The Golden Compass
You are holding the brass compass in your left hand, the thumb rubbing the tarnished casing with a rhythm that matches the dull, throbbing ache in your jaw, while the rain hammers against the window of the narrow room you have rented above the chandler’s shop in Harwich. The needle is not pointing north; it is trembling violently, locked on a bearing that leads directly into the solid granite...
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