Chapter Seven
The Lattice
‘A decorative stitch that doubles back upon itself to create a measured pattern perfect for crisp edges or large blocks of color.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
I woke with my Hair curled protectively about both me and Baldbeak, draped over us like a litter of snoozing ginger kittens.
The shop smelled like my childhood. Not exactly, but close enough: the cloying, chemical stink of glue, cut through with the sharp scent of ink.
Perhaps that was why the shop felt so oddly familiar.
“Books are like people,” I remembered Mother saying to me when I was first learning to bind them. “Hold them too loose, and they fall apart; too tight, and they can’t breathe.”
I saw her again at her desk, in her old gown that smelled of lavender and soap from my vigorous laundering, her gray-streaked hair hastily knotted.
I had been small, too impatient to sit still as I watched her show me how to stitch the bindings, and she had to keep telling me to stop wriggling.
I remembered pressing my fingers to the thread while she tied off the last knot, marveling at how tight and smooth it felt.
“Can I try?” I had asked.
She had laughed—a soft sound, unguarded, full of pride. “Someday.”
Now, as I washed up in the little basin in the bathroom, I gazed at my reflection in the tiny shaving mirror affixed to the wall above it.
It looked familiar and like that of a stranger, all at once.
I grimaced, then scooped up my Hair and piled it on my head in a semblance of Milady’s elegant hairstyle, staring into my own pale eyes.
Milady’s eyes had been peacock-bright, almost iridescent, and ringed with dark lashes rather than my coppery ones—but if I squinted a bit, I could pretend that mine were just as sparkling, and that my Hair approximated Milady’s shining gold.
I let the Hair drop, and it tumbled down my back in its usual disarray before I yanked it back and wrestled it into a braid.
“Behave,” I told it sternly.
I dressed myself in the unfamiliar clothing, so clean and starched that it rasped against my skin, and went in search of the Book Man.
I found him at the desk in his workroom, scratching away with a quill.
As I walked in, he stopped and lowered his spectacles to blink and smile at me over their top.
“Good morning, my dear,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”
“I did, thank you.” I looked for a place to sit, but all available surfaces were covered with books or papers.
“Apologies,” he said, and lifted a pile from what turned out to be an elaborately carved but rickety wooden chair with a cane seat.
I perched on the edge of it and was almost impressed at how thoroughly disagreeable it was.
A lot of care had gone into making this chair as angular and hard as possible.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Yes, thank you,” I lied.
“I see you’re finding your way about the place.”
“Mostly. There are a lot of rooms.”
“Oh, it’s a maze, my dear.” He gestured to a pot of tea rather precariously balanced on a stack of envelopes. “Please. Pour yourself a cup.”
There were mismatched teacups scattered about the room. I tipped a dead spider out of the nearest one—clearly, spiders everywhere really were just as ward-resistant as the ones in the Tower—and poured the steaming tea, then sat with my hands cupped around its comforting warmth.
“Yes, it takes a while to learn your way about,” the Book Man continued.
“What if there was a fire?” I asked. “How would you get out in time?”
“As I have so many valuable objects under one roof, I have spared no expense to protect them. The shop is warded with extremely sophisticated—and expensive—spells against theft, fire, and pests, including mice and rats and all small bugs. Goodness knows what the spiders find to eat in here. I prefer not to dwell on it, myself.”
I felt some of my Hair start to curl forwards, reaching towards the warmth of the tea. I grabbed it, the sudden movement causing me to spill a little.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I …”
The Book Man waved his hand. “It’s quite all right.” He gestured at the piles of paper on his desk. “As you can see, I have a great deal of correspondence to keep up with.”
Now would have been the moment to bring up Mother—and yet I did not.
“Perhaps this is something you will be able to help me with,” he went on. “The more general inquiries, that is.”
“If you remember, sir, I cannot read.” I stared at the pile of envelopes, hoping for something that would indicate a message from Mother. If only she’d had a distinctive seal!
“Ah yes. It slipped my mind.”
“Do you receive any messages by pigeon?” I said abruptly.
“Pigeon? A few, but it’s rare. Most mages and collectors use magical means to transport their letters.
