the same manner, some distance from her body, then placing it at the farthest edge of her sitting room table.
She could only absorb it in small portions. It gave her nightmares, such that she stopped reading it in bed or keeping it at her bedside, as she was wont to do with the other books. His handwriting, with its large, slightly off- kilter letters, was so organically familiar that she had dreams that every word she'd ever read had been written in that handwriting. Dreams too of the veins of her own body standing blue under her skin, turning and looping into that handwriting. But then she had another dream: Leck big like a wall bent over his pages, writing all the time in letters that wound and dipped and, when she tried to read them, weren't actually letters at all. That dream was more than a dream: It was a memory. Bitterblue had thrown her father's strange scribbles into the fire once.
The stories in the book included the usual nonsense: colorful, flying monsters that tore each other apart. Colorful caged monsters that screamed for blood. But he'd written true stories too. He'd written down stories of Katsa! Of broken necks, broken arms, chopped-off fingers; of the cousin Katsa had killed by accident when she was a child. He'd written them with transparent awe for what Katsa could do. It made Bitterblue shudder to feel his reverence for things Katsa was so ashamed of.
One of his stories was about a woman with impossible red, gold, and pink hair who controlled people with her venomous mind, living her life forever alone because her power was so hateful. Bitterblue knew this could only be the woman in the hanging in the library, the woman in white. But that woman had no venom in her eyes; that woman wasn't hateful. It calmed Bitterblue to stand before the hanging and gaze at her. Either Leck had described her wrong to the artist or the artist had changed her on purpose.
When she lay down at night to sleep, sometimes Bitterblue would comfort herself with that other dream she'd had, the night she'd slept in Teddy and Saf's apartment, about being a baby in her mother's arms.
A WEEK OF reading went by before she went out into the city again. Bitterblue had been trying to use the reading to get Saf out of her mind. It hadn't really worked. There was something Bitterblue was undecided about, something vaguely alarming, though she wasn't sure what it was.
When she finally returned to the shop, it wasn't because she'd decided anything; she just couldn't help herself any longer. Staying inside night after night was claustrophobic, she didn't like being out of touch with the night streets, and anyway, she missed Teddy.
Tilda was working at the press when she arrived. Saf was out, which was a tiny dart of disappointment. In the back room, Bren helped Teddy drink from a bowl of broth. He smiled beatifically at Bren when she caught the dribbles on his chin with a spoon, causing Bitterblue to wonder what feelings Teddy had for Saf's sister, and whether Bren returned them.
Bren was gentle, but firm, with Teddy's dinner. 'You will eat it,' she said flatly when Teddy began to shift and sigh and ignore the spoon. 'You need to shave,' she said next. 'Your beard makes you look like a cadaver.' Not particularly romantic words, but they brought a grin to Teddy's face. Bren smiled too, and, rising, kissed his forehead. Then she went to join Tilda in the shop, leaving them alone.
'Teddy,' Bitterblue said to him, 'you told me before that you were writing a book of words
Teddy grinned again. 'Truths are dangerous,' he said.
'Then why are you writing them in a book?'
'To catch them between the pages,' said Teddy, 'and trap them before they disappear.'
'If they're dangerous, why not let them disappear?'
'Because when truths disappear, they leave behind blank spaces, and that is also dangerous.'
'You're too poetic for me, Teddy,' said Bitterblue, sighing.
'I'll give you a plainer answer,' said Teddy. 'I can't let you read my book of truths because I haven't written it yet. It's all in my head.'
'Will you at least tell me what kind of truths it's going to be about? Is it truths of what Leck did? Do you know what he did with all the people he stole?'
'Sparks,' said Teddy, 'I think those people are the only ones who know, don't you? And they're gone.'
Voices rose in the shop. The door opened, filling the room with light, and Saf stepped in. 'Oh, wonderful,' he said, glaring at the bedside tableau. 'Has she been feeding you drugs, then asking you questions?'
'I did bring drugs, for
'Or as a bribe?' Saf said, disappearing into the small closet that served as a pantry. 'I'm ravenous,' came his voice, followed by a considerable clatter.
A moment later, he popped his head out and said with utter sincerity, 'Sparks, thank Madlen, all right? And tell her she needs to start charging us. We can pay.'
Bitterblue put her finger to her lips. Teddy was asleep.
LATER, BITTERBLUE SAT with Saf at the table while he spread cheese on bread. 'Let me do that,' she said, noticing his gritted teeth.
'I can manage,' he said.
'So can I,' Bitterblue said, 'and it doesn't hurt me.' In addition to which, it gave her something to do with her hands, something to occupy her attention. She liked Saf too much as he sat there bruised and chewing; she liked being in this room too much, both trusting and not trusting him, both prepared to tell him lies and prepared to tell him the truth. None of what she was feeling was wise.
She said, 'I'd very much like to know what Tilda and Bren are printing in there every night that I'm not allowed to see.'
He held a hand out to her.
'What?' she asked, suspicious.
'Give me your hand.'
'Why should I?'
'Sparks,' he said, 'what do you think? I'm going to bite you?'
His hand was broad and calloused, like every sailor's hand she'd ever seen. He wore a ring on every finger— not fine, heavy rings like Po's, not a prince's rings, but true Lienid gold nonetheless, just like the studs in his ears. The Lienid didn't skimp on those things. He'd extended his injured arm, which had to be aching, waiting like that.
She gave him her hand. He took it in both of his and set to inspecting it with great deliberation, tracing each finger with the tips of his, examining her knuckles, her nails. He lowered his freck led face to her palm and she felt herself held between the heat of his breath and the heat of his skin. She no longer wanted him to give her hand back—but, now he straightened and let her go.
Somehow, she managed to inject sarcasm into her question. 'What's wrong with you?'
He grinned. 'You've got ink under your fingernails, baker girl,' he said, 'not flour. Your hand smells like ink. It's too bad,' he said. 'If your hand smelled like flour, I was going to tell you what we're printing.'
Bitterblue snorted. 'Your lies aren't usually so obvious.'
'Sparks, I don't lie to you.'
'Oh? You were never going to tell me what you're printing.'
He grinned. 'And your hand was never going to smell like flour.'
'Of course not, when I made the bread some twenty hours ago!'
'What are the ingredients of bread, Sparks?'
'What is your Grace?' Bitterblue countered.
'Oh, now you're just hurting my feelings,' said Saf, not looking remotely hurt about anything. 'I've said it before and I'll say it again: I do not tell you lies.'
'That doesn't mean you tell the truth.'
Saf leaned back comfortably, smiling, cradling his injured forearm and chewing on more bread. 'Why don't you tell me who you work for?'
'Why don't you tell me who attacked Teddy?'
'Tell me who you work for, Sparks.'
'Saf,' Bitterblue said, beginning to be sad and frustrated about all the lies and wanting very much, suddenly, to get past his willfulness that was keeping her questions from being answered. 'I work for myself. I work alone, Saf, I deal in knowledge and truth and I have contacts and power. I don't trust you, but it doesn't matter; I don't believe that anything you're doing could make us enemies. I want your knowledge. Share what you know with me
