Chapter Seventeen #5
For some reason, I was determined to make him appreciate the beauty of it all.
I opened the book I had just placed on the table.
“This illumination …” I traced it with my finger.
It was odd, as they so often were, with human-faced animals dancing, their hands clasped, in a ring around the capital letter that started the first sentence.
Those letters, the ones that were more art than script, were usually the only ones I could sometimes make out.
This was an H, I thought, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself by asking. “Look here. The colors.”
“Vibrant,” he agreed. “Like jewels.”
“The black is iron gall.”
“Iron?”
“Iron vitriol. And it’s not just iron; there is oak sap in it, and the eggs of wasps.”
“I’m sorry, wasps?”
“Sometimes nut oils, or even rainwater. Or wine. That should please you,” I added slyly.
“You think me a shallow man.”
“I think you a wealthy one who doesn’t trouble himself with such matters.
” I let my fingers run lightly over the rest of the image.
“Black is the most commonly used color, of course, and the one most often used for the text, although I have seen blue before. Red is the next most common and is made from cinnabar, usually.”
“Cinnabar. What a lovely word. Maybe the name of my next horse.”
“Far from a lovely substance, I’m afraid. That’s what’s causing the sulfur smell.”
He looked at me for a moment, then dipped his face to the page and inhaled. “Ah. I see.”
“Or the red could be vermilion, which is a little cooler in tone. Equally unpleasant to inhale.”
“And another pretty word,” he smiled.
“The blue usually comes from lapis lazuli, ground to a paste. Or beetle’s wings. A lot of the colors are made from the roots of various plants. Green from copper.”
“See, I would imagine copper to make a pigment more like your Hair in color.”
“Green,” I said firmly. “And other colors are made from poisons. Yellow, for instance. That is why the monks wear thick gloves and masks when handling that ink.”
“Fascinating,” he murmured. I could not tell whether he was gently mocking me or not.
“You mix the ingredients with gum, or egg whites, to bind it. Vinegar, for thinning. Spices. Sugars.”
“It’s starting to sound more like a salad.”
“And the mixture must be perfect—enough to permeate the pages, but not enough to burn through them.”
“The ink can burn through?” he asked.
“If mixed improperly.”
“I had no idea so much went into it. And that’s just the ink.”
“It is hard labor,” I agreed. “Hard on the skin and the lungs. And the eyes, like embroidery. Precision in dim light … Although dim light isn’t a problem here, of course.”
“I am now thoroughly in awe of both bookmakers and seamstresses.” He touched the gleaming outline of the letter. “What about this gold? What is this made from?”
“Gold,” I said.
“Yes …?”
“That’s it. Powdered gold, mixed with other substances.”
“Well, our commissioned book should certainly require gold, then, if I am to keep up the appearance of a collector with more money than sense.” He looked up. “For someone who can’t read a word, you are extremely knowledgeable about bookmaking.”
“I was taught well,” I said briefly.
“So, gold, and as many colors as we can think of.”
“Gold clasps, too,” I said. “And perhaps even a chain, to affix it to the wall of your library.”
“Naturally. They’ll be drooling at the thought. What about jewels?”
I made a face. “Some books have them set in the covers. I don’t like it. Too gaudy. And they too often slip their sockets.”
“Just gold, then. Perfect for a book filled with spells of prosperity.” He closed the book with an irreverent snap. “And while I am discussing these very exacting specifications, my lovely niece will be …?”
“Making conversation. And discreet inquiries about our black market friend.”
“Excellent.”
I felt at home here, among the quiet scratching of quills that sounded not unlike a raven’s claws as it scrabbled for purchase on a tiled roof—but I had no idea where to start asking about black market books.
It wasn’t the sort of subject you could bring up casually.
In the end, I decided to stand by one particular monk at random, one who was working on an especially exquisite volume.
I watched him quietly. He was a small man, shorter than Patrick, wearing spectacles, with a badgerish gray tonsure of coarse hair that stuck out like the bristles of a shaving brush all around his head.
