Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

“Something’s wrong with mine,” Mitchell said, scratching his head as he stared at his project.

“What happened?” I asked, walking around the table.

“I think I overglued.”

“Wow, you sure did.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Glue was dripping down the side of the wood press and his linen tabs were drenched as well.

“I know you’re laughing with me,” he muttered.

“Absolutely,” I said, grabbing a wet wipe. “Here, use this to wipe off the wood.”

“You said a liberal application.”

“I did,” I said, shaking my head at the mess. “I also said to do it carefully. But I’ll take the blame for this one.”

“I like the sound of that,” he said.

“We can fix this,” I said, raising my voice so the entire group would pay attention. “For the linen tabs, take a cotton swab dipped in acetone and wipe the linen carefully.”

I demonstrated. “These tabs should remain dry and loose because they’ll eventually be used to hold the spine to the covers. The last thing we do is glue them between the cover board and the pastedown.”

Mitchell groaned at my incomprehensible explanation.

“Okay,” I said, with a laugh. “Instead of trying to explain it, let me find an example to show you what I mean.”

I grabbed two of my sample journals from the table at the front of the room and passed them around the table. The three tabs were clearly outlined beneath the pastedown.

“Ah,” Mitchell said, peering at the inside cover. “I think I get it now.”

“Good.” I smiled and gave the book to Dale, who sat next to Mitchell. “Pass those journals around so everyone can get an idea of what the tabs are used for. Thanks.”

I spent a quiet half hour working alone in the classroom while everyone took a dinner break. I munched on malted-milk balls and string cheese as I prepared another textblock for demonstration purposes.

Once the demo was set up, I did a little paperwork and balanced my checkbook, adding in the check I’d deposited that morning from Holyroodhouse Palace. It had been sent along with another children’s book that Philip Pickering-Jones wanted me to restore.

While I was in Edinburgh, Derek had taken me to the palace, where Pickering-Jones, personal secretary to the British princes, gave me a shabby old book that belonged to one of the prince’s girlfriends. He wanted it restored for her as a gift.

I knew I’d received the job only because I’d been in the right place at the right time. With the right British commander, of course. So I was shocked and pleased and honored that they’d sent me more work.

The book I’d received today was Mrs. Overtheway’s Remembrances by the same beloved British author of the first book, Juliana Horatia Ewing. Pickering-Jones asked that it be restored in the same style as the first, making a matched set. Coincidentally, the two books were illustrated by George Cruikshank, the same man who did the Oliver Twist I restored for Layla.

“Small world,” I murmured.

As students began to shuffle back into the room, I put my personal stuff away and pulled out my bookbinders hammer.

“It’s hammer time,” I announced, and everyone groaned. “Hey, these are the jokes, people.”

Marianne raised her hand. “I hate to interrupt the jokes, but could you show me that weaver’s knot again?”

“Fine, ruin my timing,” I groused good-naturedly.

She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, but I still don’t get the kinky part.”

There were a few chuckles as I cut a length of thirty-gauge linen thread from the spool. I ran the thread through my fingers several times, reminding them that it was an important step to take the twist out and get rid of any sizing or wax the manufacturer had applied to the thread. I reached for the long sewing needle and was about to show them how to kink the thread in order to make a knot when someone shouted out in the hall.

“Buzz off!”

“No! Don’t go in there.”

The classroom door flew open and Minka stormed in, followed closely by Layla and Naomi. Minka walked right up and shoved me. I fell back against the counter, hitting my hip bone.

“Hey!” I cried. Even knowing Minka for as long as I had, she’d caught me by surprise again.

“I suppose you think I owe you my life or something,” she said belligerently.

“Nope. You don’t owe me anything.” I sidestepped her and backed away. I’d vowed never to be within arm’s length of Minka again. She had a bad habit of belting me when I wasn’t paying attention. On the other hand, with her head wrapped in a thick white gauze bandage, she didn’t seem half as threatening as usual.

“Liar.”

“I mean it,” I said, balancing on the balls of my feet, ready to spring if she made a move. “If I could do it over again, I would’ve left you to rot.”

“You bitch,” she snarled.

“Back atcha. Now get out of my classroom.”

“Just because you made a stupid phone call doesn’t mean you’re some kind of savior.”

“I agree.” I gestured toward my students, who watched with avid interest. “Now, I have a class to run, so amscray, itchbay.”

“Because you’re not,” she continued, as though I hadn’t said anything.

“I know. I heard you.” That’s when I noticed Naomi wringing her hands. Even Layla looked nervous. Fascinating. But not much help. To Minka, I said, “What part of hasta la vista don’t you understand?”

Her scowl would’ve been scary if not for her tendency to spit when she spoke. “I can see the smug satisfaction in your eyes.”

“Can you?”

“Yes, and it sickens me.”

“Minka,” Naomi said, tentatively reaching for Minka’s arm, “you should thank God that Brooklyn found you in time.”

“Oh, really?” Minka shrugged Naomi’s hand away as her voice grew louder and more shrill. “So she can rub my nose in it for the rest of my life?”

A few of my students cringed as she shrieked the word life . She sounded like a squealing rat, but I could sympathize. The thought that I’d saved her life made me just as queasy.

“But you could’ve died,” Naomi said. I appreciated her attempts to be civilized, but she didn’t know who she was dealing with.

“Oh, get real,” Minka said to Naomi. “It was just a friggin’ bump on the head.”

“Is that so?” Naomi said, irritated now. “I heard you were still out cold until late this morning.”

Minka rolled her eyes, then grimaced in pain from the effort. “Never mind.”

“You probably shouldn’t be here,” Naomi said. “I’ll bet your doctor doesn’t even know you left the hospital.”

Minka’s nostrils flared but she said nothing. Naomi folded her arms in triumph.

“We’re just glad you’re back in fighting form, sweetie,” Layla crooned, touching Minka’s shoulder. “Now, don’t you have your own class to teach?”

Why did Layla treat her so nicely? Professional courtesy among snakes, maybe?

Minka glared at me. I gazed back at her with what I hoped was a look of blasé indifference, though I wanted more than anything to stab her with my long, sharp sewing needle.

Finally, she shook her head in fury, stomped her foot like the frustrated cow that she was, then whipped around and clomped out. Layla rushed after her and wrapped her arm around Minka’s shoulder. Naomi exhaled loudly, shot me a fulminating look, and left the room, shutting the door behind her.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. So much for gratitude.

“Wow, that was so rude,” Alice said, shocked. She turned and studied my face. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t she the girl who was knocked out in the hall the other night?” Gina asked.