Chapter Eight
The Reverse Knot
‘A stitch that should be in every embroiderer’s repertoire as a decorative method for tying off a thread, or for doubling back in a complex design where necessary.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
“Don’t be afraid, my dear. Come in,” the voice repeated. Warm, and undoubtedly feminine.
I hesitated—I was still shaky, filthy, bruised—but gathered my resolve and stepped out into the close and cloying darkness of the shop. Baldbeak made himself large and intimidating on my shoulder.
“Such unusual coloring you have,” said that beautiful voice.
It was Milady, that elegant visitor I had seen yesterday, sitting with her legs crossed at the ankles to show off a pair of beautiful and impractical shoes with gold rosettes on the toe.
I became even more aware of the smudges on my clothing.
Baldbeak snapped his beak once or twice, but didn’t launch himself at the visitor, for which I was grateful.
“What—” I stopped myself. I dropped a small curtsey, then looked about. “Where is the Book Man?”
“Oh, he will be here in a moment, I’m sure.”
Everything about her was warmth: the golden shine of her hair; the flush in her cheeks; the rich autumnal colors of her dress. Even her eyes, a pure blue, looked like a summer sky rather than the crisp blue of winter. I took a step forward despite myself.
“You are the little assistant, I assume.”
Had he told her about me? And why, when he had been so eager to conceal me the day before? I swallowed. My throat was dry. “I … I mostly work in the back.”
Milady’s stare did not drop. I wished I could read it.
“Yes …” she said slowly. “How interesting. And why exactly does he want you hidden, do you think?”
I prayed that my Hair wouldn’t take it into its head to start wriggling about at that precise moment. “I’m not sure, ma’am,” I said.
“Call me Milady,” said the woman. “Everyone does.”
“I’m not sure, Milady.”
“Hmm.” Milady stood. I knew by now that I was above average height for a woman, but she was taller. She reached out and caressed a strand of my Hair where it lay across the sweaty mess of my bodice. I flushed.
“Such a pretty color,” she said, turning it in her hand.
I heard movement coming from the direction of the basement stairwell—the rustling of papers, and footsteps.
The Book Man’s voice became audible, growing louder as he walked up the stairs.
“… So sorry it took me so long to find it. I didn’t have it cataloged correctly.
I think you’ll agree when you have a chance to read it, though, that it is … ”
When he reached the top of the stairs and looked up from the book he was holding, his face went gray, color leaching from it like water running down a drain.
“Netta,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”
“I’m sorry, I …”
“It is not the girl’s fault,” said Milady. She laid a gloved hand on my shoulder. The perfume on her wrist was intoxicating, this close. “We were just having a chat, weren’t we, Netta?”
I looked from one to the other. Milady smiled and released me.
“Run along, child,” she said. “Your master and I need to speak a while.”
I hesitated. The Book Man mustered a smile. “It’s all right, Netta,” he said.
I hovered, but could see no way to stay and listen without being obvious.
I reached up to pet Baldbeak, giving him a scratch on his chest feathers and hoping he would read my meaning.
He raark-ed and flew up into the darkness of the stacks, to perch somewhere and eavesdrop, and I made my way to the back room.
I covered my eyes with my hands, to better see and hear the messages Baldbeak would be sending me.
The world shivered around me for a moment, as if I had been dipped in water, and then I heard it.
“Don’t play coy with me.” Her voice sharpened. “Who is she?”
“Just a girl, Milady. Nothing more.”
A long pause.
“If I find that you have lied to me …”
“Milady, I would never.”
“You told me that if you ever …” A pause, and then, “Get that Plague-cursed bird out of here!”
The image swirled and broke. Soon, Baldbeak was flapping his way back to my shoulder.
She saw me, he said.
“I know.” I stroked his feathers. “It’s all right.”
I crouched there, tense and shivering, until I heard the door close, and the light, firm footsteps of the Book Man coming towards me.
He reached for a glim on the wall and turned the dial that activated it, flooding the room with light.
I stood. When he turned to me, he was so horrified that his spectacles nearly fell off his nose.
“My dear, what on earth happened to you?”
I had almost forgotten my stained and ripped clothing. “I … uh …”
To my excruciating embarrassment, I started to cry—and not ladylike weeping, either, but big, ugly sobs that produced a quite awe-inspiring amount of snot.
