The Golden Compass
The escapement wheel slipped, a faint click of brass against brass, and you felt the cold seep up through the sole of your boot. It was a small sound, easily lost in the ticking of the thirty-two clocks that lined the walls of your shop on Fetter Lane, but you heard it. You always heard it. The year was 1893, and London was a city of coal smoke and iron, a place where the old ways were being...
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