Sublime

The thought of Mrs Baker back at the cottage with the dogs, the windmill towering darkly above them, the November wind roaring over the Downs, slamming into the aged bricks, tugging at the rotting sweeps and rattling the fan stage made Astrid very uneasy indeed. As they’d driven away down the hill that morning, she’d turned to look back at the towe

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Lyra knew that Pantalaimon’s impulse was to reach out and cuddle the little half-child, to lick him and gentle him and warm him as his own dæmon would have done; but the great taboo prevented that, of course.

The Aunts, the Marthas, the Wives: despite the fact that they were frequently envious and resentful, and might even hate one another, news flowed among them as if along invisible spiderweb threads.

She had a stash of such aprons, each with a seasonal theme—pumpkins, snowflakes—and at least five crisp, striped shirtwaist dresses.

She had been picturing a village of mice living their lives under the bath, playing violins, going to school, having

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd