The Golden Compass
Chapter One "You are late, Francisco." Colonel Vega did not look up from his ledger. The air in the caravanserai was thick with the dust of the plateau wind, a dry grit that settled in the teeth. Francisco Uribe stood by the door, his hand tight around the brass instrument in his pocket. It was a compass, worn smooth by his grandmother’s fingers, the glass clouded with age. The needle inside...
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