The Golden Compass
The gold was not moving. Elias turned the tongs, holding the leaf against the anvil, and waited for the tremor to pass. It did not. The air in the vault was cold, a specific, dry cold that settled in the joints, and the tools on the bench shifted with a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. He had been a goldsmith for twelve years, long enough to know the temperament of the metal, the...
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