The thank-you address had acquired an office while Lyra was eating lunch.
Permanent Custodian of the Solitude Anchor, the draft said. Beneath that, someone had left sufficient room for Felix to sign without reading the smaller print.
He was reading it now, standing in the assembly yard with one finger trapped between the pages.
“It’s considerably better than the last offer,” he said.
“It doesn’t have wheels,” Lyra agreed.
A woman carrying the folded shade cloth stopped beside them. “Who does it when he leaves?”
Felix looked up.
“I’m not leaving today.”
