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 voicelow 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.
Chapter Eighteen
The Reaching Vine
‘So called because of its organic, leaflike pattern, this stitch is often used to embellish edges and seams. It is not suitable for the decoration of Temple robes, as it lacks the necessary gravitas, but it can be used for clothing of other sorts.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
Both Holy and Base, 4th Edition
“Netta.”
