The Golden Compass
Elias, stop fiddling with that thing, the cold air from the street door bit into the back of my neck, sharper than the winter wind that usually rattled the loose panes of the workshop window. I did not look up. My fingers, stained with the black grease of machine oil and the rust of old brass, were already deep inside the casing of the compass, pulling at a spring that should not have been...
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