Lyra and her daemon 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 were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were pulled out ready for the guests.Portraits ˈpɔːtrɪts 人物肖像 of former Masters hung high up in the gloom ɡluːm 在黑暗中 along the walls.
Lyra reached the dais ˈdeɪɪs 高台 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 əʊk 橡木 benches but mahogany məˈhɒɡəni 红木 chairs with velvet ˈvelvɪt 丝绒 cushions ˈkʊʃnz垫子. Lyra stopped beside the Master's chair and flicked flɪkt 轻弹 the biggest glass gently with a fingernail ˈfɪŋɡəneɪl 手指. The sound rang clearly through the hall.
“You're not taking this seriously,”whispered her daemon. “Behave yourself.”Herdaemon's name was Pantalaimon, and he was currently in the form of a moth mɒθ 飞蛾, 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 ˈfʌsɪŋ 烦恼.” But she put her palm pɑːm 手掌 over the ringing crystal ˈkrɪstl 水晶玻璃 anyway, and Pantalaimon fluttered ˈflʌtəd 振翅 ahead and through the slightly open door of the Retiring Room at the other end of the dais. After a moment he appeared again.
