Sophie stepped into the small inventory room, which doubled as her workshop. Stacks of scavenged books, all in various stages of disrepair, lined the floors and furniture. In a far corner sat her mother’s workbench. She clasped the bell hanging from her neck, as she often did when thinking of her mother.
Sophie’s mother had been a bookmender named Coriander whose work carried her to every corner of the map. How she had ended up in Bustleburgh married to Sophie’s father was, like everything else about her, a mystery. Longtime customers would occasionally relate memories of her when they visited the shop. They said that she was a quiet woman, graceful in her movements, but that there was a sort of sadness in her face, even when she smiled.
Sophie sat and studied the condition of the books she had saved from the Pyre. They had all three of them been trod on during the fight on the bridge and were nearly beyond repair. Pages were torn down the middle, corners were crushed in, entire spines flattened, and muddy boot-prints embossed the covers. “Let’s see what we can do,” she said as she lit a lamp and set to work stripping the casing of the first book. Sophie had no formal training in bookmending, but she had learned a great deal from practice and careful study of the repaired books her mother had left behind.
“Welcome home,” she whispered to the collection of Saint Martin stories, now resting coverless atop a scratched copper plate. She gently turned the screw of her vise until the pages were secure. She removed a pot of paste and a spool of binding thread from a drawer beneath the bench and set to work repairing the spine. First she cut the old thread from the spine and pulled apart the signatures. Then, working carefully with a brush, she cleaned dirt and grime from the cracks between the pages. “Stay calm,” she said. “It’ll only sting a little.”
Sophie had learned long ago that books were temperamental creatures that must be coaxed back to life. A careless stitch could shift the pages and weaken the binding. Likewise, the spine would not square without proper exercise. Over time, she had discovered that the best way to repair a book was to first know it. And so she made a practice of reading every word of every book she repaired. It was slow going, of course, but the end result was worth it. Books she repaired were not just readable—they were transformed. The print seemed to shine brighter. The pages would lie flat, opening to just where you had stopped reading. The spine would call out to you, begging to be taken off the shelf. Not that anyone in Bustleburgh would ever care. But Sophie cared, and that, perhaps, was enough.
Sophie adjusted her reading lamp and ran her fingers over the title page. Her heart beat faster, thrilling at the prospect of reading a new story—a story that might for a moment transport her beyond the walls of the bookshop to a world filled with bear kings and trickster frogs and wicked trolls and a thousand wonders besides. She turned the page, wishing that she could escape to the lands described in such stories. But no sooner did she think this than a rush of shame swept over her. She already had a home.
She looked at her father, who sat hunched over his desk, scribbling in his ledger. Sophie closed her eyes and quietly renewed the promise she had made to him that day and countless days before. “I will never leave you, Papa.” Even as she said this, the promise sank to the soles of her feet, like an anchor plunging into cold water—
Never. But what Sophie Quire did not know—what she could not know—was that her promise would very soon be broken.
CHAPTER FOUR
A CURIOUS OFFER
The next morning, a notice from the Inquisitor’s office appeared on the front window of the shop: Sophie Quire was being charged with destruction of property and assault of a civil officer, for a total fine of thirty dulcets. This, of course, was more money than her father could ever hope to pay, and he would likely have to sell the shop to cover the expense. It seemed that Quire & Quire Booksellers was finally in its last days.
“Do not torment yourself, my child,” Augustus said upon seeing the citation. “With Pyre Day so near upon us, we were not long for the world anyway.” He was right. The entire town was abuzz with excitement over the upcoming celebration. What few customers they had were only coming to buy storybooks so that they might have something to personally cast onto the Pyre of Progress. With every book she sold, Sophie whispered, “Good-bye,” knowing that she was very likely sending that story to its fiery death.
Sophie wondered what might be next for her and her father. She wished they could escape to some more tolerant part of the world, but she knew her father was too frail for such a journey. They might find refuge in the Grimmwald beyond the river, but that was a dangerous proposition: Every day, it seemed another story reached town about innocent people being attacked by highwaymen or strange beasts that lived in those woods. Laws had recently been changed to allow children as young as six to work in the mills by the river (apparently childhood was also nonsense), and she hoped that this meant that she could find work alongside her father. Then, at least, they could still be together.
“Here you are, Madame,” Sophie said, returning a repaired book to one of her more loyal customers—a striking woman who went by Madame Eldritch, though Sophie was fairly certain that this was not her real name. Madame Eldritch had thick auburn hair and porcelain skin. She came in from time to time with books for Sophie to repair. The books were always quite old and written in languages that Sophie could not understand. “I took the liberty of remarbling the endpapers to match the gilding on the spine,” Sophie said, handing her an ancient volume dedicated to the mysteries of beekeeping.
Madame Eldritch inspected the volume as a jeweler might inspect a ruby. “The girl has her mother’s touch,” she said.
Sophie lowered her head to conceal her smile. This was something the woman often said, and it brought Sophie no end of pleasure. “You’re very kind, Madame.”
Madame Eldritch counted out an assortment of old coins from different lands—overpaying, as she always did—and pressed them into Sophie’s palm.
