The Bookbinder's Table – Part 2: Resewn

It took five weeks. Joanna came every evening, bringing bread and apricots and bad puns, and sat at the end of the long table while Camille sewed.

The manuscript took shape slowly: each page flattened, mended, resewn with waxed linen thread through the folds. By the last night, it lay on the bench, whole and heavy, bound in midnight-blue cloth with a spine stamped in gold.

Camille turned it over in her hands. Her eyes were suspiciously bright.

"There," she said. "It's done."

"It's beautiful."

"It's yours. I only held it together."

Joanna took it, reverently. For a long time she said nothing. Outside, the river was dark and the lights of the old town floated on it.

"Can I ask you something?" said Joanna.

"Yes."

"Is there any reason I need to come back tomorrow?"

Camille's breath caught. "No."

"Then I'll need to find another reason."

"I have a second reason," said Camille. "I've had it for three weeks."

"May I hear it?"

"I'd like to kiss you, Joanna," said Camille, steady-voiced and shaking-handed. "If you want."

"Yes," said Joanna. "And if I say stop, you must bind my second novel."

"I haven't read it."

"I haven't written it yet."

"Then I'll wait," said Camille, smiling, and kissed her.

It was soft and slow, tasting of apricot, with a hand curling at the back of her neck. Joanna kissed her back, setting the book carefully on the bench to free both arms, and the old lamp hummed over them and the river rolled on.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Camille.

"Green," said Joanna. "Very green."

The second novel took three years to write. It was dedicated, on the first page, in tiny gold letters stamped by hand: For C., who mends.

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