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THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2014 by Philip Pullman

Cover art copyright © 2015 by Iacopo Bruno

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. Originally published as an audio book by Audible, Great Britain, in 2014. Previously published as an eBook by RHCP Digital, an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK, a division of Penguin Random House Ltd.

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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eBook ISBN 9781101940044

First American ebook 2015

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The Collectors

“But the thing is,” said Horley, “they didn’t know each other at all. Never heard of each other. It wasn’t about the makers. Only about the works.”

“And how did you hear about it?” said Grinstead.

“From the dealer who sold me the painting. Falcondale. Max Falcondale.”

“Reliable?”

“Well, within limits, you know, but he’d made the sale anyway. He just wanted to tell the story.”

It was the December of 1970, and they were sitting in the senior common room of Horley’s college after dinner. It was cold, and the dinner had been meager and dull, culminating in some sort of nut pudding that closely resembled wet cement. The small fire in the SCR had just enough energy to warm the rug directly in front of it, and left the corners of the room to fend for themselves. There was more warmth coming from the two standard lamps on either side of the hearth. The company wasn’t large: the librarian, the chaplain, a couple of young fellows no one seemed to know by name, a visiting professor of philology, and Grinstead, Horley’s guest for the evening. While the rest discussed European politics, Horley and Grinstead, occupying the shadows at the end of a sofa and the deepest armchair, respectively, spoke quietly about a painting in Horley’s possession.

Grinstead sipped his brandy and said, “Well, tell me what Falcondale said.”