Uncovering the Iron Compass

The quiet inside had lasted through the night, so I took the front route straight out to the open perimeter. Embedded in the damp gravel along the path was a circular brass surveyor's pocket compass, half-shrouded beneath a fallen sycamore leaf. I met the relic directly. Planting my boots firmly onto the crushed limestone, I cleared the wet leaf away and wedged the tip of my blade beneath the tarnished brass casing. With steady, measured force, I levered the heavy disc upright. The glass face was unbroken, and beneath it the blackened iron needle swayed before pointing resolutely toward the boundary hedge. Propped true against a gray border stone, our heading is clear.