1. Saige
Saige
PRESENT DAY
Cold bites into my palm as I turn the handle of the iron binding press.
Each rotation sends a familiar creak through the machine while the metal plate descends to apply pressure, securing the leather-bound tome in place, ready for the morning’s work.
Sun streams in through the windows, and outside above the door, the wooden sign that reads: The Awl & Cradle: Book Binding and Restoration, swings in the breeze with the rest.
The shop has a prime position on the high street of Hanniel.
We’re surrounded by other businesses: a metalworker, a bakery, a boutique soap maker and of course, the Copper Kettle, a well-known historic institution of this fine city, otherwise known as the local tavern.
It’s all overlooked by the queen’s grand palace on the hillside, the bells echoing between the buildings, a myriad of scents wafting through the air—freshly baked sourdough and the smoke from the forge, and sweet florals from soaps.
But here, inside the Awl and Cradle, it smells of beeswax, leather, parchment, and hibiscus tea. It smells like home, like Leo.
At the thought, my hands drift to the steaming mug beside me and I cup my palms around its heat, the floral notes wafting up from the liquid within.
Leo’s chipped mug sits empty at his workstation along with his paint brushes, needles and binder’s thread, his voice echoing in my head: There’s a special beauty in slow made things, Saige.
True mastery comes from repetition, not from rushing.
He’s been saying those same words to me ever since he took me on as his apprentice seventeen years ago.
He’s why I started working with my hands, slowly making beautiful things.
Beyond life with my friend, Raven and our…
and Yevna, I’ve always felt invisible to the world, as though I’m not destined to make a mark on it, as if someone could blink and I’d be gone.
But through restoring great works and through making beautiful notebooks, I sometimes hope that maybe I can be a small part of history.
Doing this work gives me a purpose, makes me feel connected to the larger realm.
Here, I’m not just a street urchin or orphan, I’m a part of something much grander.
I glance at the array of leatherbound notebooks in the window display of the store before shaking my head.
As much as my fingers itch to pick fabrics for the linen covers and colorful patterns for the end papers, I re-center myself.
The money lies in commissions, and it’s money I need given the black mark against my name with the creditors and the pile of overdue payments on the counter.
The healer fees, the herbal remedies, the not-so-legal remedies, purchasing texts, travelling to see scholars, it hasn’t come cheaply.
All to figure out what’s wrong with me, to understand why I can be fine one minute, and then doubled over in crippling pain the next.
But instead of answers, all I have to show for it is debt.
Insurmountable debt. Coin owed all over the city, most of it owed to the worst kind of people.
The sort of people who break bones and cut out tongues, who smash windows and follow you in the dark. Ivor Thorne and his collectors.
Pushing my gold hair from my brow, I steel myself and breathe in the comforting scent of the shop before I reach for my tool wrap, unrolling it across the workbench in search of my band nippers to start on the spine of the book in the press.
There’s a lot to get through today—several rebinding projects are overdue, as well as the restoration of a prominent noble family’s history.
All of it is delicate, intricate work, work that forces me and my whirring mind to slow down.
The most terrifying thing to me is sitting here with my thoughts and feelings without some kind of distraction.
I’m constantly worried about what might rise to the surface.
I’m scared to shed light into the dark recesses of my mind.
But so far today, I’m pain-free, and I need to make the most of being able bodied and clear headed, so I begin to sharpen my knives, humming a tune Leo used to sing.
The bell above the door chimes and I tense, expecting Thorne’s debt collectors to come barging through, demanding the coin I owe or a pound of flesh. I’ve been in over my head with him once before and it didn’t end well. My skin crawls at the very thought.
But I sigh with relief and allow a grin to spread across my face as my friend, Raven Lockhart swans in, all sinful curves, full skirts, and glossy black hair styled in a flawless elegant updo.
I set my tools down, hoping she didn’t see my initial fear-addled reaction.
“Aren’t you a little overdressed for metal work this morning?
” I tease. It wasn’t all that long ago that we shared a tiny studio together above the metal workshop across the high street and it was Leo who occupied the attic above the bindery where I live now.
Raven and I would often get ready together in the mornings, and she’d fuss over our appearances until I protested.
