Chapter 22 Tula
TULA
The walk back to their underground home felt like a funeral march. Tula's legs moved automatically, carrying her through the topside pavilion, into the elevator, and then to the library while her mind replayed Annani's words on an endless loop.
The clan was likely able to extract only one person, possibly two at elevated risk. Four was impossible.
One person meant her. The pregnant woman with the most believable suicide story. The one everyone would accept had been driven to desperation by her condition.
One person meant leaving Tony behind. Leaving Tamira. Leaving Elias. All of them would be left thinking she'd thrown herself off a cliff in desperation and blaming themselves for not seeing it coming.
"Are you all right?" Areana asked.
Tula nodded because she didn't trust her voice. The tears had stopped a while ago, leaving her feeling hollowed out and brittle.
"You should rest," Areana continued. "You look exhausted."
"I can't." Tula's voice came out hoarse.
"If I go to my room, all I will be doing is replaying things over and over in my head.
I need to get my hands busy so I can focus on something else.
" She forced herself to straighten her spine and school her features into something approaching normalcy.
"I need to shake this melancholy off," she said out loud to give something to the watchers. "I can't allow myself to be depressed."
Areana nodded. "I understand. The library it is, then."
The place was quiet when Tula entered, which was surprising. Only Beulah and Liliat were present, working at opposite ends of one restoration table.
"Tula!" Beulah looked up with a smile that faded when she saw Tula's face. "What's wrong? You look terrible."
"I'm fine." She walked over to her desk, grateful that it was positioned away from the others. "Just didn't sleep well again."
"The nightmares about the rebellion still bothering you?" Liliat asked sympathetically.
"Yeah, along with other catastrophic scenarios. Ever since the siege at the mansion, my mind can't shake the anxiety."
"It's called PTSD," Liliat said sagely. "It stands for Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.
Scientists used to think that it was purely psychological, but the latest studies show physical changes in the brains of those suffering from the disorder.
Immortals are immune to most ailments, but not those of the mind.
You might very well be suffering from that. "
Tula didn't bother to dispute the assessment, even if there was something to what Liliat had said. Having some disorder was the least of her worries right now. The guilt she was dealing with overshadowed everything else.
Beulah stood and walked over. "I know what could help. Learning a new skill." She gestured toward her own workstation. "The supplies for rebinding finally arrived today, and I was about to start practicing on one of the less valuable books. Do you want to do it with me?"
Normally, Tula would have declined. Bookbinding required patience and precision she didn't possess on a good day, let alone today, but Beulah was right about the distraction it would provide.
"Do you have an instruction manual?" she asked.
"I have better. Lord Navuh generously bought a televised course on bookbinding for us. I watched it last night and this morning, and I'm ready to implement what I've learned."
"Then I will gladly be your eager apprentice." Tula rose to her feet.
Beulah assembled the materials—new leather, thread, needles, something she called a bone folder, and an array of other small tools. "I'll explain what they are for as we work." She brought a stool from a nearby workstation and motioned for Tula to sit.
Beulah lifted an old codex that wasn't very valuable, so it was a good book to practice on. The binding was also so badly damaged that it wasn't salvageable.
"First, we need to carefully remove the old binding." Beulah opened the book flat. "See how the signatures are sewn together? That's what we'll preserve. The binding itself is going into the trash bin."
"What are signatures?" Tula asked because it for sure wasn't what she was thinking.
"Groups of folded pages sewn together at the spine." Beulah pointed with a slender finger. "This codex has twenty signatures, each containing eight folios—sixteen pages. When we rebind it, we'll sew through the same holes the original binder used."
Tula watched as Beulah used a thin blade to carefully separate the leather cover from the text block, working with painstaking precision to avoid damaging the fragile pages beneath. The old leather came away in pieces, revealing the intricate sewing that had held the book together so far.
"Now we clean the spine." Beulah produced a soft brush and began removing debris and old glue. "We want a clean surface for the new binding."
The methodical work was almost hypnotic. Brush, examine, brush again. Remove fragments of deteriorated thread. Check each signature for damage.
Tula found herself absorbed, watching Beulah's hands move with surprising confidence, given that it was her first try.
"Your turn." Beulah handed Tula the brush. "Clean between the signatures. Gentle strokes."
Tula took the brush and bent over the manuscript, carefully working the bristles between the folded sections.
The repetitive motion was soothing, giving her racing mind something concrete to focus on.
As she worked, the erratic beat of her heart settled down, and with it the emotional storm in her mind.
"Good." Beulah nodded. "Now we'll prepare the new leather. It needs to be cut to size and skived along the edges."
"Skived?"
"Thinned, so when we fold it over the boards, it doesn't create a bulky edge." Beulah pulled out a large piece of supple brown leather. "This is goatskin. It's durable but still takes tooling well if we want to add decorations later."
They worked together to measure and cut the leather, Beulah demonstrating the proper angle for the blade. The physical act of cutting, trimming, checking measurements—it all helped to further quiet the storm in Tula's head.
"Now comes the sewing." Beulah threaded a needle with linen cord. "We'll attach the signatures back together, then add the new binding."
She demonstrated the technique, passing the needle through the existing holes in the spine, creating a chain stitch that linked each signature to the next. Her movements were fluid as if she'd practiced that kind of work for centuries.
"Try it." She handed Tula the needle.
Tula's first attempt was clumsy, the thread tangling as she tried to replicate Beulah's smooth motion. But the second was better, and by the third, she'd found a rhythm.
In. Through. Loop. Pull tight. Repeat.
The meditation of it was exactly what she needed.
As long as she focused on the thread, the needle, the precise placement of each stitch, she didn't have to think about Tony's face when he learned that she was dead, that she'd taken her own life without giving him a chance to talk her out of it.
She didn't have to imagine the ladies' grief.
Didn't have to feel the crushing weight of her betrayal.
Time passed. Liliat went for a bathroom break, then returned. Sarah and Raviki joined them at the table, working on their own projects. Tula kept sewing, moving from one signature to the next under Beulah's watchful eye.
"Beautiful work," Beulah murmured. "You have a steady hand."
Tula said nothing, just continued stitching. In. Through. Loop. Pull tight.
"It's almost noon," Raviki commented from across the table. "The men will be back soon. We should break for lunch."
Tula's hands faltered. She would have to face Tony and pretend everything was fine, hiding the fact that she knew he and the others were not going anywhere. That they were going to be doomed to stay in the harem.
"You're doing so well," Beulah encouraged, misinterpreting Tula's hesitation. "Just a few more signatures and we can attach the new cover."
Tula forced her hands to resume their work. She could do this. She'd been hiding secrets big and small her entire life. What was one more secret on top of all the others?
The thought made her feel nauseous.
By the time the others headed out of the library, Tula had sewn together all twenty signatures.
The manuscript's spine was intact again, ready for its new binding.
Under other circumstances, she might have felt pride in the accomplishment.
Today, it left her just as hollow as she had been at the start of the project.
"We'll do the binding after lunch." Beulah set aside the partially restored book. "The gold tooling is the best part."
Tula smiled, pretending to be excited about learning another new skill, and followed the others to the dining room.
The men were already seated when the ladies arrived. Tony's face lit up when he saw her, that open, loving expression that made guilt stab deeper into Tula's chest.
"There you are." He pulled out the chair beside him. "I was starting to worry you'd forgotten about me."
"Never." The word came out too bright, too forced. Tula sat and reached for the water pitcher, needing something to do with her hands.
Tony studied her face with the kind of attention that came from truly knowing someone. "What's wrong? You look pale."
"I'm tired," Tula said quickly. "You know the trouble I have falling asleep and staying asleep."
He had no clue. Most nights, he was fast asleep hours before her and then woke up hours after her. His mortal body needed much longer to restore itself than hers did.
"Again?" He found her hand under the table and squeezed it gently. "Nightmares?"
She nodded. "They're getting more inventive by the night. I'm cursed with an overactive imagination."
Her attempt at humor was met with a straight face. "Maybe you should ask Elias for some calming tea. What Areana has given you doesn't seem to be helping."