Prologue: Lady Constantine’s School for Encouragable Young Ladies
Prologue
Yellow.
Unrepentant gold.
A body in excess. In a fever.
A book, bound in leather. It aches to be touched. Shimmying in its’ bindings. Pages shift and ruffle as if a breeze woken. A scent, supple, sticky, a sweetness of the dead. There is rot to it. A smell that draws you in while it repels. It wants you to come nearer while you fight to run. You will be all the tastier for it. If you were only brave enough you would lift the cover.
What kind of leather is that you might muse. What animal could produce that transparency, that sort of sheen. Is it sweating? Moist while your throat is dry. What animal? With a revulsion you already know the answer.
Could it be worth it? The weeks pouring over auction ledgers. The favors called in and begged for. To find it here. In a crowded room with a man speaking rapid fire. Pride in the chest with your bid being the highest. The order will crow. You will be the one to bring the book home. Place it on the table after having read all that would be denied to you later. A small smile you had practiced in the mirror. The one that would show your worth while your words chocked back all of what you had done with “nothings” and “all for yous”. The words that denounce your effort spoken with clarity of knowing none will believe you, and value your humility all the more.
“Going once, going twice.” A bubble of disgust in your throat. The cover began to, relax. There was no other word. First when turned it was upright all crisp clean edges but now it droops at the corners. You became distracted. “Ah another bidder “ Could your slip of attention, intention have caused this calamity. You are silent struck dumb. The book straightens and preens towards the light. A slight shuffle no one would have caught it but that small shift captures you and you forget to bid. Not forget so much as loose yourself looking for pores, stray hairs, believing to have seen a face in the swirls and texture of the front cover.
It is gone.
Failure and humiliation grip deep in the empty claw of your chest. You replay the moment a thousand times in a second. Each time rewriting your failure or finding the fault with another. A way to explain beyond your own bumbling.
It is only when you get back to the hotel that you can begin to breath. Breathe and pace. There is a note waiting for you, not at the lobby but neatly on your pillow, folded into the shape of a rabbit.
Come to Lady Constantine’s Finishing and Reform School for Encouragable Young Ladies. We will gladly feed your need for knowledge.
Miss Hypatia, our librarian will see you right. Bring the order. We eagerly await your presence.
Yours in faith,
Lady Constantine
