Chapter Eight
The Reverse Knot
‘A stitch that should be in every embroiderer’s repertoire as a decorative method for tying off a thread, or for doubling back in a complex design where necessary.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
Both Holy and Base, 4th Edition
“Don’t be afraid, my dear. Come in,” the voice repeated. Warm, and undoubtedly feminine.
I hesitated—I was still shaky, filthy, bruised—but gathered my resolve and stepped out into the close and cloying darkness of the shop. Baldbeak made himself large and intimidating on my shoulder.
“Such unusual coloring you have,” said that beautiful voice. It was Milady, that elegant visitor I had seen yesterday, sitting with her legs crossed at the ankles to show off a pair of beautiful and impractical shoes with gold rosettes on the toe. I became even more aware of the smudges on my clothing. Baldbeak snapped his beak once or twice, but didn’t launch himself at the visitor, for which I was grateful.
“What—” I stopped myself. I dropped a small curtsey, then looked about. “Where is the Book Man?”
“Oh, he will be here in a moment, I’m sure.”
Everything about her was warmth: the golden shine of her hair; the flush in her cheeks; the rich autumnal colors of her dress. Even her eyes, a pure blue, looked like a summer sky rather than the crisp blue of winter. I took a step forward despite myself.
“You are the little assistant, I assume.”
Had he told her about me? And why, when he had been so eager to conceal me the day before? I swallowed. My throat was dry. “I … I mostly work in the back.”
Milady’s stare did not drop. I wished I could read it.
“Yes …” she said slowly. “How interesting. And why exactly does he want you hidden, do you think?”
I prayed that my Hair wouldn’t take it into its head to start wriggling about at that precise moment. “I’m not sure, ma’am,” I said.
“Call me Milady,” said the woman. “Everyone does.”
“I’m not sure, Milady.”
“Hmm.” Milady stood. I knew by now that I was above average height for a woman, but she was taller. She reached out and caressed a strand of my Hair where it lay across the sweaty mess of my bodice. I flushed.
“Sucha pretty color,” she said, turning it in her hand.
I heard movement coming from the direction of the basement stairwell—the rustling of papers, and footsteps. The Book Man’s voice became audible, growing louder as he walked up the stairs. “… So sorry it took me so long to find it. I didn’t have it cataloged correctly. I think you’ll agree when you have a chance to read it, though, that it is …”
When he reached the top of the stairs and looked up from the book he was holding, his face went gray, color leaching from it like water running down a drain.
“Netta,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”
“I’m sorry, I …”
“It is not the girl’s fault,” said Milady. She laid a glovedhand on my shoulder. The perfume on her wrist was intoxicating, this close. “We were just having a chat, weren’t we, Netta?”
I looked from one to the other. Milady smiled and released me.
“Run along, child,” she said. “Your master and I need to speak a while.”
I hesitated. The Book Man mustered a smile. “It’s all right, Netta,” he said.
I hovered, but could see no way to stay and listen without being obvious. I reached up to pet Baldbeak, giving him a scratch on his chest feathers and hoping he would read my meaning. Heraark-ed and flew up into the darkness of the stacks, to perch somewhere and eavesdrop, and I made my way to the back room. I covered my eyes with my hands, to better see and hear the messages Baldbeak would be sending me. The world shivered around me for a moment, as if I had been dipped in water, and then I heard it.
“Don’t play coy with me.” Her voice sharpened. “Who is she?”
