it was bound to happen. Just think what this will mean for the girls – equal membership in the University, and, eventually, unlimited choice of scholars to study with and tutorials to take.”
“And what if the young ladies can’t compete?”
Miss Tregoney’s face darkened. Lyra forced herself to look away. She noticed that she had clenched her hand – perhaps with resentment at having to pretend not to hear something so strange and so important.
“You’ve taught here longer than I have. Surely you know that girls can be just as clever as boys.”
Miss Wilfrid sighed. “I didn’t mean to say that they’re not clever. But most Colleges have always been for men, and there would be so few women that they – the men, I mean – might make it impossible to compete, by being unkind and – well. You know what I mean.”
“I’m sure a spirited girl willing to study at a male College could rise to the challenge.”
“And if she had men-friends who were kind and interesting, wouldn’t she be too distracted by their charms, and by matters of the heart? Won’t her fellow, male students be distracted by her?” Miss Wilfrid shook her head. “I wish this Miss –” She looked down at the article once more – “Miss Isolda Chapman all the luck in the world, but the idea is so messy.”
“I’m surprised at you, Ethel,” Miss Tregoney said. “I’m sure it will be hard for Miss Chapman, at first, just as establishing women’s colleges was hard. But think of the opportunities. Eventually, if more women choose, and fight, to study alongside men, there would be unlimited opportunities for girls and women to study with any Scholars men study with, and in whatever fields.”
They went on like that for a while. Lyra unclenched her hand and closed her mouth so that she would not look stupid or like an eavesdropper. Instead she scowled at the floor.
“She should have told us, too,” Lyra thought to Pan. “That’s – that’s unbelievable news, and we knew right away that she was excited about something. We could just tell. She should have told us first, since she’s always saying she likes us so much.”
Pan made a strange chattering sound.
“She should have,” he agreed, “but then, I suppose she can’t play favourites. Not all the time, anyway. After all, there are a dozen other girls here. And she sat close enough for us to hear. Maybe they did it deliberately.”
Lyra looked at the two teachers again. Perhaps Miss Tregoney had invited Miss Wilfrid to the sofa to make it easier for Lyra to overhear – as one of the other girls, Gertrude Hunt, evidently had. Gertrude and her nightingale daemon were also sitting close to the two women and were wearing much the same expression Lyra and Pan were, barely restraining themselves from interrupting the adults’ conversation. Her daemon must have sensed their gaze, because Gertrude looked right at Lyra, who gave a half-smile. They did not know each other well, but Gertrude was a keen student of literature and a favourite of Miss Wilfrid. Lyra remembered that Gertrude had won some prize for a poem she had written in Lyra’s first term at Saint Sophia’s.
Gertrude looked away, embarrassed.
“It’s just so – weird,” Lyra said to Pan. “Brasenose is right next door to Jordan, but I can’t imagine the Master or any of the Scholars taking to femalestudents.”
A low growl came from Pan’s chest. “Since when do we do what people expect, just because they expect it of us? Or because they don’t want to change how things used to be done?”
He was right. Lyra was quiet for a moment as she tried to examine her feelings. She would not have expected to side with Miss Wilfrid over Miss Tregoney, yet here she was. She was not frightened at the idea of studying with men: it would take much more than that to frighten her. It was simply preposterous.
“It’s so strange, though,” she repeated. “Then again, we’ve seen so many things that – I suppose – are much stranger.”
Suddenly she thought of Will and the sadness that was always there, just below the surface in every thought and conversation and achievement of the past two years, hit her with their full force. She had explored a little of Will’s world where girls wore trousers and where women could be Oxford Scholars in colleges for both sexes. While she longed to have seen more of his world and of all other worlds in endless, happy adventures, she’d learned enough to know that women studying with men might not be preposterous after all.
Pan nuzzled close to her breast. She stroked him and bent her head low over the natural philosophy book, to make sure that neither Gertrude nor anyone else could see the dampness threatening to come into her eyes.
“It might be hard if women start to fall in love with men at school,” Lyra said, sadly. “Hard as in distracting; I think that’s what Miss Wilfrid meant. Although we did so much with Will and we do love him.”
