The Golden Compass
The list was short, typed on the cream-colored stock that the Chancery reserved for matters of state, the paper thick and dry to the touch. You held it under the desk lamp, the light humming a low, electrical B-flat that vibrated against the wood of your elbow. Three names. One was yours. You did not sign it. You folded it into a small, tight square and slid it into the inner pocket of your...
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