“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. “Somethingspecial.”
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.
