“Why on earth would anyone do those things?” I said.
“Power, my dear. Some people will do anything for a little more power.”
“It seems like any power that would come from using …thatto make a spellbook would bring bad luck more than anything.”
“Interesting you should say that,” said the Book Man. “I do recall there was some debate about whether a magic practitioner would have to consent to the process in order for their powers to, ah,augmentthe book, as it were. A more … coercive approach would result in its diminishing instead, theysurmised. All speculation, of course. It’s hard to imagine any circumstances under which a magic practitioner would consent to something like this.”
“Unless they were dead already,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose it would be possible for someone to, ah,bequeaththeir body to the research. Interesting.”
“Is that the sort of thing you have in your basement, then?” I asked.
There was a frosty silence. The Book Man removed his spectacles, rubbed them clean of an imaginary smudge, and replaced them.
“My dear,” he said, “I tell you this for your own safety and peace of mind: You must not worry about the books in the basement. The volumes I keep up here are tamed, safe to touch and even peruse, for the most part, with minimal risk of injury to the handler. There are others, however, that are not safe to any but the expert. I keep them under lock and key not just for the purpose of secrecy—although I admit that is also important, for some—but also for the sake of minimizing any … accidents.” He gave me that unnerving, pinned-to-a-board blue stare. “You will not venture near that door, Netta. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, holding his gaze and trying to look as sincere as possible.
I have to see it. I have to know what’s down there.
My mother’s book could be among them. What if he was concealing it from me for his own purposes? But I so badly wanted to trust him. Ilikedthe Book Man—had liked him immediately, as I had liked Mieka. I did not want to believe that he might not be truthful with me.
I was allowed to wander throughout the shop after our tour. While the Book Man was at work, I discreetly rested my palm against the embossed metal door that led to the basement. Was it my imagination, or could I feel a pulse from within?
In the bathroom, which was shabby but impeccably clean, it took me a long time to fill the tub and to get the temperature right, so that it didn’t scald me. When it was finally full, I peeled off my dress and let it fall to the floor. It hardly looked like a dress at all, once it was off my body—more like someone’s night leavings thrown out a window and left to molder on the street. The thought of getting back into it made me feel queasy. The knitted cap was next. My Hair unfurled itself luxuriously, and I lowered myself into the blessed warmth.
I washed as quickly as I could and watched the layers of dirt peel away, examining my skin as you would a bolt of cloth: finding inky thumbprints of bruises and tracing my endless tessellation of freckles. The Hair floated happily, twisting in the water like a contented otter. The red-gold shine of it, so like the sheen of the copper bath, turned darker and sleeker when wet.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.
An image flared behind my eyelids. It was the bookshop, just as I had seen it that day, but seen as if from floor-level. The same motes of mingled dust and magic floated about me. The Book Man’s face loomed over mine, smiling, and I reached up with small hands to pull at his spectacles …
I came out of the water, gasping, my Hair heavy and streaming. I sat still for a moment until my breathing evened again, and when I felt calm enough, I reached for the broadcloth that was to serve as a towel.
What had that all been about? What a strange thing to imagine. I got out of the tub and wrapped myself in the towel, then stared at the unappealing heap on the floor that was my dirty dress. I was loath to put it back on.
A knock came at the door, and a polite throat-clearing.
“Netta? My dear?”
A thin hand appeared around the door, clutching dark fabric.
“I took the liberty of finding a dress for you. A uniform,really. It belonged to my old housekeeper, and I’m not sure of the fit, but …”
I wrapped the towel tighter around myself and reached warily for the dress, twitching it from his fingers.
“Good. Good,” he said. “There are … smallclothes, also.” He held the word gingerly between his teeth.
I stood, dripping, dangling the dress and smallclothes from one hand.
He coughed from behind the door. “Well. I’ll leave you to it.”
The dress was rough, but warm. The smallclothes were also rough and too large, but if I pulled the lacings tight, the fit wasn’t terrible. He had left me some hair ribbons as well, but I could see that those would be useless against the fury of the Hair. I dried my feet and the floor around them as best I could, and folded the broadcloth to hang over the side of the tub. I suppose I should have tipped the tub out onto the sloping floor, for the water to run down the gutters and out through the sluice at one end of the bathroom, but it was too heavy.
When I emerged, I apologized for not emptying the bath.
“And thank you for the clothes,” I added.
