True North Poise

Stepping out onto the cold granite balustrade of the garden terrace was the only sensible way to clear my head of yesterday's stifling domestic air. Abandoned upon the weathered stone sat a pocket compass encased in heavy brass, its braided silk lanyard tangled in the moss. Bracing my heels against the stone, I pressed both hands firmly against the tiny spring latch until the lid popped open with a sharp chime. The silvered compass rose gleamed beneath the glass, its steel needle trembling toward the hills. Angling the polished casing to reflect the crisp morning sun, I commandeered the relic as an immaculate observation podium.