The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman

one, as far as he could tell, had seen her appear. Cars and trucks raced past a few feet beyond, and no driver, at this busy junction, would have time to gaze sideways at an odd-looking bit of air, even if they could see it, and the traffic screened the window from anyone looking across from the far side.
    There was a squeal of brakes, a shout, a bang. He flung himself down to look.
    Lyra was lying on the grass. A car had braked so hard that a van had struck it from behind, and knocked the car forward anyway, and there was Lyra, lying still—
    Will darted through after her. No one saw him come; all eyes were on the car, the crumpled bumper, the van driver getting out, and on the little girl.
    “I couldn’t help it! She ran out in front,” said the car driver, a middle-aged woman. “
You
were too close,” she said, turning toward the van driver.
    “Never mind that,” he said. “How’s the kid?”
    The van driver was addressing Will, who was on his knees beside Lyra. Will looked up and around, but there was nothing for it; he was responsible. On the grass next to him, Lyra was moving her head about, blinking hard. Will saw the wasp Pantalaimon crawling dazedly up a grass stem beside her.
    “You all right?” Will said. “Move your legs and arms.”
    “Stupid!” said the woman from the car. “Just ran out in front. Didn’t look once. What am I supposed to do?”
    “You still there, love?” said the van driver.
    “Yeah,” muttered Lyra.
    “Everything working?”
    “Move your feet and hands,” Will insisted.
    She did. There was nothing broken.
    “She’s all right,” said Will. “I’ll look after her. She’s fine.”
    “D’you know her?” said the truck driver.
    “She’s my sister,” said Will. “It’s all right. We just live around the corner. I’ll take her home.”
    Lyra was sitting up now, and as she was obviously not badly hurt, the woman turned her attention back to the car. The rest of the traffic was moving around the two stationary vehicles, and as they went past, the drivers looked curiously at the little scene, as people always do. Will helped Lyra up; the sooner they moved away, the better. The woman and the van driver had realized that their argument ought to be handled by their insurance companies and were exchanging addresses when the woman saw Will helping Lyra to limp away.
    “Wait!” she called. “You’ll be witnesses. I need your name and address.”
    “I’m Mark Ransom,” said Will, turning back, “and my sister’s Lisa. We live at twenty-six Bourne Close.”
    “Postcode?”
    “I can never remember,” he said. “Look, I want to get her home.”
    “Hop in the cab,” said the van driver, “and I’ll take you round.”
    “No, it’s no trouble. It’d be quicker to walk, honest.”
    Lyra wasn’t limping badly. She walked away with Will, back along the grass under the hornbeam trees, and turned at the first corner they came to.
    They sat on a low garden wall.
    “You hurt?” Will said.
    “Banged me leg. And when I fell down, it shook me head,” she said.
    But she was more concerned about what was in the rucksack. She felt inside it, brought out a heavy little bundle wrapped in black velvet, and unfolded it. Will’s eyes widened to see the alethiometer; the tiny symbols painted around the face, the golden hands, the questing needle, the heavy richness of the case took his breath away.
    “What’s that?” he said.
    “It’s my alethiometer. It’s a truth teller. A symbol reader. I hope it en’t broken . . . . ”
    But it was unharmed. Even in her trembling hands the long needle swung steadily. She put it away and said, “I never seen so many carts and things. I never guessed they was going so fast.”
    “They don’t have cars and vans in your Oxford?”
    “Not so many. Not like these ones. I wasn’t used to it. But I’m all right now.”
    “Well, be careful from now on. If you go and walk under a bus or get lost or something, they’ll