His Dark Materials: Lyra's Oxford

His Dark Materials: Lyra's Oxford

This exciting companion to His Dark Materials tells a not-to-be-missed story about Lyra and her world. When a witch's daemon crashes onto the roof of Jordan College, Lyra and her daemon, Pan, are eager to help. But as this unlikely trio scours the winding streets of Oxford in search of a famed alchemist, their journey takes a deadly turn... This volume also includes a fold-out map of Oxford and fascinating extra glimpses of our favorite characters. Don't miss Philip Pullman's epic new trilogy set in the world of His Dark Materials! ** THE BOOK OF DUST ** La Belle Sauvage The Secret Commonwealth " Tantalizing. . . . A provocative exporation of traps and trust, awareness and intuition." --  The New York Times Book Review " His Dark Materials is easily the most deservedly labeled epic of contemporary epic fantasies; here as a pendant to that trilogy is a short story that even in its brevity manages to capture some of the majesty--and mystery--of the parent work."-- The Horn Book Magazine " Fans who can't get enough of Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy will embrace this small volume , which packages a short story about Lyra along with such ephemera as a beautifully engraved, fold-out map of the alternate-reality Oxford which Lyra inhabits. Puzzle enthusiasts will enjoy poring over the clues."-- Publishers Weekly PHILIP PULLMAN is one of the most acclaimed writers working today. He is best known for the His Dark Materials trilogy, which has been named one of the top 100 books of all time by Newsweek and one of the all-time greatest novels by Entertainment Weekly. Pullman was knighted for his services to literature in the 2019 New Years Honours. The Book of Dust, Pullman’s eagerly anticipated return to the world of His Dark Materials, will also be a book in three parts. It began with La Belle Sauvage and continues with The Secret Commonwealth. Philip Pullman is the author of many other beloved novels. For younger readers: I Was a Rat!, Count Karlstein, Two Crafty Criminals!, Spring-Heeled Jack, and The Scarecrow and His Servant. For older readers: the Sally Lockhart quartet ( The Ruby in the Smoke, The Shadow in the North, The Tiger in the Well, and The Tin Princess ), T he White Mercedes , and The Broken Bridge. He has written a magnificent collection, Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm, and his essays and lectures on writing and storytelling have been gathered in a volume called Dæmon Voices: On Stories and Storytelling. Philip Pullman lives in Oxford, England. LYRA didn’t often climb out of her bedroom window these days. She had a better way onto the roof of Jordan College: the Porter had given her a key that let her onto the roof of the Lodge Tower. He’d let her have it because he was too old to climb the steps and check the stonework and the lead, as was his duty four times a year; so she made a full report to him, and he passed it to the Bursar, and in exchange she was able to get out onto the roof whenever she wanted. When she lay down on the lead, she was invisible from everywhere except the sky. A little parapet ran all the way around the square roof, and Pantalaimon often draped his pine-marten form over the mock battlements on the corner facing south, and dozed while Lyra sat below with her back against the sun-drenched stone, studying the books she’d brought up with her. Sometimes they’d stop and watch the storks that nested on St. Michael’s Tower, just across Turl Street. Lyra had a plan to tempt them over to Jordan, and she’d even dragged several planks of wood up to the roof and laboriously nailed them together to make a platform, just as they’d done at St. Michael’s; but it hadn’t worked. The storks were loyal to St. Michael’s, and that was that. “They wouldn’t stay for long if we kept on coming here, anyway,” said Pantalaimon. “We could tame them. I bet we could. What do they eat?” “Fish,” he guessed. “Frogs.” He was lying on top of the stone parapet, lazily grooming his red gold fur. Lyra stood up to lean on the stone beside him, her limbs full of warmth, and gazed out toward the southeast, where a dusty dark-green line of trees rose above the spires and rooftops in the early evening air. She was waiting for the starlings. That year an extraordinary number of them had come to roost in the Botanic Garden, and every evening they would rise out of the trees like smoke, and swirl and swoop and dart through the skies above the city in their thousands. “Millions,” Pan said. “Maybe, easily. I don’t know who could ever count them. . . . There they are!” They didn’t seem like individual birds, or even individual dots of black against the blue; it was the flock itself that was the individual. It was like a single piece of cloth, cut in a very complicated way that let it swing through itself and double over and stretch and fold in three dimensions without ever tangling, turning itself inside out and elegantly waving and crossing through and falling and