The Book Man stood frozen for a moment, but then grabbed a blanket from the back of a chair and rushed over to me, saying, “Dear me, dear me,” over and over again as he wrapped it around my shoulders.
He led me over to an armchair and helped me down into it, while I continued to cough and snuffle my way through the tears.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed to say. “I think it all just caught up to me.”
“Oh that’s quite all right, my dear, please don’t dream of apologizing,” he said. He peered at me earnestly over his spectacles. “Would you like some tea?”
I managed to nod. Baldbeak flew over to me and perched on the arm of the chair.
And a biscuit, he said.
“And a biscuit, please,” I said.
“Of course. Of course. Coming right up.”
“And …”
He stopped. “Yes, my dear?”
“I know it sounds silly, but … Could you bring me a needle and thread? And something to stitch. Anything. One of your books that needs repair, it doesn’t matter what it is. It just … It makes me feel better.”
“I quite understand,” he said, and hurried off.
Baldbeak clicked his beak. Why is your face wet? he said.
“Because I’m tired, and frightened, and I just killed a man.”
Baldbeak gave the bird equivalent of a shrug, then stared wistfully into the distance, probably thinking about the dead man and regretting the waste of two perfectly good eyeballs. The biscuit would have to do.
By the time the Book Man returned, I had calmed down somewhat.
He had brought a cloth-covered book with some fraying on its embroidered cover, a packet of needles, and a selection of thread.
I set to stitching, sinking into the pleasing haze that accompanied the motion of my hands.
Mother, the attacks, everything fell away as I followed the movement of the thread.
It was a floral design that needed touching up; simple enough.
I sipped at the hot tea as I worked and found myself finally telling the Book Man the whole story, starting from the Tower and, between hiccups and nose-blows, making my way to the attack that day.
He did not interrupt but sat on the very edge of his chair, nodding along with the story and cupping the mug with his gradually cooling tea in his hands without taking so much as a sip.
I hadn’t told the Book Man about the disembodied voice that had helped me twice now, for fear he would think I had truly lost my wits, just as I hadn’t told him about the vision I’d had of my younger self in the bookshop.
“Goodness me,” he said when I had finished. “No wonder you’re overcome.”
“I murdered someone,” I said. I rubbed my nose violently.
Two people, reminded Baldbeak, sending me the image of the man I had pushed out the Tower window.
“Yes, thank you,” I muttered to him.
“I beg your pardon?” said the Book Man.
“Nothing. I’m sorry.”
He leaned back in his chair, finally taking a sip of his tea. He made a face. “Quite cold. Never mind.” He set it down on the little table beside him. “I am glad you told me all of this,” he said. “I will be better able to help you.”
“I don’t understand any of it,” I said. “I don’t know what the Temple wanted with Mother’s spellbook, or why they have been after me.”
“Are you quite sure it was the Temple?”
“He mentioned that he was a Temple guard, and that the others were too—the ones that attacked us in the Tower. I wish I could have asked him more.” I swallowed hard. “Now that I’ve told you about her … Did you know my mother? I saw your letters to her, the receipts …”
“I know the letters you speak of,” he said, “but I’m afraid I do not know anything about the specific nature of your mother’s work.
Many people order books and materials from me, for all sorts of obscure purposes and research.
Your mother was not a … forthcoming correspondent and said nothing in her letters other than what she needed from me.
It appeared to me that she made an attempt to disguise her handwriting, and she did not sign her letters. I did not even know her name.”
He left a pause there, as if inviting me to share it, but I did not. I had already trusted him with so much, but I still felt a need to protect Mother, just in case.
“I just want to find her,” I said in despair. “I still don’t know who took her, or why—nor how they found me here. Why couldn’t they just have taken the book and left us in peace?”
He steepled his fingers. “Everything you have told me, my dear, tells me that this must be much larger than you or I suspect. There has been something big stirring in the kingdom lately—I have felt it. I even wondered if the Plague was coming back. Listening to you now, and your story of the manner in which you, er, overpowered that young man, I have a suspicion that bone magic might be awakening in Virelith once more.”
“Bone magic? Wait, are you saying … are you saying it’s in me somehow?” I hugged myself tightly, as if to keep it from bursting out willy-nilly.