The Golden Compass
The snow on the roof of the Blackwood Sanatorium was not white, but a bruised, translucent violet, and Elias Thorne stood in the corridor with a vial of residue between his lips, tasting the metallic tang of the institution’s secret. He was a chemist of thirty-two years, a man whose life had been defined by the precise measurement of molecules, yet here he was, tasting the decay of his own...
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