The Golden Compass
The needle is bent, Elias, and you know it is bent, so why do you keep pretending it points north when it only points at your own ruin? Thomas Bradshaw stood in the doorway of the attic, his boots caked in the red clay of the lower pits, holding out the small, tarnished cylinder of the compass mechanism with a casual, almost bored grin. He was a boy of fourteen, sturdy and loud, the son of the...
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