The Lies That Bind by Kate Carlisle Page A

should remain dry and loose because they’ll eventually be used to hold the spine to the covers. The last thing we do is glue them between the cover board and the pastedown.”
    Mitchell groaned at my incomprehensible explanation.
    “Okay,” I said, with a laugh. “Instead of trying to explain it, let me find an example to show you what I mean.”
    I grabbed two of my sample journals from the table at the front of the room and passed them around the table. The three tabs were clearly outlined beneath the pastedown.
    “Ah,” Mitchell said, peering at the inside cover. “I think I get it now.”
    “Good.” I smiled and gave the book to Dale, who sat next to Mitchell. “Pass those journals around so everyone can get an idea of what the tabs are used for. Thanks.”
     
    I spent a quiet half hour working alone in the classroom while everyone took a dinner break. I munched on malted-milk balls and string cheese as I prepared another textblock for demonstration purposes.
    Once the demo was set up, I did a little paperwork and balanced my checkbook, adding in the check I’d deposited that morning from Holyroodhouse Palace. It had been sent along with another children’s book that Philip Pickering-Jones wanted me to restore.
    While I was in Edinburgh, Derek had taken me to the palace, where Pickering-Jones, personal secretary to the British princes, gave me a shabby old book that belonged to one of the prince’s girlfriends. He wanted it restored for her as a gift.
    I knew I’d received the job only because I’d been in the right place at the right time. With the right British commander, of course. So I was shocked and pleased and honored that they’d sent me more work.
    The book I’d received today was Mrs. Overtheway’s Remembrances by the same beloved British author of the first book, Juliana Horatia Ewing. Pickering-Jones asked that it be restored in the same style as the first, making a matched set. Coincidentally, the two books were illustrated by George Cruikshank, the same man who did the Oliver Twist I restored for Layla.
    “Small world,” I murmured.
    As students began to shuffle back into the room, I put my personal stuff away and pulled out my bookbinders hammer.
    “It’s hammer time,” I announced, and everyone groaned. “Hey, these are the jokes, people.”
    Marianne raised her hand. “I hate to interrupt the jokes, but could you show me that weaver’s knot again?”
    “Fine, ruin my timing,” I groused good-naturedly.
    She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, but I still don’t get the kinky part.”
    There were a few chuckles as I cut a length of thirty-gauge linen thread from the spool. I ran the thread through my fingers several times, reminding them that it was an important step to take the twist out and get rid of any sizing or wax the manufacturer had applied to the thread. I reached for the long sewing needle and was about to show them how to kink the thread in order to make a knot when someone shouted out in the hall.
    “Buzz off!”
    “No! Don’t go in there.”
    The classroom door flew open and Minka stormed in, followed closely by Layla and Naomi. Minka walked right up and shoved me. I fell back against the counter, hitting my hip bone.
    “Hey!” I cried. Even knowing Minka for as long as I had, she’d caught me by surprise again.
    “I suppose you think I owe you my life or something,” she said belligerently.
    “Nope. You don’t owe me anything.” I sidestepped her and backed away. I’d vowed never to be within arm’s length of Minka again. She had a bad habit of belting me when I wasn’t paying attention. On the other hand, with her head wrapped in a thick white gauze bandage, she didn’t seem half as threatening as usual.
    “Liar.”
    “I mean it,” I said, balancing on the balls of my feet, ready to spring if she made a move. “If I could do it over again, I would’ve left you to rot.”
    “You bitch,” she snarled.
    “Back atcha. Now get out of my