The wolf turned its head toward Lyra. It licked one pearl tooth. Then it extended a paw, not to attack, but to offer.
She bit the cherry.
It was carved from bone—or something that wished it was bone. It was the size of a large tomcat, curled as if asleep. Its fur was not hair, but thousands of tiny, painted eyelashes. Its teeth were seed pearls. And its eyes… its eyes were two drops of amber that seemed to hold a tiny, frozen flame. 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