The wolf turned its head toward Lyra. It licked one pearl tooth. Then it extended a paw, not to attack, but to offer.
“It needed a bed,” Mr. Pembroke said, his voice a perfect, hollow imitation of itself. “So I gave it my insides.” mark ryden wolf
And somewhere, in a town of buttercream houses, a new song began to play—low, sweet, and hungry. The wolf turned its head toward Lyra
Lyra returned the next morning. She found Mr. Pembroke sitting in his favorite chair. He was smiling. His eyes were two new amber drops. And curled across his lap, now the size of a pony, was the wolf. Its fur was made of soft, gray smoke. Its claws were polished bone. not to attack