Chapter 19Theo spent the morning soothing antique printing presses, stroking them, waking them for use. The metal and mechanisms, the wood and the weight, murmured to his touch, a reassurance. They knew about the magic in letters, symbols, pages. They knew the way that a single word could change the world, whether or not it was cast with deliberate enchantment; all words were a spell, at least the way that Theo felt them. The shape of a thing, the name of it, woven into the glitter of ley-lines and the shining threads he could see if he shut his eyes and looked outside himself, or inside, where the connections ran through him.
Printing presses did not have to inherently hold magic—though Theo considered that they all did to some extent—but the Library’s collection generally did, in one wa
