The abbot turned his head. I realized that we had stopped walking and were standing still on the marble floor.
“Here we are,” said the abbot.
Dozens of monks sat at dozens of tables, some with staggered tops at differing heights so that they could work on several volumes at once. There were also great book wheels, like the one Mother had built, that could be turned with large levers to give access to several open books in turn. The whole place was lit with a vast number of glims as well as the natural light pouring through all the glass—enough that it would probably feel like noon even at midnight, in this room.
“It is wonderful,” I said, and meant it.
“Please, look around,” said the abbot.
I hadn’t realized how much I had missed the scent of books. I opened one—newly made, its paper soft as a baby’s skin—and inhaled the sulfur and damp-moss smell of ink, and the elusive musk of the paper itself, singed with the woody incense the monks burned as they worked. I looked up and saw Patrick watching me with a strange expression. He raised his eyebrows at me and grinned.
“What?” I said defensively.
“Are you planning to eat it?”
I flushed and lowered the book, placing it back on the table with a pat as if it were a sleeping kitten. “I like the scent of it.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know how you can smell anything over this damnable incense.”
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.”
