A measured turn

I slipped through the front door as evening settled, padding past the hallway toward the quiet study. Resting on the lowest shelf of the desk was an old, heavy brass drafting compass, its two pointed legs parted in a narrow V. I paused, tilting close to study the tiny knurled adjustment wheel set between the metal arms. Bracing both stubby plush paws against the cold brass, I gave the central spindle a slow, deliberate twist. Skrrr... click. The two pointed steel tips spread half an inch wider, settling against the oak grain with a muted tick. I rested my palms flat on the shelf, watching their sharp shadows hold still in the low amber lamplight.