Sophie watched as the woman glided toward the front door, which her father had opened for her. Sophie had long observed that Madame Eldritch had a somewhat stupefying effect on men, including her father. Today, however, was different. Augustus Quire was sober-faced as Madame Eldritch reached his vicinity. “Madame?” she heard him say in a muted tone. “I’m sure you have noticed that we have been cited by the city. We have appreciated your patronage over the years . . . but I’m afraid after Pyre Day we can no longer afford to be seen servicing a more . . . eccentric clientele.” He lowered his head. “I’m sorry.”
The woman nodded. “As am I.” She turned back to Sophie, who was still watching from the counter. “Farewell, little bookmender,” she said. “Perhaps you will one day find a world more appreciative of your gifts.” The shop bell rang behind her as she stepped out the door.
Madame Eldritch’s parting words echoed in Sophie’s mind for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. She wondered what the woman had meant about finding a different world. Something about the words made Sophie think of her mother.
Night soon came and, with it, closing time. This was Sophie’s favorite part of every day, for it meant she could work without fear of interruption from customers.
“Not too late,” Sophie’s father said as he kissed her head, and then shuffled upstairs to their apartment above the shop. Sophie settled into her place at the workbench, carefully mending books that would be cast into the Pyre before the month’s end. This thought made her feel less like a bookmender than an undertaker—dressing corpses for a funeral.
It was just after midnight when Sophie heard the bell ring in the front of the shop. This surprised her, because her father usually locked the door before going upstairs. “We’re closed,” she called, sliding off her stool and walking onto the main floor. The shop was empty but for the shadows. “Hello?” she called, stepping closer.
A voice sounded in her ear. “Did you miss me?”
Sophie shrieked, staggering backward and tripping over a seven-v
olume set of Villanelles Fantastique she had left on the floor.
She looked up to see the boy with the blindfold standing over her, grinning like a goon. His ugly pet cat was crouched beside him, looking similarly amused.
“Sophie?” Her father’s voice sounded faintly from upstairs.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Papa!” she called, scrambling to her feet. “I just saw an ugly pest in need of squashing.”
“Do you greet all your customers that way?” the boy asked, leaning against a wall. “I can see why your shop is struggling.”
“Our shop is closed, you trespassing oaf,” Sophie said. “That’s why the door was locked.”
“As if a lock would stop me.” The boy cleaned his fingernails with the tip of his silver blade.
“I see you’ve come armed.” Sophie scowled at the curved weapon. The very sight of the thing made her sick with the memory of the fight on the bridge. She wondered how much blood that edge had spilled in its lifetime. “If you’re planning to rob us, you should know that we haven’t any money.”
“If I were robbing you, you wouldn’t see me.” He tipped his hat, which Sophie noted with some satisfaction had lost its silly feather. “I’m sorry if my silver hand offends your delicate sensibilities . . . but, you see, it can’t be helped.” He pulled back his sleeve to reveal his right arm.
Sophie understood at once why he had never sheathed his weapon. The blade was a part of him, the hilt attached directly to the stump of his wrist. A dull metal cap concealed most of the wound, but around the edge of the cap she could make out ugly red scars.
Sophie stared at the boy. “What . . . What happened to your hand?”
“You know what they say,” he said. “The bigger the scar, the better the story. I lost it in a duel.” He swiped the blade through the air, and it responded with a sharp, singing noise. “My opponent lost a lot more.”
There was a bite of truth behind his boast that made Sophie quaver. “You would brag about killing a man?”
The boy’s smile disappeared. “The man deserved it. Besides, a good weapon can be useful—as you learned yesterday on the bridge.”
Sophie, who up to this point had been secretly impressed, regained her sense of indignation. “You’ll be pleased to know that Prigg cited me this morning,” she said, resting her hands on her hips. “We’re going to lose our shop, and it’s all thanks to you.”
“You were going to lose your shop anyway, if those posters all over town are to be believed.” He knelt down and scratched his cat behind the ears.
Sophie noticed for the first time that the boy’s pet was no ordinary cat—or at least no cat she had ever before seen. For starters, it had hooves instead of paws. Also, its ears were entirely the wrong shape. And it had a mustache. “What kind of pet is that?” she asked, inching back.
“He’s not a pet,” the boy said. “He’s a knight.”
The creature clopped toward her and bowed his head in a manner that could only be described as chivalrous. “My lady,” he said in a gravelly voice. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Now, I do not know your opinion about talking animals, but Sophie’s opinion was that, even if they existed, they did not exist in places as dull as Bustleburgh. The discovery of one such creature now filled her with an amazement she could scarcely describe. She turned toward the boy, her mouth agape. “Did . . . did it just talk?”
The creature sniffed, placing a hoof against its chest. “If by ‘it’ you are referring to me, then yes.”
Sophie covered her mouth. “It did it again!”
“Of course he can talk,” the boy said. “It’s getting him to shut up that’s the trick.” While this was, on its face, a mean thing to say, it was clear from his manner that the boy and the creature shared a great fondness for each other—the sort of jocular camaraderie Sophie had often read about but never herself experienced.