“And we did it all very well,” Pan whispered, clinging to her more tightly. “And there are girls who have male friends, or brothers with friends, and must fancy boys while still - going to school and doing their hobbies and things. You can’t just stop life because you love someone, or think you do.”
“Yeah, but sometimes it mustcause problems,” Lyra countered. “Think of Julie.”
Julie had returned to school this past autumn fretful and distracted. She confided in her friends that she had fallen in love with her eldest brother’s best friend when he visited her family during the holiday. Camilla had teased her, thinking the best way to cheer her up was to point out how silly she was being by worrying over a boy, at their age.
“And it’s not like he’s disappeared or something,” Camilla had said. Lyra had winced at the phrase, but Camilla hadn’t noticed. “He’s your brother’s friend. Write him letters, see him from time to time, and maybe in – I don’t know – seven years, when we’re old enough to think about it, you’ll get married.”
Julie had insisted that her position wasn’t quite so easy. It was easier than Lyra’s position, though Lyra made sure to be tender with Julie, who was obviously missing the boy. They’d only known each other a short time and they could keep in touch; Julie’s situation wasn’t nearly as bleak as Lyra’s and her feelings could not possibly be as profound as Lyra’s feelings for Will, but Lyra thought they must be the same kind of feelings, even if Julie was luckier. To put it in a scholarly way, the differences in the strength of Julie’s love and the severity of her situation were probably quantitative, rather than qualitative, so Lyra was as sympathetic as she could be.
She didn’t know if it would be better or worse for girls and boys to spend more time together and even study together.
“Anyway,” said Pan, going back to the matter at hand, “it makes no difference to us what Brasenose does. We’re going to study with Dame Hannah when the time comes, aren’t we? She’s a famous alethiometrist, so we already have a female Scholar studying exactly what we want to learn.”
“Yeah,” Lyra said. Then she thought of something.
“I hope the Master wasn’t upset when he heard or anything,” she added, thinking of her guardian, whom she could never refer to by his name. He must have been flabbergasted at the thought of a woman student in Brasenose. Suddenly Lyra’s and Pantalaimon’s joke about Mrs. Lonsdale dying of shock, if she saw Lyra dressed fashionably, seemed rude and inappropriate. Lyra didn’t think it was possible to die of shock, but the Master was both dear to her and set in his ways. Perhaps the news had worried him. “I’d have told him myself so we’d know he heard it in a nice, reasonable way, but if it’s in the papers, then he must know already.”
“He must, but then, he also must have heard stranger things in his life,” Pan assured her. Lyra stroked his fur.
“I just wish Miss Tregoney had told us first,” she repeated, with a quiet sigh. “She always says how bright and promising we are.”
“Maybe they’ll announce it to the school, or at least to the older girls,” Pan suggested. “Anyway, it doesn’t concern us directly. It’s natural the teachers will talk it over first – but I suspect they’ll tell all the students soon.”
On further reflection, Lyra realized that that seemed fair, even if it hurt her sense of being important and a particular favourite to Miss Tregoney. Besides, as Pan pointed out, her own plans were as set as they ever had been.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “In case there aren’t many female – I dunno – poets or whatever, so someone like Gertrude might want to study with men. If she has to.”
“Exactly,” Pan said.
Then there was a rush of footsteps descending the stairs and a rustle of skirts and satchels. The sewing class was over. Lyra stood up to see Julie and Camilla with their daemons hurrying over to her. She grinned at her friends, her puzzlement and sadness receding.
“What are you dressed up for?” Camilla demanded with a laugh. “I never thought you’d wear frills, Lyra!”
Lyra’s cheeks warmed as she recalled her extravagant dress, which she regretted wearing. She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped when she saw Julie’s greyhound daemon lean forward to nip the raccoon daemon’s ear.
“You look lovely,” Julie said, diplomatically, “just different from your usual.”
“Thanks,” Lyra said, shrugging. Fashion and Annette Avery and young lady warfare seemed very trivial compared to what she had learned in the last few minutes.
“Anyway, forget it,” she said impatiently, waving her hand and turning her head to look for a quiet space where they could talk. “You won’t believe the news I just heard…”