The bookbinding shop on Aldgate had no sign.
Caleb disliked that more than he wanted to.
A place with no sign wanted the right people to know the door, the number, the bell, and what kind of trouble deserved entry.
The brass number on the door read 14. Behind the window, four old volumes leaned on little wooden stands, their spines gone brown at the edges. The bell above the door hung from a curl of black metal. Caleb pushed it open with his good shoulder because his bad arm still sat strapped across his chest, useless and hot under the sling.
The bell rang once.
Sam came in behind him and shut the cold out.
The shop smelled of paste, leather, old paper, and clean dust. Somewhere in the rear, a timed press made half a turn, waited, then made another. Its patience made Caleb hurry inside his own skin.
A woman came through a curtain made from hanging strips of hide.
