A Page Under Tension

Two days later, I arrived at Fennel Wick’s bindery with a plan, which was already an improvement over most of my plans since waking up in Equestria.

The plan was to hold a page open while Fennel set a stitch. The page would remain open. The stitch would be set. I would not accidentally levitate a book into the ceiling or discover some new and exciting way to injure myself with a needle.

Fennel had a damaged volume laid out on her worktable when I came in. Its cover was plain brown cloth, worn soft at the corners. Several pages near the middle had come loose from the binding. A short length of thread lay coiled beside the book.

She nudged a low stool into place with one hoof. “You can sit there. The book stays here.”

“I appreciate having the boundaries marked.” I settled onto the stool. It was low enough that I didn’t have to lean far over the table, which my legs appreciated. “What am I holding?”

“Two pages. Together. The paper’s old, so use less force than you think you need.” Fennel arranged the volume so I could see the damaged section. “If the hold slips, let it slip. I can stop.”

I looked at the pages. They were yellowed and slightly buckled near the seam, but the ink was still clear. A few careful stitches remained in the binding. The rest of the thread had failed, leaving little holes in the folded paper.

“Useful book?”

“Someone wants it back in one piece.” Fennel picked up her curved needle. “That’s enough.”

It was a fair answer. The book didn’t need a dramatic history to deserve careful work. I had spent years running games for people who could get attached to a fictional sword if I gave it a name. I could manage basic respect for an actual book.

I raised my horn and reached for the upper page. Levitation still felt less like moving an object and more like asking a very stubborn thought to grow hands. I kept the force light. The page lifted; the one beneath it stayed flat. Then I eased the edge outward until Fennel could reach the fold.

“Good,” she said, inspecting the space between them. “Keep it there.”

“I have mastered the legendary art of holding a piece of paper.”

“Keep mastering it.”

The first few seconds were easy. My magic settled against the page’s weight. I could feel the faint tug of it through my horn, an unfamiliar pressure that had become less alarming with practice. My other spell waited in the background, ready to provide light if we needed it. Fennel bent close and threaded the needle through one of the old holes.

Then she drew the thread through.