Post by illirica on Mar 28, 2022 15:00:43 GMT
The bookbinder's shop was falling apart. If it had been a book in need of binding, it would have been fixed up and looking its best, but it was in need of masonry and a good carpenter, and the store's owner was neither and had little enthusiasm or care for anything that wasn't a book. His best, worst, and only employee wasn't quite so singleminded, but was also not a carpenter. Harold had tried to prop up the section of the workroom wall that looked like it might fall in, and changed the buckets under the parts of the roof that leaked as often as he could, but he could only do so much.
He thought sometimes about seeing if there were better shops elsewhere, but sadly there wasn't much call for bookbinding. The libraries, perhaps, but they were generally overrun by mice, rats, and patrons, and Harold liked those even less than he liked leaking roofs.
Besides, even if the shop wasn't in the best shape, it was at least familiar, and there was something to be said for the idea of continuity. The work paid enough - not spectacularly, but enough, and Harold didn't have a family to support nor much of an interest in acquiring one. He didn't know if he was happy, but he was at least managing to get by, and he told himself that was enough. Others had it worse, anyway.
He finished replacing the cover on an old copy of Thee Goode Childe's Booke Of Faeries And Howe Not To Finde Them, which had obviously been written in a time when people were more cautious and 'E's were more plentiful. It looked nice, he had to say. He wondered where it would end up, and whether or not the resultant children would manage to avoid any questionable faeries as a result. Once the book left the shop, though, it wasn't his to judge, so he set it neatly on the table for the owner to check over in two or three days when he next remembered Harold existed, and grabbed his hat to head out for the night.
It was well past sundown, and the moment Harold's feet hit the street he suddenly realized both the hour and the fact that he'd not eaten since lunch. Thee Goode Childe was good work, and the shop owner would likely give him a bit extra for it, so Harold could afford to spend some coins on a bowl of fish stew from one of the vendors - even a few extra coins for one of the bowls where the vendor knew what fish was in it and was even willing to tell you. Praach was a harbor city, and that meant it was where a lot of the fishing boats came in. The ones that had been out for a few weeks came in with huge loads of fish. The ones on top were loaded into carts to take to market or put on blocks of ice, but the fish that had been on the bottom of the pile were in sorry shape by the time that they arrived in the city. Sometimes the dockyard workers would lift them up and they'd disintegrate, bits of fish falling right off the bone. Towards the end of the day they'd scrape what was left up with a shovel and carry it away in barrels. Harold doubted it went to the middens, either. There was always someone to buy things, even if it was a barrel of half-rotted fish.
He took a turn towards the river, whistling badly to himself as he cut through an alley. Hopefully no one was around to hear him - and if they were, he'd probably have to apologize for their trauma. It was an amusing thought, one that turned the terrible whistle to a much less ear-rending chuckle, a noise that suddenly... ceased.
He thought sometimes about seeing if there were better shops elsewhere, but sadly there wasn't much call for bookbinding. The libraries, perhaps, but they were generally overrun by mice, rats, and patrons, and Harold liked those even less than he liked leaking roofs.
Besides, even if the shop wasn't in the best shape, it was at least familiar, and there was something to be said for the idea of continuity. The work paid enough - not spectacularly, but enough, and Harold didn't have a family to support nor much of an interest in acquiring one. He didn't know if he was happy, but he was at least managing to get by, and he told himself that was enough. Others had it worse, anyway.
He finished replacing the cover on an old copy of Thee Goode Childe's Booke Of Faeries And Howe Not To Finde Them, which had obviously been written in a time when people were more cautious and 'E's were more plentiful. It looked nice, he had to say. He wondered where it would end up, and whether or not the resultant children would manage to avoid any questionable faeries as a result. Once the book left the shop, though, it wasn't his to judge, so he set it neatly on the table for the owner to check over in two or three days when he next remembered Harold existed, and grabbed his hat to head out for the night.
It was well past sundown, and the moment Harold's feet hit the street he suddenly realized both the hour and the fact that he'd not eaten since lunch. Thee Goode Childe was good work, and the shop owner would likely give him a bit extra for it, so Harold could afford to spend some coins on a bowl of fish stew from one of the vendors - even a few extra coins for one of the bowls where the vendor knew what fish was in it and was even willing to tell you. Praach was a harbor city, and that meant it was where a lot of the fishing boats came in. The ones that had been out for a few weeks came in with huge loads of fish. The ones on top were loaded into carts to take to market or put on blocks of ice, but the fish that had been on the bottom of the pile were in sorry shape by the time that they arrived in the city. Sometimes the dockyard workers would lift them up and they'd disintegrate, bits of fish falling right off the bone. Towards the end of the day they'd scrape what was left up with a shovel and carry it away in barrels. Harold doubted it went to the middens, either. There was always someone to buy things, even if it was a barrel of half-rotted fish.
He took a turn towards the river, whistling badly to himself as he cut through an alley. Hopefully no one was around to hear him - and if they were, he'd probably have to apologize for their trauma. It was an amusing thought, one that turned the terrible whistle to a much less ear-rending chuckle, a noise that suddenly... ceased.
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It was a moment of peace.
That was how she always felt, afterwards. It wasn't ecstasy or euphoria or anything as extreme as that. It was simply... peace. Contentment. Clarity. A strong feeling that everything was going to be fine, that she knew exactly what to do and how to handle everything.
The first thing that needed to be handled was the corpse, of course. Honed-iron-sharp nails slashed, a rending, separating the head from the rest of it. Why? She didn't know, it simply felt right to do, and in that moment, she always knew exactly what to do. She held the head by its hair - there had been a hat, but it had tumbled off into the alley a few moments ago, and it wasn't important. The body she dragged by an ankle. She could have lifted it; she certainly had the strength, but it didn't make any difference.
The river was nearby. It smelled of dampness and not much else. The harbor smelled of fish, but the river moved more quickly, and the scents of things fell away with the water. She slipped the corpse gently into the water, lowering it without a splash, holding it until the current caught on to it, to let it slip away. The head she pushed under until it was waterlogged enough to sink, then she sat back at the edge of the water and rinsed her hands.
She supposed she didn't need to - they certainly weren't bloody. It was merely something to do, a sensation to experience, the movement of water through her fingertips.
All so clear.
The first thing that needed to be handled was the corpse, of course. Honed-iron-sharp nails slashed, a rending, separating the head from the rest of it. Why? She didn't know, it simply felt right to do, and in that moment, she always knew exactly what to do. She held the head by its hair - there had been a hat, but it had tumbled off into the alley a few moments ago, and it wasn't important. The body she dragged by an ankle. She could have lifted it; she certainly had the strength, but it didn't make any difference.
The river was nearby. It smelled of dampness and not much else. The harbor smelled of fish, but the river moved more quickly, and the scents of things fell away with the water. She slipped the corpse gently into the water, lowering it without a splash, holding it until the current caught on to it, to let it slip away. The head she pushed under until it was waterlogged enough to sink, then she sat back at the edge of the water and rinsed her hands.
She supposed she didn't need to - they certainly weren't bloody. It was merely something to do, a sensation to experience, the movement of water through her fingertips.
All so clear.
