The Golden Compass
The fire started in the straw. It ate the roof. It ate the night. You watched from the barn. You did not run. You held the stone. It was cold. It was heavy. It was yours. Your father stood by the door. He wore his best coat. The velvet was dark. It looked like spilled ink. He did not look at the flames. He looked at you. His eyes were wet. But his face was still. He raised a hand. A small...
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