Excerpt

The Bindery is my favorite place to be these days. I thought it would be quiet since it's in a library, but I was wrong. Amane and June always have an amusing anecdote, fun fact, or long story to tell. They even manage to draw me into their endless conversation loop at times with questions that are easier to answer than to evade.

The Stargroves are very keen on music, and something's always playing in the background. Folk singers from the 60s and 70s seem to be their favorite, but there's also synth, grunge, bluegrass, and modern pop. Amane enthusiastically introduces us to Gildean pop music, which is full of driving drum lines. I don't know why she needs to drink three cups of coffee in the morning when those bass beats are so energizing.

June often sings along or by emself in a beautiful mezzo-soprano that carries through the walls. As a thread witch, of course e would sing. There are many catalysts for activating magic: song, dance, sigil, bodily fluids, cutting, burning, speech, anything that can cause a release or transfer of energy. Some kinds of witchcraft work better with a particular method, and thread likes to be sung to.

According to On Flamekeeping, fire magic prefers song as well. I have yet to hear Aeronwy sing, though. E's so reserved, and I don't have the courage to ask about it. I can't even bring myself to read On Flamekeeping in front of em, for fear that it might be awkward. It's a fascinating book, and it intimidates me that e published it at the very age I am now.

I borrow the Illuminated copy and ask the book's spirit what it was made of. Unsurprisingly, there's a lot of ash involved. Cover boards cut from a tree struck by lightning. Vine black ink, made with charcoal. The endpapers are embedded with two large pink flower spikes, which turn out to be fireweed. I've seen it around town, but apparently it largely grows on disturbed soil out in the mountains, especially where there have been fires. The book calls it 'phoenix flower, ' and it's Cináed's favorite.

Making enough paper for a book that will be lettered and illustrated by hand is a lengthy task. Aeronwy scrutinizes every sheet and sets aside any that lack perfection to be sold or recycled. Half the time, I can't even tell what's gone wrong until Aeronwy points out a tiny flaw. Accidents happen in the inking stage, too, and so we have to have enough extra paper to account for future mistakes.

The process is slow, but I'm learning. I put the raw fibers through the beater, pick apart the petals of the flowers we gathered on our mountain hike, measure the pulp, mix the slurry, dip the giant mould and deckle, stack the sheets between the felts to dry. They're as delicate as newborn butterfly wings when wet.

Today, after talking to Lilja and Oran on the phone, I make more mistakes than usual. Most of the time I can let go and move on, but this time it builds into a storm cloud of frustration. This won't do. I leave the paper room a mess and head into the common area to take a break.

Aeronwy is sitting on the couch, legs stretched out across the cushions while e types on a laptop. June is swaying around the common area with a watering can, tending to the houseplants and singing along with the cheerful folk tune playing over the sound system.

Aeronwy glances at me over eir horn-rimmed reading glasses as I plop down in one of the armchairs with a sigh.

"Everything alright?" e asks.

"Just one of those days," I say, putting on a smile.

"Sometimes it's better not to force it," Aeronwy advises, and then goes back to the laptop. I never realized how much time is spent on administrative work instead of binding books.

June finishes singing to the houseplants and comes over to join us. "Would a cup of tea help? I can make some."

"Oh, thank you, you don't have to do that if you don't want to," I say, sinking lower into the chair.

"It's no trouble. Just be a few minutes," June says, and then disappears into the tiny kitchen down the hall.

I rest my eyes, focusing on my breathing to clear the frustration and anxiety. After a while, I hear June's returning footsteps and the clatter of the tea tray on the table. E's brought out the whole tea set, not just the casual mugs. E pours us each a cup and hands one to me first: a bright, soothing blend of chamomile and mint.

June plucks the laptop from Aeronwy's hands and sets it aside.

"You should take a break, too. I've been watching the line between your eyebrows get deeper all afternoon," June says, then plants a kiss on the very spot.

"It's the paperwork for the Head Librarian nominations," Aeronwy grumbles. E takes the reading glasses off and rubs eir forehead. "It's due soon."

"Not so soon. There's still a few weeks until Winter Solstice."

"Better to get it done—"

June sits down on Aeronwy's lap and leans against em comically.

"Sorry, now you can't, a bigger job has fallen into your lap."

Aeronwy rolls eir eyes but wraps eir arms around June and settles down, smiling. When I first started working here, I was surprised by their casual affection. I can't remember ever seeing my parents act like that.

The song changes to a sprightly waltz with a full string orchestra. One of those classical pieces everyone recognizes, but no one can name. June sits up straight, a huge smile brightening eir face. Aeronwy winces as eir weight shifts somewhere uncomfortable.

