The Golden Compass
The needle of the brass compass did not point north. It pointed at Elias Thorne’s sternum, vibrating with a low, metallic hum that he felt in his teeth. He stood in the hallway of his brother’s estate, the air thick with the dust of forty years and the smell of wet wool from his coat. The debt collector’s letter lay on the table, a red circle drawn around the final payment date. Elias needed...
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