The Golden Compass
The theodolite’s brass eyepiece was cold against your eye, slick with the condensation of the early morning, and you adjusted the tangent screw with a thumb that felt too large for the delicate mechanism, watching the crosshairs settle onto the jagged silhouette of the Blackwood estate’s north boundary stone. You were thirty-four years old, Elias Thorne, and you had come to this desolate...
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