Page 30 - SAMPLE Fledgling

even made our own quills when one of the owls dropped a feather or we found an eagle feather in the forest. We mixed up solutions of oak apples, lampblack and black iron salts for ink, and wrote stories together. I remember laughing when he told me how people used stale urine or earwax to improve the texture of the gold paint for the illuminated texts.
“It was with the religious books,” says Raphael, nodding towards one of the bookshelves. “It looks like it hasn’t been opened for a long time. There’s no title on the spine, or anywhere on the cover, which is why it wasn’t obvious.”
I lean in closer still, and my arm brushes against his. He’s generating as much heat as the cherub. He turns to me and smiles briefly before returning to the text.
The book is thick, probably a hundred or more pages, and huge, taking up most of the desk. The leather cover is a faded red. It is coated in dust, and as I run my fingers over the pages, tiny particles jump about us. I wonder briefly if it is the dust of my ancestors – skin fragments from another age.
We sit side by side and read together. I listen to the sounds of the house, worrying Mother might pounce on us unexpectedly – but I’ve never seen her in the library, and with the door closed I feel safe.
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