By mid-morning the pine bench by the fuel-less hearth looked less like a dungeon table and more like a bankrupt bookbinder’s stall after a windstorm.
Cale had emptied his oilskin satchel of every spare quire of unbleached linen paper he had smuggled out of the Survey House stationary cupboard over the past month, while Hobb contributed a ball of greased butcher’s twine and three curved bone needles he ordinarily used for trussing salt goose. Prit sat cross-legged at the center of the bench with his slate propped against the salt cellar, punching four neat awl-holes along the folded spine of each eight-leaf gathering.
“Mind the stitch tension on the third hole, Master Cale,” Prit instructed, clicking his bony thumb against the brass awl ferrule. “If you pull the waxed cord too tight across dry linen, the paper cockles when the cellar damp rises. A record meant to outlive an auditor must lie flat enough to take a thumbprint without tearing the fold.”
“I bound the parish tithe-rolls for two winters before Lord Vane transferred me to the main desk,” Cale replied, though he obediently eased his thumb off the waxed flax thread and drew the figure-eight loop snug with gentle, practiced care. “What bothers me isn’t the binding, Prit. It’s the variance rule you and Noll want written on the flyleaf.”
