“I have learned that refusal does not need to be loud, Kenny. A mountain doesn’t scream at the climber; it simply remains a mountain.”

Lyra didn’t look up from the table. Her fingers moved with a rhythmic, clinical precision, grinding dried star-thistle into a fine, silver dust.

The kitchen smelled of ozone and bitter herbs

“But they’re coming, aren't they?” Kenny sat on a high stool, his legs swinging, though his eyes were far too old for his small frame. “The men with the ...