The Golden Compass
The document was wet, not with the damp of the cellar but with something thicker, a residue that clung to the vellum like a fresh bruise. Elias Thorne held the parchment under the single bare bulb of the archive, his fingers trembling not from the cold that seeped through the stone walls of Oakhaven’s municipal records room, but from the sudden, violent intrusion of a fact that had no place in...
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