The Golden Compass
The silver cup had been his grandfather’s, and it was now black with a stain that no amount of pumice or vinegar could lift, a dark scar in the center of the gold where the tincture had touched the metal. Elias Thorne, forty years old and stiff in the joints from decades of hunching over alchemical ledgers, watched the corrosion spread with a cold, clinical detachment that belied the tremor in...
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