[illegible] I cannot write, mustn’t [illegible] they’re coming I hear them they’ll hear scratching [illegible] knives to tickle my throat oh please
they say they’re kind. I think that’s what we tell ourselves to be less afraid because how could anyone know? do [blood stain] the dead speak?
do the tongues blackening around their necks sing?
why do I write? save me, please, save me, stone and ivy and bone I want to live I want to breathe they have no right [illegible]
[Third Hand: block capitals. Implement uncertain—possibly a knife, ink-tipped.]
What a beautiful book this is. I wonder where she found it. I could write poems in it. This paper is so thick, so creamy, it puts me in mind of the bones in the ivy. Her bones were lovely! I cannot wait to see how they will sprout in it—I kept her zygomatic bone, but her lacrimal bits will make such pretty patterns in the leaves!
I could almost feel that any trace of ink against this paper would be a poem, would comfort my lack of skill.
I must show my sisters. I wish I had more of this paper to give them. We could write each other such secrets as only bones ground into pulpy paper could know. Or I would write of how beautiful are sister-green’s eyes, how shy are sister-salt’s lips, how golden sister-bell’s laugh
[Fourth Hand: cursive, right-slanted; high quality ink, smooth and fine]
Strange, how it will not burn, how its pages won’t tear. Strange that there is such pleasure in streaking ink along the cream of it; this paper makes me want to touch my lips. Pretty thing, you have been tricksy, tempting my little Sisters into spilling secrets.
There is strong magic here. Perhaps Master Leuwin in his tower would appreciate such a curiosity. Strange that I write in it, then—strange magic. Leuwin, you have my leave to laugh when you read this. Perhaps you will write to me anon of its history before that unfortunate girl and my wayward Sister scribbled in it.
That is, if I send it to you. Its charm is powerful—I may wish to study it further, see if we mightn’t steep it in elderflower wine and discover what tincture results.
[Fifth Hand: ink is strange; no evidence of implement; style resembles Second Hand very closely]
hello?
where am I?
please, someone speak to me
oh
oh no
[Sixth Hand: Master Leuwin Orrerel]
I will speak to you. Hello.
I think I see what happened, and I see that you see. I am sorry for you. But I think it would be best if you tried to sleep. I will shut the green over the black and you must think of sinking into sweetness, think of dreaming to fly. Think of echoes, and songs. Think of fragrant tea and the stars. No one can harm you now, little one. I will hide you between two great leather tomes—
[Fifth Hand—alternating with Leuwin’s hereafter]
Do you know Lady Aster?
Yes, of course.
Could you put me next to her, please? I love her plays.
I always preferred her poetry.
Her plays ARE poetry!
Of course, you’re right. Next to her, then. What is your name?
Cynthia.
I am Master Leuwin.
I know. It’s very kind of you to talk to me.
You’re—[ink blot] forgive the ink blot, please. Does that hurt?
No more than poor penmanship ever does.
Leuwin? are you there?
Yes. What can I do for you?
Speak to me, a little. Do you live alone?
Yes—well, except for Dominic, my student and apprentice. It is my intention to leave him this library one day—it is a library, you see, in a tower on a small hill, seven miles from the city of Leech—do you know it?
No. I’ve heard of it, though. Vicious monarchy, I heard.
I do not concern myself overmuch with politics. I keep records, that is all.
How lucky for you, to not have to concern yourself with politics. Records of what?
Everything I can. Knowledge. Learning. Curiosities. History and philosophy. Scientific advances, musical compositions and theory—some things I seek out, most are given to me by people who would have a thing preserved.
How ironic.
. . . Yes. Yes, I suppose it is, in your case.
[[DECAY, SEVERAL LEAVES LOST]]
Were you very beautiful, as a woman?
What woman would answer no, in my position? An honest one.
I doubt I could have appeared more beautiful to you as a woman than as a book. . . . Too honest.
[[DECAY, SEVERAL LEAVES LOST]]
What else is in your library?
Easier to ask what isn’t! I am in pursuit of a book inlaid with mirrors—the text is so potent that it was written in reverse, and can only be read in reflection to prevent unwelcome effects.
Fascinating. Who wrote it?
I have a theory it was commissioned by a disgruntled professor, with a pun on “reflection” designed to shame his students into closer analyses of texts.
Hah! I hope that’s the case. What else?
Oh, there is a history of the Elephant War written by a captain on the losing side, a codex from the Chrysanthemum Year (Bold Did it Bloom) about the seven uses of bone that the Sisterhood would like me to find, and—
Cynthia I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me.
No matter. It isn’t as if I’ve forgotten how I came to you in the first place, though you seem to quite frequently.
Why
Think VERY carefully about whether you want to ask this question, Leuwin.
Why did they kill you? . . . How did they?
Forbidden questions from their pet librarian? The world does turn. Do you really want to know?
Yes.
So do I. Perhaps you could ask them for me.
[[DECAY, SEVERAL LEAVES LOST]]
If I could find a way to get you out . . .
You and your ellipses. Was that supposed to be a question?
I might make it a quest.
I am dead, Leuwin. I have no body but this.
You have a voice. A mind.
I am a voice, a mind. I have nothing else.
Cynthia . . . What happens when we reach the end of this? When we run out of pages?
Endings do not differ overmuch from each other, I expect. Happy or sad, they are still endings.
Your ending had a rather surprising sequel.
True. Though I see it more as intermission—an interminable intermission, which the actors have wandered home to get drunk.
[[DECAY, SEVERAL LEAVES LOST]]
Cynthia, I think I love you.
Cynthia?
Why don’t you answer me?
Please, speak to me.
I’m tired, Leuwin.
I love you.
You love ink on a page. You don’t lack for that here.
I love you.
Only because I speak to you. Only because no one but you reads these words. Only because I am the only book to be written to you, for you. Only because I allow you, in this small way, to be a book yourself.