“These things do take time. If you will allow me to …”
Milady set down her cup with a clatter. Some of the liquid sloshed out. “Time, sir, is not something we have in abundance. I have been patient for too long already. Nearly a week has passed—”
“My dear lady, a week is nothing.”
“—and the best you have to offer is vague platitudes.”
“It is not a platitude, Milady. I assure you that my contact is most assiduous in investigating …”
She strode back towards the door, and he followed. I could not quite see them now—I craned my neck as far as I could but could only see the bookshelves. I heard jingling as money changed hands.
“Our business is concluded,” said Milady. “For now.”
I took a quick step backwards—too quick. I nudged a pile of books with my heel. The sound was tiny—a minuscule shift—but Milady’s footsteps stopped.
“There is someone else here,” she said.
“No! No, there is no one,” said the Book Man quickly. I froze. After a long silence, I heard the jingle of the door to the bookshop opening and then closing again. I exhaled and stepped out onto the floor of the shop.
The Book Man still stood a few feet from the doorway, staring at it.
“Who was that?” I asked, breaking the silence.
He started, then seemed to remember who I was, and smiled a close-lipped smile.
“A seeker of knowledge,” he said. “As you are. Those who seek the rarest, most valuable volumes are often … fanatical about them.” He shook himself a little, seeming to gather himself again. “Come along, my dear. Let me show you where you can wash, and we can begin our search in the morning.”
On the way, he gave me a tour of the shop.
“The spellbooks on the upper level are the least valuable—volumes that have been copied many times, inscribed with the simplest enchantments. The farther in, the rarer and more valuable they become. Part of my job entails repairing such volumes as required, or even enhancing them, to the best of my ability, to strengthen their power. I am a scholar and not an artist, however, despite my affinity”—he didn’t seem to notice my stiffening at the word—“so my abilities are limited. Ah, here we are.”
He unlocked one of the doors and ushered me in to the room beyond. “This is where I keep the more valuable tomes. These are for sale to anyone with enough coin. I have another collection, however, in the basement, that is more … exclusive. And not for sale save under exceptional circumstances.”
“Can I see those also?” I asked.
He paused. “I assure you, your book is not among them.”
“I’m just … interested.”
“Well. We shall see.” His step was eager, almost youthful, as he went to the shelf and pulled a volume free. “Look at this one, my dear. Bound in linen over the wood boards, with decorative embroidery. Pretty, isn’t it?”
The embroidery seemed rather lackluster to me, but I nodded.
“Note the illuminations, too. I don’t know how many studies have been done on the contribution of illuminations specifically to the vigor of a spoken spell, but these are exquisite, and one can only imagine that they must prove of benefit. And here …” He withdrew another tome. “Calfskin, with pearls inset.”
“What kinds of spells are inside these books?”
“Oh, all kinds. But I presume you are asking if they are more … significant than those in plainer volumes. The brief answer is yes, these do tend to be spells that have, ah, larger-reaching consequences. Sometimes a practitioner will have their favorites privately bound together, for ease of transportation, but would you believe that some of these contain onlyonespell in the entire volume? That is how complex and lengthy they can be.”
“It is hard to imagine,” I said, running my finger along the ranked spines, feeling the subtle change in texture between the bindings. “Which are the best materials, do you think?”
“Well, I do prefer leathers to clothbound. Vellum for the interior, naturally. Of course, the most powerful spellbook ofall is said to be one that is bound in the skin of its writer or creator,” he added lightly.
My stomach turned over as I looked up. “What?” I said, barely above a whisper.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” said the Book Man, his eyes widening. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. It is purely theoretical, of course. One hears stories of books bound in human skin, but in reality it would make a very poor binding. The technical term is anthropodermic bibliopegy—rather a mouthful. In practice, our poor human skin is rather thin and, quite apart from the ethical objections, wouldn’t wear well. There has been some interesting—and ghoulish—speculation as to whether it would make a difference if one used the skin of a magic practitioner as opposed to someone with no innate ability—make a difference to the raw power of the spellbook, that is.” He adjusted his spectacles. “I have heard tell of experiments that mix the blood of practitioners into ink that have had someinterestingresults, but nothing conclusive.”
Why did this unsettle me so? Of course it was an unsettling subject, but it felt like a familiar horror—as if I had heard something of its like before. I felt my Hair bristling across my scalp, and even my hands felt strange—as if they were pressed against something warm and pulsing.
