Thanking him, thanking the people who did something nice for you.
"That was just being polite," she muttered, and inhaled with delight as she smelled rich spices in the steam rising from the cup. How could Cook know she favored that particular blend of spices and black tea, with hints of jasmine?
Merrigan stopped with the cup nearly to her lips. How had he found the tea? It came from some far southern kingdom on this continent, ringed by high, snow-filled mountains. The short season when merchants could reach it made any exports highly prized within the continent, much less to Armorica. She only knew that because her father had had to sit her down and give her a lecture with a map of the world, to explain to her why her favorite tea was only available half the year. No matter how she scolded and stomped her feet, they couldn't get her any more if there wasn't any to be bought.
How often have you been polite lately, Mi'Lady?
She wrinkled up her nose at the pieces of the book, then took a long, slow, leisurely sip of the tea. A whimper of delight—and yes, gratitude—escaped her.
"This has been a most surprising and stressful and yet ... gratifying day," she murmured.
We're just getting started, Mi'Lady. Now, the sooner we get me thoroughly assembled, and you finish making those clothes and complete your quest, the sooner we can head out onto the road and find your cure.
"You will help me?" Merrigan moved to the book's end of the table, so she could speak softly. It wouldn't do to be caught talking to the book and end up in a healer's house for the gently insane. Not when hope had finally been awarded her. "Wait—what quest?"
You did a good thing, choosing to find some justice for the miller's son. His name is Corby, by the way.
"Not for him, exactly." She put down the cup, hating the momentary trembling in her hands. Merrigan bent down, resting her elbows on the table to get close to the piles of pages. "I know what it's like to be cheated, and that Fae was so judgmental." She sighed. "I knew I had to do something. It all just made me so angry. But how did you know?"
For someone as thickly woven with spells and orders and conditions, every choice you make, every reaction to directions or help offered, it's written into the spell. As easy to read as—the voice snorted—as a book. Now, what have you done toward helping Corby?
Merrigan told him, her hands automatically getting to work on the book again. He sighed with relief as she took the cover and spine out from the books holding them flat. Under his directions and with the help of magic she felt humming through the papers, she sewed the pages into packets and slipped them into their proper order and place in the binding, gluing everything together with an ease that was very clearly magical.
"Why couldn't you have fixed yourself before this?" she asked, more curious than grudging, as she rubbed her fingers together to peel off the glue sticking to them.
"Too wounded to have much magic left. The enspelled glass of the cupboard blocked me, and the glue pot was too far away." The book sighed, then a chuckle escaped it. "I'm audible again! Oh, what glory."
"I still can't tell—are you a boy or a girl?"
"Yes."
Merrigan opened her mouth to retort that it hadn't answered, then the humor struck her and she chuckled.
"The truth is, Mi'Lady, even being a magical book, I am limited. I need hands to carry me, and tell me about things beyond my ... well, as you remarked earlier, I don't have eyes or ears, but I am able to see and hear and smell for a limited distance. Sometimes it's better not to know all the fine details of the magic involved. As for being a boy or girl ... well, my previous master called me Bib. That sounds more like a boy's name than a girl's, if you feel more comfortable assigning one or the other to me."
"I'd much rather think of you as a 'he' than an 'it,' if that makes any sense," she admitted.
"And there's another fine crack in the spell. You're making incredible progress in creating your own freedom, Mi'Lady."
"When you said previous master ..." She hesitated to voice the nebulous idea churning up through her middle.
"You are the master of the book, now, after saving me from dreamless waiting, with just enough awareness that I could have screamed if I had the energy." Bib's voice thickened, so Merrigan had a good idea of just what he had suffered.
"How long were you ...?" She gestured at the corner shelves where his ravaged pieces had been tossed.
"No idea. I think I don't want to know, either. What are people saying about this place? As far as I can tell, only a small part of my old master's castle remains. Quite a few of the books who were my old friends are gone. The ones that have replaced them." He made a rude snorting noise that earned a grin from her. "Didactic, pedantic, self-righteous, and quite a few contradicting each other. The problem with books of the law is that if they aren't given regular fresh air and sunlight, they get ingrown, with an inflated sense of their importance. Especially when they're still clean and glossy years after being printed. The law was made to be a servant, not a ruler. Kings need to learn that lesson as well."
"You mean to tell me, all these books in here are somehow aware, even if they're not magic?" She tipped her head back and slowly turned, surveying the shelves reaching up to the ceiling, all filled with thick, unused books.
"All books have the potential for magic. It depends on how they're used, and the spirit of the people using them." Bib sighed. "Listen to me, nattering on and on. Priorities,
