Page 62 of Dark Island: Rescue
"The nightmares about the rebellion still bothering you?" Liliat asked sympathetically.
"Yeah, along with other catastrophic scenarios. Ever since the siege at the mansion, my mind can't shake the anxiety."
"It's called PTSD," Liliat said sagely. "It stands for Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. Scientists used to think that it was purely psychological, but the latest studies show physical changes in the brains of those suffering from the disorder. Immortals areimmune to most ailments, but not those of the mind. You might very well be suffering from that."
Tula didn't bother to dispute the assessment, even if there was something to what Liliat had said. Having some disorder was the least of her worries right now. The guilt she was dealing with overshadowed everything else.
Beulah stood and walked over. "I know what could help. Learning a new skill." She gestured toward her own workstation. "The supplies for rebinding finally arrived today, and I was about to start practicing on one of the less valuable books. Do you want to do it with me?"
Normally, Tula would have declined. Bookbinding required patience and precision she didn't possess on a good day, let alone today, but Beulah was right about the distraction it would provide.
"Do you have an instruction manual?" she asked.
"I have better. Lord Navuh generously bought a televised course on bookbinding for us. I watched it last night and this morning, and I'm ready to implement what I've learned."
"Then I will gladly be your eager apprentice." Tula rose to her feet.
Beulah assembled the materials—new leather, thread, needles, something she called a bone folder, and an array of other small tools. "I'll explain what they are for as we work." She brought a stool from a nearby workstation and motioned for Tula to sit.
Beulah lifted an old codex that wasn't very valuable, so it was a good book to practice on. The binding was also so badly damaged that it wasn't salvageable.
"First, we need to carefully remove the old binding."Beulah opened the book flat. "See how the signatures are sewn together? That's what we'll preserve. The binding itself is going into the trash bin."
"What are signatures?" Tula asked because it for sure wasn't what she was thinking.
"Groups of folded pages sewn together at the spine." Beulah pointed with a slender finger. "This codex has twenty signatures, each containing eight folios—sixteen pages. When we rebind it, we'll sew through the same holes the original binder used."
Tula watched as Beulah used a thin blade to carefully separate the leather cover from the text block, working with painstaking precision to avoid damaging the fragile pages beneath. The old leather came away in pieces, revealing the intricate sewing that had held the book together so far.
"Now we clean the spine." Beulah produced a soft brush and began removing debris and old glue. "We want a clean surface for the new binding."
The methodical work was almost hypnotic. Brush, examine, brush again. Remove fragments of deteriorated thread. Check each signature for damage.
Tula found herself absorbed, watching Beulah's hands move with surprising confidence, given that it was her first try.
"Your turn." Beulah handed Tula the brush. "Clean between the signatures. Gentle strokes."
Tula took the brush and bent over the manuscript, carefully working the bristles between the folded sections. The repetitive motion was soothing, giving her racing mind something concrete to focus on. As sheworked, the erratic beat of her heart settled down, and with it the emotional storm in her mind.
"Good." Beulah nodded. "Now we'll prepare the new leather. It needs to be cut to size and skived along the edges."
"Skived?"
"Thinned, so when we fold it over the boards, it doesn't create a bulky edge." Beulah pulled out a large piece of supple brown leather. "This is goatskin. It's durable but still takes tooling well if we want to add decorations later."
They worked together to measure and cut the leather, Beulah demonstrating the proper angle for the blade. The physical act of cutting, trimming, checking measurements—it all helped to further quiet the storm in Tula's head.
"Now comes the sewing." Beulah threaded a needle with linen cord. "We'll attach the signatures back together, then add the new binding."
She demonstrated the technique, passing the needle through the existing holes in the spine, creating a chain stitch that linked each signature to the next. Her movements were fluid as if she'd practiced that kind of work for centuries.
"Try it." She handed Tula the needle.
Tula's first attempt was clumsy, the thread tangling as she tried to replicate Beulah's smooth motion. But the second was better, and by the third, she'd found a rhythm.
In. Through. Loop. Pull tight. Repeat.
The meditation of it was exactly what she needed. Aslong as she focused on the thread, the needle, the precise placement of each stitch, she didn't have to think about Tony's face when he learned that she was dead, that she'd taken her own life without giving him a chance to talk her out of it. She didn't have to imagine the ladies' grief.
