Lyra. Chapter 4. The Last Quiet Hour

They did not talk about the morning. She put her head against his chest and listened to his heart go on as if nothing were coming, and he bent his face into her hair and held her like a man holding the one warm thing in a cold field. Her hand rested over his heart. His arm did not let her go. The lamp burned low, the dark pressed at the window, and for one hour the war waited outside the door. In her world this would have meant a beginning. Here, both of them knew, it might be the only night there was. They spent it gently, and did not waste it on fear. This is the end of the soft hours.