Marky’s presses were an ingeniously simple pattern, essentially two fifteen-inch blocks of smooth hardwood held together by two long wood screws, one on each end.

“To press your pages together, you place your textblock between the pieces of wood, spine side up. Then twirl the wing nuts to tighten until the textblock is held firmly. Could it be easier?”

I pointed out that the spine should stick up a little higher than the press itself so glue wouldn’t drip onto the wood. “And make sure the linen tapes aren’t pressed between the pages and the wood. They should lie on top. We don’t want to get glue on any part of the tapes except where they’re already sewn to the signatures.”

“There you go, speaking in tongues again,” Mitchell said, shaking his head in confusion.

“Sorry,” I said, chuckling as I studied everyone’s pressed pages. “Okay, everybody, look at Alice’s press. See how the tapes are strewn over the block? That’s what yours should look like.”

“Teacher’s pet,” Gina teased, and they laughed.

Alice laughed along with them, then frowned as she rubbed her stomach.

“I was just kidding,” Gina said, her forehead creasing in concern.

“No worries,” Alice said, trying to wave away the pain. “It’s just me and my nerves.”

Whitney wiggled her eyebrows. “The good news is, when you rub your stomach like that, I’m blinded by your gorgeous diamond ring.”

Alice held her hand up to the light and stared fondly at the ring. “It is pretty, isn’t it? Stuart is so sweet.”

“You’re very lucky to have a nice guy,” Whitney said. “You have no idea what’s out there these days.”

“Slim pickings,” Gina agreed.

“Hey, I resemble that remark,” Mitchell muttered.

Everyone laughed, then settled back to work.

“I could make these wood presses for the kids taking our classes,” Marianne the librarian marveled, flicking her wing nuts. On the first night she’d told us that she planned to take what she learned here and offer book craft classes for kids at her library.

“That’s way too much labor,” said Jennifer, who worked at the same library. “And the little kids won’t be able to operate something like this.”

“Are you kidding?” Gina said. “If I can do it, anyone can.”

“It’s true,” Whitney said, elbowing her friend. “She’s all thumbs and press-on nails.”

I pulled a large binder clip off my stack of notes and held it up. “Two of these will hold a book in place almost as securely as a wood press.”

Jennifer’s eyes lit up. “Binder clips. How clever. Now that’s more my speed.”

Once they all had their signature pages firmly held inside the presses, I demonstrated how to apply the thin layers of PVA glue to the text spine.

“Dip the brush halfway into the glue, then swipe it liberally across the spine edges. You want to soak the threads completely. Be sure to daub the wet brush carefully between the pages so that everything is covered in glue.”

I wandered around the room, watching them apply thin layers of adhesive to the compressed textblock.

“Something’s wrong with mine,” Mitchell said, scratching his head as he stared at his project.

“What happened?” I asked, walking around the table.

“I think I overglued.”

“Wow, you sure did.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Glue was dripping down the side of the wood press and his linen tabs were drenched as well.

“I know you’re laughing with me,” he muttered.

“Absolutely,” I said, grabbing a wet wipe. “Here, use this to wipe off the wood.”

“You said a liberal application.”

“I did,” I said, shaking my head at the mess. “I also said to do it carefully. But I’ll take the blame for this one.”

“I like the sound of that,” he said.

“We can fix this,” I said, raising my voice so the entire group would pay attention. “For the linen tabs, take a cotton swab dipped in acetone and wipe the linen carefully.”

I demonstrated. “These tabs should remain dry and loose because they’ll eventually be used to hold the spine to the covers. The last thing we do is glue them between the cover board and the pastedown.”

Mitchell groaned at my incomprehensible explanation.

“Okay,” I said, with a laugh. “Instead of trying to explain it, let me find an example to show you what I mean.”

I grabbed two of my sample journals from the table at the front of the room and passed them around the table. The three tabs were clearly outlined beneath the pastedown.

“Ah,” Mitchell said, peering at the inside cover. “I think I get it now.”

“Good.” I smiled and gave the book to Dale, who sat next to Mitchell. “Pass those journals around so everyone can get an idea of what the tabs are used for. Thanks.”

I spent a quiet half hour working alone in the classroom while everyone took a dinner break. I munched on malted-milk balls and string cheese as I prepared another textblock for demonstration purposes.

Once the demo was set up, I did a little paperwork and balanced my checkbook, adding in the check I’d deposited that morning from Holyroodhouse Palace. It had been sent along with another children’s book that Philip Pickering-Jones wanted me to restore.

While I was in Edinburgh, Derek had taken me to the palace, where Pickering-Jones, personal secretary to the British princes, gave me a shabby old book that belonged to one of the prince’s girlfriends. He wanted it restored for her as a gift.

I knew I’d received the job only because I’d been in the right place at the right time. With the right British commander, of course. So I was shocked and pleased and honored that they’d sent me more work.

The book I’d received today was Mrs. Overtheway’s Remembrances by the same beloved British author of the first book, Juliana Horatia Ewing. Pickering-Jones asked that it be restored in the same style as the first, making a matched set. Coincidentally, the two books were illustrated by George Cruikshank, the same man who did the Oliver Twist I restored for Layla.

“Small world,” I murmured.

As students began to shuffle back into the room, I put my personal stuff away and pulled out my bookbinders hammer.

“It’s hammer time,” I announced, and everyone groaned. “Hey, these are the jokes, people.”

Marianne raised her hand. “I hate to interrupt the jokes, but could you show me that weaver’s knot again?”

“Fine, ruin my timing,” I groused good-naturedly.

She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry, but I still don’t get the kinky part.”

There were a few chuckles as I cut a length of thirty-gauge linen thread from the spool. I ran the thread through my fingers several times, reminding them that it was an important step to take the twist out and get rid of any sizing or wax the manufacturer had applied to the thread. I reached for the long sewing needle and was about to show them how to kink the thread in order to make a knot when someone shouted out in the hall.

“Buzz off!”

“No! Don’t go in there.”

The classroom door flew open and Minka stormed in, followed closely by Layla and Naomi. Minka walked right up and shoved me. I fell back against the counter, hitting my hip bone.

“Hey!” I cried. Even knowing Minka for as long as I had, she’d caught me by surprise again.

“I suppose you think I owe you my life or something,” she said belligerently.

“Nope. You don’t owe me anything.” I sidestepped her and backed away. I’d vowed never to be within arm’s length of Minka again. She had a bad habit of belting me when I wasn’t paying attention. On the other hand, with her head wrapped in a thick white gauze bandage, she didn’t seem half as threatening as usual.

“Liar.”

“I mean it,” I said, balancing on the balls of my feet, ready to spring if she made a move. “If I could do it over again, I would’ve left you to rot.”

“You bitch,” she snarled.

“Back atcha. Now get out of my classroom.”