The third lamp went out before Lyra reached the stairs.
Not one of theirs. Their lamps burned oil, smoked unpleasantly, and had to be carried by people whose arms grew tired. The city’s elegant blue globes were failing down the street in pairs.
A man looked up.
“Is that supposed to mean it’s working?”
“No,” Lyra said.
He seemed to have expected a longer answer. So had the route keeper beside her.
Lyra held out an ordinary lamp. “The shelter kitchen is open. Keep to the left at the fountain. The right stair is closed.”
“The archive fell down.”
