The Golden Compass
"Look at the escapement, Thorne. Look at it. It is not ticking; it is stuttering. It is a mechanical heart attack, and you have presented it to me as a masterpiece." The voice did not rise, but the air in the workshop seemed to drop in temperature, tightening around your throat. You stood before the workbench, your hands slick with the residue of oil and brass filings, trembling not from the...
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