The Bookbinder's Table – Part 1: Waterlogged

The manuscript arrived in a plastic bag, swollen and grey, smelling of river.

"I'm sorry," said the woman on the doorstep. She was thirty-four, with ink-black hair, a rain-soaked coat and the stricken look of someone carrying a body. "There was a flood in the cellar. It's the only copy. It's my novel."

Camille looked at her. Camille, thirty-one, restorer, hands stained with glue and gold leaf, did not usually take rush jobs. "Come in," she said.

The workshop was a long room above the Saône, all benches and presses and bone folders. She laid the manuscript on blotting paper and peeled back the first sodden page with a spatula, slow as a surgeon.

"It can be saved," she said. "Perhaps. It will take weeks."

"I can pay."

"It isn't about money."

Joanna sat down heavily on a stool. "It's a terrible book."

"It isn't."

"You haven't read it."

Camille turned a page, careful, and said nothing. Joanna's eyes narrowed. "You have."

"The first chapter was legible," said Camille, flushing. "I couldn't help it. It's very good."

"It's about a bookbinder."

"I noticed."

Joanna stared at her. Then, to both their surprise, she began to laugh, the helpless, cracked laugh of a person who has not slept in two days. Camille laughed too.

They worked side by side for hours, drying pages leaf by leaf between sheets of felt. The lamp threw a warm circle on the table. Joanna read aloud when her hands were still, in a low voice, and Camille listened like someone being told a secret.

"Can I ask you something?" said Joanna.

"Yes."

"Why bookbinding?"

"Because things that are broken deserve to be mended well," said Camille, quietly.

Joanna was very still. "Green?" she said.

"Green," said Camille. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Resewn.