"I haven't heard this in years! Here, this is what you need," June says.

E gets up and pulls Aeronwy to eir feet. They fall easily into a stance for waltzing, hands on each other's waists.

"A dance break?" Aeronwy asks, as they start to step lightly to the music.

Instead of answering, June starts singing. The words ring sweetly through the room as the two of them pick up the pace.

"On dusty mountaintop, high above the plain

There stands my spirit, waiting, watching

For you to come home again."

They step apart, step together, spin in time. Aeronwy twirls June under one arm, June's long blue sweater billowing around em. There's a deep, comfortable ease in the way they mirror one another.

"Come on, love, join me. You're not still shy around Tabby, are you?" June pauses singing to ask.

"It's impossible to be shy with you around," Aeronwy says.

They pull in close, spin out to the sides, both smiling now. When June starts singing again, Aeronwy joins in.

"Taller than the tallest tree, older than the sky

My light will always guide you

Towards truth, away from lies

If you should feel alone and lost and broken

Just look and listen for my voice

My love for you will never lie unspoken."

The harmony sends shivers up my spine that burst into fireworks of joy at the end. Where June's voice is charming and full of character, Aeronwy has the clarity and depth of someone with a lifetime of classical training. The words flow from eir mouth effortlessly, providing a rich counterpoint to June's sweet warbling.

"My child, I know that you are worn and weary

You fear that you won't last this night

But turn your eyes from shadows deep

Find your way home by my light."

If Aeronwy was feeling shy, it doesn't matter; they're too caught up in one another to remember I'm here. Their eyes, hands, and smiles are soft, trained on one another. They repeat the last verse, voices louder, steps stronger, even as the music slows. As it fades, Aeronwy hooks an arm around June's back and dips em low for a kiss.

It's like something out of a romance novel. Their love is palpable, and warms my heart. So why do I feel like crying?

I clap as they slowly straighten up. June seems a bit stuck. Seeing em wince, I jump up from my seat to lend a hand, supporting em as e makes eir way back into an upright position.

"Sorry, I forgot we're not quite as young as we once were," Aeronwy says. "We're in good shape, but there's no stopping the march of time."

June exhales in relief and shoots me a look of thanks. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'll be twenty-seven forever," e says.

"Have you been dancing since you were that age?" I ask.

"Just about! They have ballroom dancing at the Illuminator initiation galas, the one they throw to celebrate finishing your apprenticeship. I found out at the last minute." June leans in to whisper conspiratorially. "Had a bit of panic about it."

"Good thing you found someone to teach you," says Aeronwy with a grin.

"They don't do that anymore, though?" I ask, laughing nervously. "I've got two left feet, myself."

"They still do! But here, the basic steps are actually very easy," June says.

E clasps one of my hands and guides the other to eir waist, then looks down at our feet. Under June's rambling instructions, we shuffle around, narrowly avoiding stepping on one another. Ordinarily I'd feel foolish, but June is too earnest. Besides, it's funny how e keeps giving me the instructions backwards.

"This is because I never taught you how to lead," Aeronwy says, after watching us fumble back and forth for ten minutes. "May I?"

June steps away and gestures for Aeronwy to take eir place. E goes over to the stereo and puts the original waltz back on. We'd been trying to dance to something far too fast, a bluegrass song with fiddles going at lightning speed.

Aeronwy is a steady dance partner, in contrast to June's fluttery energy. A boulder around which the stream flows. E takes the lead so that e can guide my steps. I've gotten better at reading eir body language and micro-expressions. Right now, I'd say e's comfortable, affectionate, pleased.

After a few repeats of the song, I can do the basic waltz steps, and even rotate in place a little. At the end of the third play, Aeronwy raises eir arm and I twirl, which makes me feel young and giddy and free.

And sad. The tears threaten again, but I blink them back.

This is how it should have been. How it should be.

The thought flows in on a tide of loss. A longing for something I didn't know I was missing threatens to pull me under, and I have to turn away from Aeronwy and June before they see it on my face.

"I think a dance break was what everyone needed," I say. "I'm going to get a glass of water and get back to work."

"Me too," says Aeronwy.

I hear the pause after e speaks, and I know I didn't hide fast enough. I head quickly to the kitchen, and then slip into the paper room before e can ask what's going on. Luckily, e doesn't follow me.

This time, the methodical, repetitious task of making paper draws me away from my thoughts. The tide recedes for now. I rock the mould and deckle back and forth to distribute the pulp evenly, and it rocks me in return. A boat to ride the waves. A cradle for the child in my heart who needs a soothing hand.