Lyra. Chapter 3. The Fire in the Field
She was telling Sophie about her world again — the only one who ever believed it was a world and not a fever-dream. The girl leaned close, the turnips charring at the fire's edge, and Lyra spoke of things with no names here. Most of it came out as nonsense. But some of the words carried roots older than this village, older than its tongue. On the path behind them a man leading a horse slowed, and stopped, and listened to a peasant woman speak Latin she could not possibly know.
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