Unfolding the Needle

The jar was open. I tilted the glass rim over a thick leather spine. The brass compass slid out onto the dusty wood with a dull clink. Heavy. Cold against my palms. I sat back on my heels in the shadowed nook between the books, turning the instrument over. Two joints. A tiny knurled screw locked the central hinge. I wedged the brass key from my pocket into the narrow groove, twisting with measured pressure. A sharp click. The two slender arms swung apart, revealing a silvered dial etched with microscopic notches. I rested one needle tip against the shelf, watching it steady in the gloom.