My … clientele tends to be fairly wealthy and can afford better than entrusting their packages and letters to a bird.
” He leaned back in his chair and stretched.
“I promised to make inquiries about your book. Could you describe it to me again in as much detail as possible, please?”
I closed my eyes and did my best, down to the almost purple shade of the ink and the ornamentation Mother had embossed on the cover. A shadow crossed the Book Man’s face, but he said nothing. He sat back in his chair when he had finished his notes.
“I have not seen anything quite like it yet,” he said lightly.
“But I receive hundreds of requests for sales and purchases every day. If anyone has such a volume, news of it—or the book itself—will pass through here sooner or later. If there is anything that I have learned in my business, it is that every book imaginable exists, and they all wash up here eventually.”
He promised to circulate the description—“discreetly”—among his contacts, assuring me that he had the ability to operate completely outside the Temple’s notice. All Baldbeak and I could do in the meantime, unless we thought of a better plan, was wait—a difficult prospect.
“Repair is also part of my work,” the Book Man said. “You would be surprised how useful a good seamstress can be in the world of books. Now, may I trouble you for a demonstration?”
“A demonstration?”
“Of your work. The Temple stitches. Would you mind?”
“Oh. Uh, no.”
“Your friend will have to wait here for a moment, I’m afraid.”
I followed him through the book-crowded corridor.
We turned to the left, into a room that smelled pleasingly of wood shavings and wax.
It, too, was lined with books, but these seemed to be the ones scheduled for repair.
Some were missing spines or whole covers, others had loose pages or were swollen with water damage, and still others had mold creeping from their edges.
The shelves were chaotic, but the desk was impeccably tidy, the instruments lined up with as much care as a barber-surgeon might take in arranging their tools.
I recognized most of them from Mother’s work, and I opened my mouth to say so, but then decided to keep that quiet for the moment, too.
The Book Man closed the door behind us, sliding the bolt into place with a snick.
“This is my workshop,” he said, turning the knob on a glim set in the wall. He saw me looking at it. “Like it? A gift from an old client. Much better than having open flames around the books, and it allows me to do close work late at night without straining my eyes. Here.”
He led me over to the desk. A book lay closed in its center, its cloth cover stitched with silk thread.
“Some of the volumes that … enter my shop,” said the Book Man, “need some attention.”
He smoothed his hand over the book’s cover, as if reassuring it. It opened under his palm, and I blinked.
“A small magic that doesn’t require a spellbook,” he said, smiling. “An affinity, some call it.”
I winced a little at the word.
“So few speak of them these days. They are rather frowned upon, I fear … for being ‘trivial.’ Or even dangerous. But I find that, although minor, mine is very useful. The books respond to me, you see.” He patted the book again.
“See here, how some of the pages have come loose from the spine. And observe the cover.”
The cover was cloth drawn taut over the boards and had been stitched with a pattern of flowers and vines.
“I haven’t seen one like this before,” I said. Mother had only ever used my stitching for fastening a book together. I had never dreamed that a book could be ornamented like this.
“An embroidered cover is unusual, but not unheard-of. Many wealthy clients like to set it with gems or other objects.” He made a face. “Gaudy. I much prefer this. But as you can see, some threads have come unraveled.”
My mind immediately started filling in the gaps in the pattern. My fingers itched to take up a needle.
“Books like this,” said the Book Man, “are vessels for the spells themselves. Not just the words, but the power of the words in potentia, as it were, as they wait to be spoken. Damage to the vessel means damage to the book’s efficacy.”
“And you repair them?” I said, running my hand lightly over the taut fabric.
“Not all can be saved, but I do what I can.” He looked up at me, his eyes owlish behind the strong spectacles. “And perhaps you can help.”
Hesitantly, I sat and pulled his tray of threads and various needles towards me. He had laid out all the colors that were already in the pattern.
As I began stitching, I felt a familiar tickle against the back of my neck.
The Hair. At first it was just a faint stirring, as if it were caught in a breeze that did not exist. Then the movement strengthened.
A few strands floated upward like water weed caught in a current.
My hands faltered. I looked at the Book Man to see his reaction, but his face was unreadable.