Despite her occupation, the outfit isn’t unusual for her.
Raven strolls towards my notebook display, surveying the new additions to the shelves. “Master Breen has me collecting payments this morning, while Beckett does the actual metal work, not that he knows what he’s doing…” She picks up a floral-patterned design. “How much for this one?”
I chuckle lightly and wave her off. “You know I’d never charge you.”
“And that’s why you always need coin,” she quips. “Can’t be giving away your wares for nothing.”
I subtly push the bills and repossession threats out of sight.
Raven has no idea how bad it is with Thorne and his associates, and I don’t want her to.
She has done enough to help me for four lifetimes over.
When I was twelve and I wet myself in class from the onslaught of a bad pain episode, Raven gave me her cloak to wrap around my waist and hide the stains, telling no one.
When I told her I wanted to be a master bookbinder like Leo, she didn’t laugh, but instead bought me the tool wrap I still use to this day.
When I had another terrible pain episode, she convinced Yevna I was fine so she could take us to the seaside.
Nothing I could offer could ever repay her for the many kindnesses she’s shown me.
I’d give her the shirt off my back if she needed it, which is why when it comes to a silly notebook I’ve made, I’ll never accept payment.
But I say none of this, of course. Instead, I smile. “At least you write in them.”
Raven laughs good-naturedly. “Still don’t want to ruin the pretty pages with that atrocious scrawl of yours?”
“Something like that. A dear friend of mine once told me it looks like chicken tracks in the dirt.” I lean back on the counter, happy to watch her peruse my work.
“Besides, I like the idea that women like you are using them to write down ideas and thoughts. You never know which ones might change the world.”
Raven snorts, the undignified sound in stark contrast to her soft femininity. “Yes, I’m sure my errand list will absolutely shift the sands of fate one day.”
The bell above the door sounds again as it’s thrust open, and a tall, well-dressed man strides in. I should be relieved it’s not one of Thorne’s men, but I freeze, a wave of goosebumps raising the hair on my arms.
He heads straight for the counter, not pausing a moment before calling out, “I’m looking for the successor of Leofric Bergmunn, the master bookbinder.”
Shaking off the strange sensation, I leave Raven by the displays and step behind the desk where we take payments, shuffling and setting aside the stack of supplier invoices I need to pay. “How can I help you, sir?”
The man shakes his head, his high collar brushing his sharp jaw as he does and presses his hands down on the counter.
“Impossible,” his voice forces my gaze to his. “I must deal with Bergmunn’s heir himself.”
A shiver runs down my spine, but I force my voice to remain steady. “That’s me.”
He has the audacity to stare at me. “You’re a woman.”
“Observant.” Despite my discomfort, my lips twitching to smile. It’s not the first time I’ve navigated a response like this. “I’m also the owner of this establishment, so I’m sure I can offer you assistance.”
His glimmering eyes narrow. “You’re Leofric Bergmunn’s successor? You own this place?”
“Yes.” I ignore the twinge of sorrow in my chest, and the bracing memory of just this morning when I thought I heard him calling me for tea. There were a blissful few moments where I forgot he was gone. “I am the sole owner of the Awl and Cradle now.”
For the first time since storming in like he owned the place, the man looks around, his gaze lingering on the withered pot plants I haven’t had the heart to throw out, and the large, weathered apron hanging from the hook by the workshop entrance.
Even though he’s gone, Leo is in the bones of this place, in the worn leather armchairs by the wood burner, in the thoughtful layout of the shop—the workstations, the press areas, the small library in the corner, and the sign above the counter that reads: Dog-earring is a travesty.
“So it’s true… There is a new master bookbinder in Hanniel.”
I silence the part of me that rushes to insist that I’m no master, that my skills pale in comparison to the great Leofric Bergmunn and the long line of bookbinders he came from. Instead, I smile. “Yes, that’s right.”
Finally, with a look of apprehension, the stranger meets my eyes and makes a skeptical noise. “A woman bookbinder.”
“Is that a question?”
Raven clears her throat and places the notebook back on the display, approaching the counter. “Saige here is the best bookbinder in all of Lorevael. The late Leo Bergmunn trained her himself. You won’t find better than her in all the mortal kingdoms.”