The upturned seashell beside him on the desk contained a puddle of gold ink, into which he dipped his brush.
He did not acknowledge me for a while, but when I shifted my weight, he finally spoke.
“Best to apply the gold when it is damp,” he said. “We’ve had some rain.”
“Why is that?”
“It helps the stickiness of the ink.” He breathed onto the page as he concentrated. The well of gold ink rippled slightly with his exhale.
“It is beautiful,” I said honestly. “You are very skilled.”
He puffed himself up a little. “Thank you, my lady.”
“So selfless, to do such wonderful work for the glory of the One-Eyed God,” I said slyly. I let my voice dip a little. “What if I were looking for … something special?”
“As you can see, we have all the finest …”
I cut him off. “Something special.”
He looked up, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the precise work. “My lady?” he said guardedly.
I sighed, trying to think of another way to say it. This didn’t come naturally to me. Where was Patrick? I needed him and his expertise in persuasion. “Something … secret,” I tried.
The monk removed his spectacles and stared at me. “My lady …”
I wondered if he still hadn’t grasped my meaning, but he lowered his voice and said, “We have to be careful. The walls have ears.”
“I understand,” I said eagerly. “But perhaps there is someone I can speak to …?”
“I can take you to them,” said the monk in a near whisper. He licked his lips. “I need assurance, though, that this will go no further.”
I stared blankly at him before I realized that “assurance” meant “a bribe.” I fumbled in my pocket for the purse Patrick had given me and showed it to him under the table, allowing it to jingle just a little.
The monk stared at it with longing. I wondered what a monk would spend money on, but handed it over nonetheless.
“My lady, are you inquiring for yourself, or for …?”
I wondered what would make him more comfortable. I decided that saying Patrick had nefarious motives would probably have a better result, as he was clearly the one with the deep pockets. “My … uncle,” I replied, indicating to him, where he stood conversing with another monk.
“I can’t take you there now,” said the little monk, his voice low and urgent. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “Are you staying here tonight?”
“My lord’s commission is … elaborate,” I said. “I imagine we will be here for a few days.”
“Tonight, then? If you are staying in the guest quarters.”
I didn’t relish the thought of this mole-like little man creeping into my chambers, but I nodded.
“Until tonight then,” he said, and went back to his work. I stayed for a moment more, then wandered away as if just idly observing.
“Well?” said Patrick in a low voice when I rejoined him.
“One of the monks will come to our chambers tonight and take us to … to whoever deals in the black market bookmaking, I suppose. That person the Book Man spoke of.”
“Excellent,” he said. “It appears you have a gift for subterfuge.”
“I had a good teacher.”
The abbot agreed to let us stay the night, and the chambers he gave us in the dorter were spare and, well, monkish.
But comfortable nonetheless. I lay down on the crisp white coverlet and stretched my aching muscles, wishing fervently that I never had to get on a horse again.
I had thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep while waiting for the knock on my door, but I was more tired than I’d realized, and it didn’t take long for sleep to claim me.
“Netta. We are so close now. Come and see.”
The book lay closed on a stone pedestal between Mother and me.
I reached out, my fingers brushing the cover for the first time, and it shuddered beneath my touch, the leather growing slick and warm.
The stitches in the binding split, not like thread unraveling, but like a wound tearing open.
Pink, glistening flesh pulsed through the gaps.
Veins snaked across the cover. I stumbled back, heart hammering.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Now the book convulsed violently. Skeletal fingers burst from its edges, dragging it upright like some grotesque bird trying to stand. Its pages flapped open, a mess of papery feathers. A mouth full of teeth gaped in the binding, dripping with ink.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Mother whispered, her breath a puff of white vapor, although the air felt warm against my skin.
No—not vapor. A swan feather. A quill. It floated to me and started scribbling on my skin, letters and symbols that I could not decipher …
And then it pierced my flesh. The ink flowed from its nib like a thread trailing from a needle, the letters like stitches writhing around each other, blindly searching, like a nest of earthworms—twisting into something new.
Something alive.