William Bouguereau Love Takes Flight

William Bouguereau Love Takes FlightWilliam Bouguereau Birth of VenusWilliam Bouguereau Young Gypsies
gnawed the reindeer haunch, and a wild notion flew into Lyra's mind as she remembered all those witches in the night sky; but she said nothing about that. Instead she asked lorek Byrnison about Svalbard, and listened eagerly as he told her of the slow-crawling glaciers, of the rocks and ice floes where the bright-tusked walruses lay in a king?"
"He is called lofur Raknison."
That name shook a little bell in Lyra's mind. She'd heard it before, but where? And not in a bear's voice, either, nor in a gyptian's. The voice that had spoken it was a Scholar's, precise and pedantic and lazily arrogant, very much a Jordan voice. She tried it again groups of a hundred or more, of the seas teeming with seals, of narwhals clashing their long white tusks above the icy water, of the great grim iron-bound coast, the cliffs a thousand feet and more high where the foul cliff-ghasts perched and swooped, the coal pits and the fire mines where the bearsmiths hammered out mighty sheets of iron and riveted them into armor..."If they took your armor away, lorek, where did you get this set from?""I made it myself in Nova Zembla from sky metal. Until I did that, I was incomplete.""So bears can make their own souls..." she said. There was a great deal in the world to know. "Who is the king of Svalbard?" she went on. "Do bears have