The Golden Compass
The intake form weighed four ounces, a precise and indifferent thing that Elara Vane held with both hands as if it were a live bird, the paper cool and dry against her palms. She had counted the minutes since her arrival, three hundred and twelve, each one a small, heavy stone dropped into the silent pool of her waiting. The fluorescent lights of the Meridian Textile Institute hummed at a...
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