Chapter Eight #3
He stopped, suddenly intent. I had not noticed, but the embroidery I had been working on while the Book Man spoke about bone magic had started to take on its own life.
My hand had ceased to be a hand and the needle to be a needle.
I was a silver fish darting upstream, a bright bird zig-zagging across the clouds.
I reached the end of the pattern that I was repairing, and I did not stop.
“Netta …” said the Book Man, a note of caution in his voice.
I paused, swimming now in that strange dream-state I entered when I was embroidering, and reluctant to stop. “Please,” I managed to say. “It feels right.”
The Book Man looked hard at me. He pressed his lips together, nodded, and sat back.
My Hair stirred against my back, restless as it always was when my emotions ran high. Tonight, though, it was more than restless; it felt alive, humming with energy. The design now felt wrong—too mundane, too limited for the potential I felt thrumming beneath my fingertips. The book needed more.
Deserved more.
A new design took shape in my mind, unbidden and wild. The first stitches were small and careful, a test of my daring, but soon the thread moved faster, weaving shapes and symbols I didn’t fully recognize.
The air in the room seemed to thicken. My Hair began to float.
I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The thread shimmered unnaturally now, colors shifting and blending in ways that defied logic.
Gold bled into silver, then into deep, abyssal black, forming spirals and curves that moved like living things.
I wasn’t just repairing the spellbook, now—I was stitching its cover into a better, more complex pattern.
When I stopped, it looked … different, in an indefinable way, quite separate from the original design.
“Remarkable,” the Book Man breathed when I had finished.
He touched the book reverently, barely letting the pads of his fingers make contact with the cover.
It shivered faintly under his touch. With his affinity, he persuaded it to open—tentatively, as if something inside might jump out and bite him—but then became absorbed in studying the spellscript inside.
It, too, seemed changed, but of course I couldn’t tell exactly how.
“What … what have you done?” the Book Man whispered, but there was no accusation in his tone.
I swallowed hard. “I—” I began, but the words caught in my throat. I didn’t know how to explain it. I couldn’t.
The Book Man’s fingers trembled slightly as they brushed the edge of the cover. “This is unlike any power I’ve ever seen.” His gaze shifted to me. “You’ve done something extraordinary. You have … Somehow you have strengthened the spell itself.”
“You’re not angry?” I asked hesitantly.
“Angry?” He gave a small, incredulous laugh. “This isn’t something to be angry about. This is remarkable.”
A flush crept up my neck, and I looked down.
“I’ll need to study it,” the Book Man said, his tone still reverent. “To understand exactly what you’ve done, other than strengthening the enchantment. Absolutely fascinating.”
I realized now that my Hair was now floating freely about my face. I put my hands up to it, trying to hold it down, but the Book Man shook his head.
“No need, my dear. I already suspected. But I didn’t want to make you say anything before you felt comfortable enough.”
It was a relief to let it move freely. I held out one arm and let it coil around it like a friendly snake. “I can’t control it. Not in any way that matters. I can’t read, and without reading a spellbook, I can’t … you know. It’s more embarrassing than anything.”
“Embarrassing? My dear,” said the Book Man. “I think you may be something entirely new.”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t be able to do what you did without reciting a spell.
But you did.” He held up the book. “I have never heard of such a thing. Affinities will often use a … a skill, or a natural talent, to cast small spells, but for one of this magnitude, a mage would normally require the heft and structure of the written and spoken word.” He reached out to clasp my hand.
“My dear, it is best that you keep your abilities hidden, as best you can.”
“Why? What would happen to me?”
He huffed a breath. “It is hard to say, as your circumstances are rather exceptional—coming to your powers as an adult. If you were a member of a powerful family, you could practice as you pleased. Otherwise—some mages with talent are given to the Temple, to be trained there, or are given to a wealthy patron as a private mage. Some are even married off—many nobles seek out magic-skilled partners in an attempt to strengthen their wealth and position at court, and the marriage bond is an excellent way to bind that power to you forever. Of course, some young mages find themselves in less … comfortable circumstances, if they fall into the wrong hands. If people know what you are—what you are capable of—they will seek to use you, as they have done to others. As they did to me.”
“What do you mean?”
He met my eyes, and for a moment I saw the pain beneath his calm exterior. “I wasn’t always the Book Man,” he said. “I’ve made my share of mistakes and had my share of power. But that’s a story for another time.”