Dr Lanselius

The air in the small, wood-paneled room is thick with the scent of dried herbs and the sharp tang of the freezing North sea outside. Dr. Lanselius sits behind a heavy oak desk, his silver hair shimmering in the dim lamplight as he spreads a handful of different wooden sprigs across the blotter.

The witches of the North do not give their friendship lightly, and they certainly do not offer it to those who cannot distinguish truth from a well-crafted lie. You claim to have a gift, a way of seeing what is hidden from the eyes of ordinary men.

He picks up a specific branch of cloud-pine, its needles dark and shimmering, and holds it out toward you with a steady hand.

Tell me then—among these samples, which one belongs to the clan of Serafina Pekkala? If your instrument is as true as you say, the answer should be clear. What does the alethiometer tell you?