Watermark by Vanitha Sankaran Read Free Book Online Page A

the moneylenders, the long, narrow set meant to duplicate the feel of scrolls, and another for palm-leaf books. Stacked to the side were the lesser used sets—the one made of stitched bamboo reeds bought from an Oriental at the fair in Barcelona, another made from thin strips of flattened wood shavings that her uncle Guerau had given him, even one made of grass and animal hair.
    Martin took out a small hammer and began tapping at his deckle, fixing it so it would fit more flatly atop its companion mould. He glanced at her for a moment but said nothing.
    Walking over to him, she picked up one of the moulds and drifted her fingers over the screen. How would that watermark the Gypsy spoke of fit into the process of papermaking? Was the wire supposed to be attached to the mould? Or pressed into the paper after it had dried?
    What did it matter? She dropped the mould back on the table. In a few weeks, at the most a month, she’d be steeped in another family’s matters with nothing to connect her to reading, writing, or paper.
    “Best cut some quills,” her father said, still watching her, “so we can test the paper properly. This new batch has to be perfect. Nothing but the best for the palace.”
    Auda nodded. She rummaged through her basket of quills sitting on the desk and picked out the broken shafts to burn later.
    She spread the bedraggled feathers saved from yesterday’s chicken across the desk. It had been hard for her and Martin to get any meat at all from the butcher, despite the fact Poncia had bought from him every week for years. Under the torrent that had waterlogged the whole town, every last scrap of fat and remnant suddenly had a price. They had taken the smallest chicken to get these feathers—eight deniers for a scrawnycarcass that shouldn’t have cost more than six. When they’d stopped the butcher from plucking the bird, he hesitated like a gambler told to tithe his winnings.
    “T’were for the abbey,” he said. “On account of the rains.”
    Martin had clenched his jaw and added another penny to the pile. The butcher mumbled about the goodwill of priests. A penny more.
    Auda picked up the feathers, wiping blood and dirt off each one. She dumped them in a tall pail of rainwater, nibs down. The feathers clung together in a bundle. Stowing the pail under the workbench, she took out another bucket holding feathers that had been soaking for a full day. Their shafts, clear when dry, swelled milky white and flexible now. She dried each with a soft cloth and picked up her knife.
    “Heat those before you cut them,” her father said. “We’ve nothing to waste, so take care.” He took a bucket of sand from the shelf and placed it on the fire where the vat of pulp had stood before. Ten score sheets would be sieved with the mould and deckle, then pressed and dried in the barn. It would be another week before the fermenting linens in the barrels would be ready to be made into the next batch of pulp. In the meantime, the finished sheets had to be smoothed and tested. Most would be boxed loose into quires of fifty, but some would be sewn into folios.
    Martin plunged his fingers into the sand. “Wait till it’s warm to the touch.”
    Prepare quills. Know how . She twitched her lips.
    He said nothing.
    She crouched by the bucket, checking the temperature of the sand. When it grew lukewarm, she took the bucket off the fire and propped the quills inside. Minutes later, when they’d cooled, their shafts had returned to their original transparency, tougher, smaller, and tempered.
    She cut tips on each of the quills, shavings from the shaft curling on the floor. How many more times would she cut quills for her father before they sent her away? How often would she see her father? When would she ever work in his studio again?
    Martin cleared his throat, still watching her.
    “Those will be fine for our regular work. But we need thicker nibs for the new ink. Goose feathers will do us better. Could be we’ll find