The Golden Compass
You are holding a brass instrument that weighs exactly four ounces, and it is humming against your palm with the frequency of a dying wire. The hum is not a sound so much as a vibration that travels up the radius of your forearm and settles in the marrow of your wrist. It is a domestic ghost, this Compass, buried in the coat of Silas Vane, the informant who died three days ago in a cell that...
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