Sam went to Aldgate alone, with two volumes of the Record under his arm and a reason that was true on its face and not the real one.
The real one he had not said out loud, not to Caleb, not to himself before the train. The Record needed a binding repaired, that part was real, the green volume's spine had cracked along the old glue, and a cracked spine on a book that held two hundred and ten names was not a thing you left.
And the Aldgate shop did the fine work, that was real too.
But there were binders closer than Aldgate, and Sam had chosen the train and the hour across the city. Somewhere under the reason was a pair of careful hands setting a book on a shelf and squaring it to the edge, and a look that had closed like water months ago that he had not stopped thinking about.
The shop smelled the same. Paper and glue and the particular dust of old leather, the warm quiet of a place where things were mended instead of thrown out.
