The Golden Compass
The brass needle of the compass did not point north; it swung with a slow, hypnotic rigidity toward the rotting foundation of the manor, humming a low, sub-audible tone that Elias Thorne felt in his teeth more than he heard with his ears. It was a sound like a hive of bees trapped inside a jar of glass, a vibration that had been growing louder since Arthur’s death, a physical pressure that...
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