The Bookbinder's Daughter
Written by Tec Teagan
Originally published
Posted to tecteagan.com on

This piece was originally written for a vid-cast called Modern American Ink, a real-time writers group where writers met and critiqued one another's variations on a theme. The round this piece was produced for was a free write, which allowed the writers to explore any idea they elected to bring to the table. I elected to explore the theme of family within a wink-wink, nudge-nudge magical realism setting.

The house was narrow and squatty, enclosed on all sides by a lush, overgrown garden. Hordes of ravens had accumulated in the tall oaks delineating where the garden ended and the forest began, their dark wings flashing blue in the morning sun.

The porch was a mottled canvas of bundled herbs left out to dry. It stank overwhelmingly of lavender and sage, tickling Finley’s throat as she came up the steps.

A small red candle flickered merrily on an old tin stand beside the door. Finley watched the flame dance and sway, mesmerized, until the hoarse cry of a raven shattered the moment.

She had just raised a hand to knock on the door, only remembering at the last second to use the side of her fist rather than her knuckles, bruised and scabbed as they were, when a voice rang out.

“Come in! Come in!”

Finley jumped, startled. The voice came again.

“I’m in the back kitchen, sweet girl. Hurry on and I’ll scrape up some breakfast for you.”

Finley gathered up her carpetbag and turned the brass doorknob.

The entry hall was lined with all manner of curios – a wooden statuette of a dragon, bleached skeletons of some small creatures in glass cases, tall silver candlesticks and a slew of unlabeled bottles and jars.

Finley walked slowly, letting her fingers brush the whitewashed wood of the mantle as she passed, eyes roving hungrily over all the oddities before her. An immense stuffed tortoiseshell cat sat, solitary and watchful, on the end of a low table.

It was really rather remarkable. The glass eyes were a peculiar shade of red that Finley had never seen before.

She reached a hand out to touch it, shrieking and stumbling backwards when the cat hissed and swiped a paw at her. She tripped over her own feet and went down hard, a thick cloud of dust rising up from the long rug as she landed.

The cat hopped off the table more gracefully than should be possible for a creature of its size and scampered away.

“Sorry about Abernathy. He gets a bit tetchy with new visitors.”

It had been years since Gam came to visit them in London, but she looked exactly as Finley remembered her – long black hair streaked liberally with white, voluminous skirt of layered patterns and fabrics, and enough jewelry that she made a sound like bells when she walked.

Gam smiled down at her and offered a hand. She was surprisingly strong for a woman well into her eighties.

“Now then, love,” Gam brushed some of the dust off Finley’s shoulders and yanked gently at one of the golden curls framing her face, “how do you feel about bacon?”

 

 

 

 



Gam was Finley’s father’s mother, although he rarely talked about her. He’d started out as a bookbinder; learning first at his mother's knee, then apprenticing with a man in town, eventually building his business up over the years into the antique trade it was now.

“How is my darling boy?” Gam heaped a healthy portion of roast potatoes onto a plate already laden with eggs, bacon, toast, and porridge.

“Da? He’s fine,” Finely shrugged. “Busy, mostly, but he’s always busy.”

Gam frowned, sitting down beside Finley and sliding the plate over.

“He never did learn how to relax, your da.” She shook her head. “No matter. He’s a grown man, now, and he wouldn’t deign to let his poor old mother fuss on him. Tell me about you, pet. How are you?”

Finley’s throat went tight around a mouthful of eggs, and Gam reached over to smooth down some of her hair. It was a gesture that Finley remembered only vaguely from when she was very young, but it calmed her nonetheless.

“I’m suspended from school for the rest of the year.” She pushed her food absently around her plate. “Fighting. Da says it isn’t proper for ladies to fight. He wanted to send me off to a private school but Mam thought it’d be better if I stayed with you for awhile.”

Gam made a soft noise and squeezed Finley’s chin, affectionate. Finley glanced up at her.

“Nonsense, that is,” Gam said as the kettle started to hiss, then scream. She stood, grabbing the kettle's long, curving handle with a towel and moving it off the flame. “It is absolutely proper for a lady to fight.”

She returned to the table with two identical china cups, setting one in front of Finley and cradling the other in her palms.

“Especially if the bastard deserved it.” She took a demure sip of her tea.

Finley bit her lip, holding back a broad smile, and tucked into her food with renewed vigor.

 

 



 

 

Gam was something of a consultant, as far as Finley could tell. Any time she didn’t spend tending her garden or repairing old volumes in her private study, she would meet with clients and help them solve their problems.

Finley offered to help once she had caught up on all her schoolwork, but Gam simply kissed her forehead and told her to enjoy her holiday.

“Fifteen is a wonderful year,” Gam winked at her. “You should enjoy it while you can.”

 Finley spent the next six weeks exploring the forest, hunting imaginary creatures through the garden, and feeding orange slices to the peculiar, ruffle-gilled salamanders down the creek. She hadn’t worn a single one of the lacy dresses that Ma had sent along, preferring to spend her time in a pair of Gam’s old trousers and a soft linen shirt. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw her shoes.








At night, before bed, she would sit on the old sofa with a mug of cocoa or chamomile tea. Gam would settle into her well-loved armchair and spin tales of valorous knights, mythical creatures, or cruel guardsmen who tried to outsmart the cleverest of witches.

Even Abernathy, the crotchety old sourpuss, would curl up on the far side of the sofa for Gam’s stories. He never got close enough for her to touch, but sometimes Finley would wake up in the wee hours of morning to the low rumble of Abernathy purring against her ribs.

Her bruises faded.

Her knuckles healed.