e didn’t look up as she spoke, but he nodded once, slowly. The paper had been soft and glossy underneath his fingers. That she said it aloud made his heart tighten; it was skipping, thumping, as he opened the book in the middle and smoothed out the page. The spine didn’t crinkle or crack.
The book was slimmer than he’d expected, wrapped in so much wax paper. The page was a blur in front of him, lines of blurry grey, and Cerise was still quiet, so he took out his spectacles and set them on his nose. The print was smaller than in the copy at the Golden Rose, and some passages were more faded than others, the little hooks on lowercase Ts and on the feet of Rs and Ks chipping. He turned a few thin pages. There were no illustrations, but he found himself looking at the curl of a vine underneath a chapter title, and a tiny printed image above it – a moon.
Stubborn, he turned back to the start. The bindings were still quiet and smooth. Other than some scuffing round the corners of the cover, the only damage was the off-and-on ragged edge of a page; whoever’d cut them a long time ago hadn’t done so fair carefully.
He ran his finger along a tear, right above a crease in the shape of a small thumbprint. It hadn’t been with a letter-opener or even a riff; someone had taken them apart one by one with their fingers. A boch, maybe, who didn’t know any better. He thought, frowning.
He had settled himself in to read; he wasn’t sure what else to do. He still refused to withdraw, or to speak until she did – boemo, he thought, this was all he could do. But then he glanced up. Her voice was rough, and her eyes were still rimmed raw.
His lip twitched and his brows raised, as if to say, Of course you’re not. If there was a smile on his face, though, it faded. More tears were slipping down her cheeks, though she made no move to wipe them up. He half wanted to offer her his kerchief, but he thought better of it. He didn’t much think she liked crying in front of him, and he didn’t want to draw attention to it. Being honest, he didn’t want to see the look on her face when she saw the stains on it, though it would’ve been benny for breaking the tension.
“One hell of an introduction,” he agreed, shutting the cover careful-like. He studied her face; he hoped for a smile, a twitch – anything.
He wasn’t sure he could’ve found one of his own if he’d tried. “Why shouldn’t I?” Wo chet, but he knew the answer to that one. His frown deepened. “You’re talking like I behaved any better than a kenser’s erse. And you’re sitting here,” he added, “and I’m sitting here, with a fine, flowery tea service in between us. After what I’ve done, and this on top of all of it. I could ask you the same question.”
Wrapping the book back up for the moment and setting it aside, he leaned forward to get his tea. Belatedly, he took his glasses off.
He managed a sheepish grin, still studying her intently, not sure what to do with the pit in his stomach. “For what it’s worth – I know, nothing whatsoever,” he said, fluttering a hand, blowing and taking a sip, “it was damned encouraging. You waltzed into that fancy party and challenged me in front of everybody. What’s not to like?”