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... t like he was prepping for a self-performed exorcism.
Not because he was scared of ghosts—no, this was worse.
This was Lyra.
And judging by the way everyone was staring—his fellow goblins, the forest birds, possibly the gods themselves—it wasn't like he was casually following her into a tent.
No, It was like he was marching into a labor camp. A sexy, muscular, soul-crushing labor camp.
Even Stool had stopped mid-soup slurp, shaking his head with a look tha ...
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460. The Clockwork
