As always, it was too hot of a day in Italy. Mortimer attempted to roll down the creaky window in his tiny van but it got stuck halfway and he was left cursing quietly at the "advances" of technology. This was years ago, before Mortimer became Mo, before Mo became Silvertongue, and before Silvertongue became the Bluejay. Indeed, this story was set in the years before all of that discord, the years where Mo was young and so was a pretty woman who went by the name of Resa-,-just-Resa.
Mortimer pulled up into huge gravel driveway that lay in the shadows of a looming house that could have appropriately been called a fortress. He looked up at the drawn shades with some apprehension as he rang the doorbell. He gathered from the phone call earlier that day that the Mistress of this house was a bit eccentric and it was with much regret that he did not go back to his car, lock the doors, and drive away.
"Ah, Mortimer, is it?" A tall woman with a sturdy build and messy hair opened the door and stared down at Mortimer with such a gaze as to make him shiver.
"Yes. Miss Elinor?" He smiled and held out his hand which she did not take. She snickered.
"Obviously. But let us not waste our time on frivolities. I have books that need mending immediately or else I am afraid that the power of their stories might sap. Books can do that, you know."
Mortimer nodded, not sure how to respond to such a comment, and awkwardly followed her into the residence. Once inside he gasped.
"How…lovely," he noted, glancing around at the ceiling. The walls were covered not in portraits, racks, or windows, but shelves, shelves and shelves of books, new and old, a sight that filled him with a sense of longing and comfort. He'd always liked, no, loved, no, appreciated books.
"Yes. Simply amazing, isn't it." said Elinor, although her voice conveyed a certain sense of prideful ennui. "They've all accumulated over the years, these ones, and are not particularly useful to me. It's these books over here that need attention. You think you can fix them?"
Mortimer picked up a tattered book from a gold lined table and weighed it in his hands.
"Oh yes, yes, yes," he flipped the book over and looked at its title, "Tom Sawyer. I have memories with this book. We go way back, this book and I." He was thinking about the time, long ago where, while reading this book, he had discovered that his reading abilities weren't exactly normal. However, Elinor just smiled, oblivious to the faraway look on his face.
"Oh yes," she said, warming up, "so do I. I studied this book in high school. Freshman year. It was the first time that I ever lay hands on this book. It was love at first sight, it was. That why I need you to mend it. It has sentimental value, this one does."
"I'll do my best," Mortimer said, giving her a reassuring smile, "but, er, do you mind if I take a look around? As an avid book lover myself I have a great curiosity about your collection."
Elinor's face darkened and for a moment Mortimer thought she would say no, he could not, but instead she gave a polite shrug and said, "As you like." He thanked her and walked up the twisting staircase onto the second floor, stopping at the landing to admire a particularly ornate wooden shelf with smooth, polished cherry wood and a glass covering. Underneath the case there were titles like The Odyssey, The Wife of Bath's Tale, and One Thousand and One Arabian Nights huddled next to important looking hand scribbled letters yellowed over the ages. Mortimer put his face closer to the glass until he could not see for his breath frosting up the glass.
"Oh, and watch out for my niece. She's a bit tricky."
Mortimer barely had time to register the warning before he heard a soft giggle, "Don't mind my great-aunt. Between you and me, she's the one who's….a bit eccentric."
Mortimer spun around, and smiled, "Just a bit?" The woman smiled, too, temporarily averting her pretty blue eyes as she put down her paint brush.
"My name is Theresa, but you can call me Resa." She straightened up and held out a paint speckled hand.
"Mo-mortimer Folchart," he stammered, taking her hand. For a minute when their hands met Mortimer felt a warming sensation in his breast, a calming sensation, a sensation that made him feel stronger, weaker, prouder and bold. He wondered if, behind those electric blue eyes, she could feel it too.
"Mortimer, hmm," She turned around abruptly and resumed her work, carefully tracing the frizzy-haired brush over lines drawn on the doorway. Mortimer watched her work, his mind some where else in a place where it probably shouldn't be. She was beautiful, this woman. Beautiful, calm, and graceful even though she wore large, baggy overalls and brown working boots that looked rather comical on a petite woman like her. But her face, her skin her hands were alabaster, the veins beneath her skin traced graceful lines on her fingers, and her hair, complementing sophisticated eyes, glowed softly in the slanting sunlight.
"What are you painting?" he asked vaguely because he knew it was impolite to stare.
"Oh, this? Don't you recognize it? Well, maybe not, I haven't finished it yet, but it's a famous printer's sign- Aldus Manutius. You remember? He was the one who printed the book that were the right size to fit in his customer's saddlebags."
"I remember," Mortimer murmured, watching her "It's…lovely."
"Yes," she breathed, finally turning to look at him, "It is."
"Mortimer!" They both jumped at the sound, "I am paying you to restore my books to their rightful state, not to chat with my niece. Get down here right this minute!"
Resa laughed and turned away, "Told ya," she said, shaking her head, "I suggest you watch out for her. 'She's a bit tricky.'"
Later on, Mortimer didn't know how long he had been up fixing and repairing old books. His eyes had become red long ago and his jaws ached from yawning so often, but he promised he would save these books and, anyway, he was on his last one. Yawning again, he flipped through the pages with mild interest, more in a daydream than anything.
"Knock, knock," the door to the room was pushed open slowly and in came Resa. "Sorry to bother you, but it's just that you've been in here a long time and I though that you might like a refresher."
"Oh, yes, thank you," he took the tea he offered her and sipped it gratefully. "Mm, what is it?"
"Chai and cocoa," she said distractedly, flipping through the pages of the book on his desk, "I've never seen this book before. What is it?"
"Dunno. I wasn't paying much attention to the story, which is odd for a person like me."
She didn't seem to have heard him. Forehead crinkled, she flipped through page after page after page while he stared patiently into the flickering candle light. "Ooh," she said, "Listen to this:
No matter how hard he tried to break her spirit she would not be fazed, Oh that Meggie Price! No, in fact he could not touch her, for she was something that he could only aspire to be: strong like a bull, proud as a queen, as quiet as violet, with a gaze like fire, and useful as steel but above all that she had love. She was love, she gave love, she took love, and she offered love with cold, ashen hands.
Isn't that nice? Meggie, I've always liked that name. If I had a daughter, that's what I would name her."
"Me too," Mortimer said, not yet realizing the light implication. Resa blushed and put down the book. "Well, I guess I should be getting off to bed. Don't stay up to late, you!" she wagged her finger at him and closed the door, taking with her the light that had been spilling in from the hallway (or was it the light that had been purely radiating from her cheeks?) Mortimer set down the china cup and sighed. He, how dare his stupid heart, he was in love.
"Good night, Resa," he called.
"Good night, Mo,"
Real Me: (flipping through pages of Inkheart) Inkheart was actually set in Italy, right?
Highly Sophisticated Geographical Me: How should I know?
RM: You took a year of geography in high school!
HSGM: So, what does that have to do with anything?
RM: (rolls eyes)
HSGM: At least I don't get all of my Italian related facts from Ezio's perspective.
RM: (gasp) Assassin's Creed is very informative! And on that note I think that Dustfinger would make a kick-ass Ezio!
HSGM: That he would. Or the other way around, you know? (sips tea) Chai and Cocoa isn't even good.
RM: Oh, shut up. I just chose that because it was the first thing that I saw in my cupboard.
HSGM: Tres romatique.
RM: Shut up, I said. (sighs) This, by far, has been the worst Author's Dialogue ever.
HSGM: True that, yo.