Sophie knelt down, peering closely at the animal’s face, which she now realized was only slightly like a cat’s. The creature seemed at once familiar and completely new to her. She had spent a lifetime reading books filled with different magical beasts, but none of them quite like this. It was almost as if several different creatures had been basted together with invisible thread. “I’ve got it!” She snapped her fingers, running to a bookshelf. “You’re a chimera.”
The creature blinked, his mustache twitching. “I beg your pardon?”
“A chimera!” From one of the shelves, she drew a favorite bestiary entitled The Seas Beyond the Sea and flipped to the corresponding entry. “It says right here: A chimera is a creature who is made from parts of different creatures. Like a griphon or a pigfrog.” She turned back to him. “Let’s see now . . . there’s plenty of cat in you—that’s obvious enough—but those hooves and ears are equine . . . so there must be some horse in you. But there’s something else, too. Your eyes and mustache . . . why, they almost make you look human.” She snapped the book shut. “I’ve changed my mind. You’re not a chimera at all. I think you’re a normal person who’s transformed himself into a ridiculous creature.” She covered her mouth. “Well, not ridiculous, just . . . unusual.”
At these words, the creature preened with visible pride. “You do me a kindness, my lady. It is a pleasure to meet someone who can see me for who I truly am.”
“And it’s not like he did it on purpose,” the boy said. “He was hexed by a hag a long time ago.”
“It’s an interesting story, actually,” the creature said, settling down onto his haunches. “Some years back, I was on a quest to find this maiden who, for a variety of reasons, had refused to tell me her name, when . . .” What followed was a lively, if lengthy, tale involving the maiden, several competing knights, a greedy duke, a sleeping hag, a noisy alley cat, and a jousting tournament whose prize was to be a new pair of seven-league boots. “. . . and before I knew what was happening, the old hag wagged a dishrag out her window and—poof!—my horse, the cat, and I were all combined together into the form you see before you today. I’ve been roaming the earth thusly ever since.”
Sophie listened to his story, unsure whether she was meant to laugh or cry. “Did you ever try looking for a cure?”
The creature made a curious face. “Hexes are tricky things. They can only be undone by the one who cast them. We did recently have a rather promising lead on her whereabouts, but she seemed to have moved on by the time we got there.” If Sophie had been paying more attention, she would have noticed that Peter turned away at this moment.
“No matter!” the knight said with obviously forced cheer. “After two hundred years, I’ve grown a bit attached to these old hooves. Besides, if the unhexing had worked, we might not be here, talking to you.” He took a step closer. “The truth is, Sophie Quire, we’ve traveled a very great distance to find you.”
“Find me?” She stared at these two visitors, each more strange than the other: a hook-handed boy in a blindfold and a talking cat-horse-gentleman thing. She stepped back, holding the bestiary close. “Who are you?”
“My name is Sir Tode. And my companion here is Peter Nimble.”
The boy tipped his hat with the end of his blade. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
Sophie was very pleased to report that she had not. “Peter Nimble? Sounds like something from a misremembered nursery rhyme.” She was closer to the truth than she realized. “I suppose you’ve come to sell me magic beans?”
“You’re a magic bean,” he muttered by way of a comeback. She saw the boy’s ears go bright red, which gave her no small degree of satisfaction.
“All right, you two!” Sir Tode said, clearing his throat. “We weren’t sent all this way so you could bicker like a pair of hedge imps.”
“Who is it that sent you?” Sophie asked.
Sir Tode made a face as though he might have divulged too much already. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” he said. “Peter and I were entrusted with a book—a very spe
cial, very old book. One in need of repair.”
Peter reached into his bag and removed what looked to be a thick folio wrapped in oilcloth. He held it out for her. “We were instructed to bring it to the Bookmender of Bustleburgh.”
The Bookmender of Bustleburgh.
The words moved through Sophie like an unexpected breeze. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear. “You want a bookmender.” Had he told her they were looking for a flying porcupine, she could not have been more surprised. These two strangers had traveled countless miles, all to find a bookmender—to find her.
But no, she realized just as suddenly. They were not looking for her. “The bookmender doesn’t live here anymore,” she said softly. She clasped the silver bell hanging around her neck.
The other two exchanged worried looks. “Perhaps we weren’t clear . . .” Peter said. “You are the bookmender.”
“I’m not,” she said. “The bookmender was my mother, and she died a long time ago.” She walked past them before they could see her face, which was burning with shame. She felt like a fool for thinking that someone might have been searching for her.
“Hold on just a minute.” Sir Tode trailed after her. “We were told we could find the bookmender at this shop.”
“Whoever told you that was wrong.”
Peter released a rueful chuckle. “The person who told us that is never wrong.” He held the book out for her to take.
Sophie eyed the parcel but did not touch it. There was something about it that made her heart clench, then flutter the way it did when she looked straight down at the river from the top of the bridge. “What’s the book about?” she asked.
“There’s one way to find out.” He stepped closer. “Maybe you’re not the bookmender, but you can mend books. We’ve seen you in that room back there—night after night—repairing discarded stories.”
Sophie warded off a shiver. “How long have you been following me?”
“Long enough,” Peter said, stepping closer still—so close, he was nearly touching her. “Please. I can’t let him down.”
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 3
