“Mostly. There are a lot of rooms.”
“Oh, it’s a maze, my dear.” He gestured to a pot of tea rather precariously balanced on a stack of envelopes. “Please. Pour yourself a cup.”
There were mismatched teacups scattered about the room. I tipped a dead spider out of the nearest one—clearly, spiders everywhere really were just as ward-resistant as the ones in the Tower—and poured the steaming tea, then sat with my hands cupped around its comforting warmth.
“Yes, it takes a while to learn your way about,” the Book Man continued.
“What if there was a fire?” I asked. “How would you get out in time?”
“As I have so many valuable objects under one roof, I have spared no expense to protect them. The shop is warded with extremely sophisticated—and expensive—spells against theft, fire, and pests, including mice and rats and all small bugs. Goodness knows what the spiders find to eat in here. I prefer not to dwell on it, myself.”
I felt some of my Hair start to curl forwards, reaching towards the warmth of the tea. I grabbed it, the sudden movement causing me to spill a little.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I …”
The Book Man waved his hand. “It’s quite all right.” He gestured at the piles of paper on his desk. “As you can see, I have a great deal of correspondence to keep up with.”
Now would have been the moment to bring up Mother—and yet I did not.
“Perhaps this is something you will be able to help me with,” he went on. “The more general inquiries, that is.”
“If you remember, sir, I cannot read.” I stared at the pile of envelopes, hoping for something that would indicate a message from Mother. If only she’d had a distinctive seal!
“Ah yes. It slipped my mind.”
“Do you receive any messages by pigeon?” I said abruptly.
“Pigeon? A few, but it’s rare. Most mages and collectors usemagical means to transport their letters. My … clientele tends to be fairly wealthy and can afford better than entrusting their packages and letters to a bird.” He leaned back in his chair and stretched. “I promised to make inquiries about your book. Could you describe it to me again in as much detail as possible, please?”
I closed my eyes and did my best, down to the almost purple shade of the ink and the ornamentation Mother had embossed on the cover. A shadow crossed the Book Man’s face, but he said nothing. He sat back in his chair when he had finished his notes.
“I have not seen anything quite like it yet,” he said lightly. “But I receive hundreds of requests for sales and purchases every day. If anyone has such a volume, news of it—or the book itself—will pass through here sooner or later. If there is anything that I have learned in my business, it is that every book imaginable exists, and they all wash up here eventually.”
He promised to circulate the description—“discreetly”—among his contacts, assuring me that he had the ability to operate completely outside the Temple’s notice. All Baldbeak and I could do in the meantime, unless we thought of a better plan, was wait—a difficult prospect.
“Repair is also part of my work,” the Book Man said. “You would be surprised how useful a good seamstress can be in the world of books. Now, may I trouble you for a demonstration?”
“A demonstration?”
“Of your work. The Temple stitches. Would you mind?”
“Oh. Uh, no.”
“Your friend will have to wait here for a moment, I’m afraid.”
I followed him through the book-crowded corridor. We turned to the left, into a room that smelled pleasingly of wood shavings and wax. It, too, was lined with books, but these seemed to be the ones scheduled for repair. Some were missing spines or whole covers, others had loose pages or wereswollen with water damage, and still others had mold creeping from their edges. The shelves were chaotic, but the desk was impeccably tidy, the instruments lined up with as much care as a barber-surgeon might take in arranging their tools. I recognized most of them from Mother’s work, and I opened my mouth to say so, but then decided to keep that quiet for the moment, too.
The Book Man closed the door behind us, sliding the bolt into place with asnick.
“This is my workshop,” he said, turning the knob on a glim set in the wall. He saw me looking at it. “Like it? A gift from an old client. Much better than having open flames around the books, and it allows me to do close work late at night without straining my eyes. Here.”
He led me over to the desk. A book lay closed in its center, its cloth cover stitched with silk thread.
“Some of the volumes that … enter my shop,” said the Book Man, “need some attention.”
He smoothed his hand over the book’s cover, as if reassuring it. It opened under his palm, and I blinked.
“A small magic that doesn’t require a spellbook,” he said, smiling. “An affinity, some call it.”
