“Just a girl, Milady. Nothing more.”
A long pause.
“If I find that you have lied to me …”
“Milady, I would never.”
“You told me that if you ever …” A pause, and then, “Get that Plague-cursed bird out of here!”
The image swirled and broke. Soon, Baldbeak was flapping his way back to my shoulder.
She saw me, he said.
“I know.” I stroked his feathers. “It’s all right.”
I crouched there, tense and shivering, until I heard the door close, and the light, firm footsteps of the Book Man coming towards me. He reached for a glim on the wall and turned the dial that activated it, flooding the room with light. I stood. When he turned to me, he was so horrified that his spectacles nearly fell off his nose.
“My dear, what on earth happened to you?”
I had almost forgotten my stained and ripped clothing. “I … uh …”
To my excruciating embarrassment, I started to cry—and not ladylike weeping, either, but big, ugly sobs that produced a quite awe-inspiring amount of snot. The Book Man stood frozen for a moment, but then grabbed a blanket from the back of a chair and rushed over to me, saying, “Dear me, dear me,” over and over again as he wrapped it around my shoulders. He led me over to an armchair and helped me down into it, while I continued to cough and snuffle my way through the tears.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed to say. “I think it all just caught up to me.”
“Oh that’squiteall right, my dear, please don’t dream of apologizing,” he said. He peered at me earnestly over his spectacles. “Would you like some tea?”
I managed to nod. Baldbeak flew over to me and perched on the arm of the chair.
And a biscuit, he said.
“And a biscuit, please,” I said.
“Of course. Of course. Coming right up.”
“And …”
He stopped. “Yes, my dear?”
“I know it sounds silly, but … Could you bring me a needle and thread? And something to stitch. Anything. One of your books that needs repair, it doesn’t matter what it is. It just … It makes me feel better.”
“I quite understand,” he said, and hurried off.
Baldbeak clicked his beak.Why is your face wet?he said.
“Because I’m tired, and frightened, and I justkilleda man.”
Baldbeak gave the bird equivalent of a shrug, then stared wistfully into the distance, probably thinking about the dead man and regretting the waste of two perfectly good eyeballs. The biscuit would have to do.
By the time the Book Man returned, I had calmed downsomewhat. He had brought a cloth-covered book with some fraying on its embroidered cover, a packet of needles, and a selection of thread. I set to stitching, sinking into the pleasing haze that accompanied the motion of my hands. Mother, the attacks, everything fell away as I followed the movement of the thread. It was a floral design that needed touching up; simple enough. I sipped at the hot tea as I worked and found myself finally telling the Book Man the whole story, starting from the Tower and, between hiccups and nose-blows, making my way to the attack that day. He did not interrupt but sat on the very edge of his chair, nodding along with the story and cupping the mug with his gradually cooling tea in his hands without taking so much as a sip. I hadn’t told the Book Man about the disembodied voice that had helped me twice now, for fear he would think I had truly lost my wits, just as I hadn’t told him about the vision I’d had of my younger self in the bookshop.
“Goodness me,” he said when I had finished. “No wonder you’re overcome.”
“I murdered someone,” I said. I rubbed my nose violently.
Two people, reminded Baldbeak, sending me the image of the man I had pushed out the Tower window.
“Yes, thank you,” I muttered to him.
