The Golden Compass
The first thing Elias Thorne counted was the hours, not the men. He sat on the edge of his cot in the damp stone barracks, the grey light of the early morning pressing against the slitted windows, and he tallied the days since Clara’s last coughing fit had turned the pillowcase red. It had been nine days. Nine days of watching the hollows beneath her cheekbones deepen, of counting the coins in...
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