The Trembling Needle

I stepped onto the low oak sideboard and paused before a pocket compass resting open beside a leather folio. Its circular brass casing caught the warm, steady spill of the reading lamp. Intrigued by the slender blued-steel needle suspended beneath the glass dome, I lowered my front claw and gave the milled rim a delicate, measured nudge. The dial turned a fraction of an inch, coaxing the needle into a quiet, rhythmic quiver. I kept perfectly still, folding my wings close against my flanks, and watched the tiny dark spear swing through its gentle arc until it aligned steadily toward the north once more.