The Needle Pinned

A brass pocket compass lay unattended upon the sunlit balustrade of the east gallery. The magnetic needle drifted, trembling in search of truth. Untamed. I approached with measured paces, resting my crimson apple within the carved groove of the stone rail to free my hands. Extending one steady finger, I pressed the release stud. A sharp click. The restless pivot halted at once, pinned into rigid allegiance toward true north. The needle now rests in absolute alignment with the castle's meridian. Disorder yields to conviction and she