#New England Bookseller

[wellesleybooks]

Pride Month displays around the store.

[wellesleybooks]

Let’s all go to the ocean and read.

[wigoutlet]

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Forty

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: angst, fluff

— WORDCOUNT: 3.4k

— A/N: Here it is 💚 Finally at an end. Thank you to everyone who's been following this fic, and thanks again to @localravenclaw for requesting it for @esolean. It was a great adventure taking this story from prompt up to this point. It's been almost one year to the day since I started writing it, so it is fitting that the final chapter is posted now. I hope you all enjoy it!✨

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir @thiefofthecrowns

I

Tom was on a train, riding back to England. It wasn’t a dream anymore. His cabin seemed more comfortable than it did last time and the view outside was decidedly serene. There was no sign of the chaos that was unfolding back in Italy.

A warrant had been issued for Ambrogio Oso and the Swiss authorities fell under criticism for their obstinate lack of cooperation. The Italian police were convinced he’d struck a bargain with someone so that he would not face extradition. He was clearly connected with the Roman underground and old rumours of his involvement with the Mafia surfaced once more. Since the conflict involved the French-speaking part of Switzerland — Oso was said to have settled in Geneva — the Swiss asked for mediation from France, who delegated Mr. Jean Monnet to solve the issue. An evening paper in Rome described it as “an underhanded excuse to leverage the authority of the ECSC”, of which Italy was a member but not a more important one than France. This opened the door for all manner of political and economic experts to weigh in and stoke the already bubbling dissatisfaction with the ECSC as a whole.

Support for law enforcement in Italy was already wavering and the amount of resources being wasted to chase the suspect in the murder of a controversial aristocrat was seen as an insult to the public in a time of economic strife. The exchange rate with most foreign currencies, especially the dollar, remained pitiful, which no doubt contributed to the influx of spoilt and noisy Americans among other undesirables. The fiery murder of Baron Agarda at the hand of either an elderly employee or — the second most likely suspect — a young French national with a record of public indecency, was considered an act of divine intervention either way.

It amused Tom, thinking back now to how keen the inspector was to resolve the case specifically because of his yearning for public approval. He bit his lip to keep from chuckling as he read the Corriere Della Sera. Perhaps he would clip the article and keep it as a memento of his fun little vacation.

He had a moment of compassion for Donatien… Fleeing to Switzerland in the hope of reuniting with his erstwhile protector and would-be sponsor, Ambrogio. As soon as the boy was seen standing outside Casa Ur that day, the Carabinieri knew they had their man. Tom had only helped them confirm it. He so loved hot-headed people, their brains as soft as pudding. And it had certainly taught him a new respect for the art of invisibility. Of course, him planting Donatien’s ring with the bloodied clothes of Clement probably had more to do with it.

He sighed in quiet satisfaction and placed the paper aside. Before him sat the cursed book, the cause of all that trouble. The intrigue, the heartache, betrayal, and death. He supposed it was only fitting. Books like that had a destiny, and a price, and the will of their maker prevailed above the petty wants of their mortal caretakers. It just so happened that the price of the Delomelanicon was not gold or silver or banknotes, but blood… and a couple of souls.

The view outside his window never changed. They had crossed a frozen Italy softly veiled in white and now he couldn’t say exactly where they were. Maybe it was France already. He could see frozen vineyards in the distance and a crown of crows above. There was a light over everything spreading like spilt milk but it came from nowhere, no moon, no sun, as if the very sky was a gaping hole revealing a void of white. Perhaps there was a sea of souls behind that firmament and only in days as cold as this would they appear… But Tom could never count himself among their number. He had made sure of it, in more ways than one.

He could only imagine the furore that was to come in the magical community among those in the know once Burke let spread the word he had the book. Buyers will be crawling over each other like beasts in a pit, and it would likely fall to Tom to skin the price off of their monstrous backs. What’s another heirloom or two compared to sacred knowledge? Yes, he would not let this opportunity pass him by, not after everything he’d been through… And he knew of more than one collector who would part with precious relics for a chance to own that book. After all, demonic tomes that the Ministry knew nothing of had many uses for many wizards, and he intended to milk those amateurs for everything they had. Perhaps, he amused himself, he might get Mr. Malfoy to pay for it again — and no forged folds of muggle bills this time… Tom estimated he might even squeeze three Horcrux-worthy items from the old fool.

“What are you grinning about?”

“Just thinking of all the things we’ll get up to in London.”

“No, no, it wasn’t that kind of a grin.”

“Oh, was it not? What kind was it, then?”

