The Golden Compass
The dream is always the same, a spinning brass circle in a void of black water. I wake with my hands clenched, the phantom weight of the astrolabe still pressing against my palms. It is 1893, and London is a city of soot and debt. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two, a clerk who has forgotten the taste of bread for want of money. I want the astrolabe back. It belongs to my father, and it was stolen...
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