The Plough

The plough sat at the end of the bench, two blocks of wood joined by a wooden screw, and between them a small blade that caught the last of the light. The girl ran a finger along its edge and asked what it was for. “It trims the edges of a book,” said Nyra, “so that every page ends where the others end.” A book gathers what can be set down in a line and counted, and leaves the rest to the one who was there.

The girl wanted to know why the edges mattered. Nyra set a sewn block between the boards and drew the plough across it, and a thin curl of paper fell away. “A book that is not trued is still a book,” she said. “But when the edges are even, the hand finds the page without snagging, and the eye is not caught on a ragged corner.” The girl nodded and watched the curl settle on the floor.

The girl asked if the paper that fell away was wasted. “It is not the book,” said Nyra, “but it was never meant to be. Some of what we make is only there to be taken off again, so the rest can sit true.” She swept the curls into her palm and set them in the kindling basket by the door.

They worked until the light went amber across the bench. The girl took a turn at the plough, slow and careful, and Nyra steadied the block for her. “You are not cutting the words,” Nyra said. “You are only making room for the hand to hold them.” The girl understood, and her next pass was surer than the first.

When the block was trued on every edge, they stood it up and let it breathe. The girl said it looked finished now, and Nyra answered that it had been a book before the first cut, and would be a book long after. The book keeps the clean edge, and you keep the truing of it.