The Golden Compass
You hold the thing in your palm, and it is warm, heavier than glass, warmer than skin. It is a compass, but the needle does not point north. It points to the mouth of the person standing across from you. The man is Dr. Aris Thorne, and he is smiling, but the smile is a thin, white line drawn on a face that has been weathered by too many winters and not enough sleep. You are twelve years old,...
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