Square

Nyra set the finished book on the table and turned it so the girl could see the three outer edges. The cover reached a little past the pages on every side but the spine. That small projecting rim of board had a name, and the name was the square.

The square was not an accident. When the boards were cut, they were cut wider than the leaves, so that the paper sat back from the weather and the knocks of the shelf. The pages hid in the shadow of that rim, and the rim took the wear the pages would otherwise have taken.

Nyra ran a finger along the overhang while the girl looked on. A book opened and closed a thousand times, and every closing brought the cover down past the edge of the leaves. The square met the table first, and the paper stayed clean behind it.

A book gathers what can be set down in a line and counted, and leaves the rest to the one who was there. The page would record the words, and the square would record nothing at all. It only stood guard at the border, a thin margin of patience around everything the book meant to keep.

Nyra closed the cover one last time and let the girl feel the rim with a fingertip. The book keeps the border, and you keep the guarding of it.