Chapter 11: More and More Books
Franklin’s books had been stored in wooden crates that had been left in one of the back rooms of the monastery library. Jones sat on the floor with them piled around her as she went through them one by one. She could imagine her father in his tent at night, lamp lit, wrapped in a shawl, his banyan pulled tight and with his felt slippers upon his feet, scratch-scratch-scratching with the quill pen as he made his notes.
The ink was brown and faded in some of the books. He’d experimented with different kinds, dependent on what he’d found as they’d travelled. Some had held their colour well and were dark and rich and easily legible. Some, usually the ones written earlier in their journeys, had faded and were not so easy to read.
As she had unpacked them, she
