The Thread He Put Through

Fennel set a small book on the worktable, its spine opened beneath two narrow weights. A strip of linen thread lay beside it, along with a curved needle that looked designed by someone who had decided straight lines were for amateurs.

“I’ll guide you through the first stitch,” she said, drawing the damaged gathering into view. “You’ll guide the needle. The page stays under your control unless you ask me to take it.”

I looked at the book. Its paper was thin and browned at the edges, with a little tear beside the old binding hole. “And if I pull too hard?”

“You’ll hear about it from me. The paper may also make its opinion known.” Fennel nudged the needle closer. “We can stop whenever you need.”

That was the whole lesson in one sentence, and somehow it still didn’t make the needle any less needle-shaped.

I settled on the stool and checked my balance before I brought my magic up. The weights kept the covers open. The pages wanted to curl toward the spine, and I held them with the low, steady pressure Fennel had taught me. A few months ago, my idea of fine motor control had involved a keyboard and the occasional mug. Here I was, trying not to turn an old book into a very niche kindling pile.

Fennel showed me how the thread should lie across the gathering. Her magic moved the needle through the first hole, then withdrew. She left it poised above the paper for me.

“Follow the angle,” she said. “The hole is already there. You don’t need to persuade it.”

I angled the needle with my horn. It was a strange sensation: the steel carried a little weight, and my magic met that weight as plainly as a hand might. I eased the point through the hole. The thread followed, whispering across the paper.

The first pass worked. The second went crooked.

The needle caught against the edge of the next hole. I felt the resistance through my magic and started to increase the pull. The page tightened under my other spell. Its edge lifted a fraction.

“Hold there,” Fennel said.

I stopped. The old familiar urge arrived right on schedule: if I just applied a little more, I could prove the problem was temporary. My horn had begun to warm, too. It wasn’t painful. It was the useful kind of warning that showed up before I had to negotiate with myself about whether I was being foolish.

“I can back it out,” I said.

Fennel held the book still while I eased the needle away from the hole. The thread slid back. The paper relaxed, and I let my own hold loosen with it. A faint crease remained beside the hole, so small that I might have missed it if I hadn’t been the one who made it.