Nothing here is luxurious; and because of that, it’s beautiful. Even the painted tiles around the stove have a reason to be there.

‘Books should be beautiful,’ Seredith said. ‘No one sees, that’s not the point. It’s a way to honour people – like grave-goods, in olden times.’

In the still silence of the workshop I concentrated on small things: the weight of the burnisher, the squeak of beeswax under my thumb.

‘You become each person you bind, Emmett … Just for a little while, you take them on. How can you do that if you want to sell them at a profit?’

It’s good. Medicinal. It feels virtuous and nourishing. Not like my father’s expensive stuff, which I drink to get drunk on. Heat and sweetness pool on my tongue. This is like drinking sunlight.

‘No.’ I keep my fist closed, holding on to the pain as if it’s an object.

what made someone an artist, not a mere artisan.

The colours are so bright I feel like I’ve got a fever. Tiny details catch my eye: the lustre on a string of pearls, the starry bubbles in a glass of champagne, a beauty spot on a bare shoulder.

Perhaps there was a way I could keep my memories, as if my own heart was a secret book made of muscle and blood. No one would know.