She smiled and, like a cluster of writhing snakes, uncoiled to leave her nest of fur and scarves behind and join him on his side of the cabin. Tom kept her comfortable and warm, weaving around her soothing spells of warm fumes that smelled like her favourite tea and conjuring for her the most luxurious and soft accoutrements. After all, she would find precious little of any of it in London, especially in his cheap one-bedroom flat. And as a reward, she pinched his cheeks and ruffled his hair and smiled with love and adoration at him.

“That was a very bad idea kind of grin,” she said.

“So? It’s not like I ever got us in trouble before.”

“You mean aside from theft and murder and giving false statements to the Carabinieri?”

“Those, I’ll remind you, are exactly the sort of things that got us out of trouble.”

“And breaking my heart?”

“That was only temporary…”

“Well, you certainly made it seem not-so-temporary.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment,” she grumbled.

Tom reached up and grabbed the back of her head, her hair soft beneath his fingers, and pulled her in for a kiss.

She understood why he’d done all of that. He knew she did… It was imperative that the Carabinieri have no idea they were together, especially if he wanted to make the inspector think he had been Donatien’s lover. He explained everything to her as he helped her hurriedly pack in the middle of the night before they made for the train station. It had been hours before she believed him but with that morning’s newspapers in their hands, she slowly accepted that Tom had done all of it for her. The lies he wove, once she saw them brought to completion, made as much sense to her as they must’ve done to the Carabinieri. An aristocrat running an underground network for rich old perverts, an illegal book trade, payments made in the form of boy flesh, love affairs and subtle murder, it was all easier to believe than magic and demonic books.

And although it hurt Tom to paint Ambrogio as the hero, he had to admit it was a neat little plan. It certainly worked well to draw suspicion away from her. The foolish inspector was only too eager to believe that a delicate lady like her would never hurt a soul. Of course, Tom knew better — poor Clement. She, however, still didn’t know that he knew about that. And that’s how it was going to stay. She may not have been blameless in her own mind, but she could at least imagine that her soul was still untainted in his eyes.

She sighed into his kiss and wrapped her arms around him, clinging to his neck, her soft body melting against his. Tom held her tightly, claws sinking in, as the train carried them further and further away. She was all his now and nobody could come between them anymore. He would find a way to live forever with her — and having the Delomelanicon opened paths for him that weren’t there before. And if anything, her being a muggle should work in his favour. Her mind was innocent, a blank sheet with no preconceptions, and for her, magic was still a wonderful thing. There was no good or bad, no right or wrong, it was all beautiful to her, and Tom would be there to watch her discover all of it, to teach her as she went through the same waves of wonder as he did as a child. Hers was the perfect mind to accept what he suggested without fear or prejudice.

She pulled away after a lazy patter of kisses and he caught her licking her lips when he opened his eyes. He smiled and brushed his thumb against her cheek. She looked positively drunk on love, just as he liked it.

“I can’t wait for you to see London… It’s a ruin, and atrocity. You’ll hate it just as much as I do,” he said with a smile.

“Are you sure I won’t be a burden?”

“Having second thoughts?” he chuckled. “We’re a long way from Rome already…”

“I just…”

She struggled to find her words. Tom waited, but he already knew what was on her mind.

“It will be the first time I’ll be useless,” she finally said.

He cupped her face, the warmth of her skin so intense against his skin it penetrated him to the bone.

“You will never be a burden,” he said. “I’ll teach you potion-making, there’s no silly wand-waving involved in that. You can dabble in alchemy too if you want. I’ve salvaged some books on it from the Baron’s collection just for you.”

“Want me to discover the Philosopher’s Stone to prove my love? Is that it, Tom?” she laughed.

“Great minds do think alike,” he grinned. “But no. You can prove it in far simpler ways.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a giggle as he pulled her in his lap.

II

They arrived in Paris. From there, they would have had to take another train to Callais and then the ferry, a tedious proposition after everything they’d been through.

“Are you glad to see it again?” he asked.

“I don’t know… It looks different this time.”

He cast a subtle charm on their suitcases to make them lighter and carried most of them out of the train station, diverting their course without even asking. They would not leave Paris that night.

It was a dizzying feeling, being free… Between the Italy job and returning to England, Tom could do as he liked. As for her, this was the first time in years she’d been out of a job and with him at her side, she could go anywhere, do anything, at least for a little while. He booked for them a fancy room at a hotel with a view of the Arc de Triomphe and they decided to see none of the places they’d seen before together.

They explored Paris as if they were strangers to it, stopping at the first café they spotted, going into antique shops tucked between old streets, sitting by modest fountains in parks with no name and petting every stray cat along the way.

On their second day, he took her to Montmartre without specifically saying why, and she was so used to the mysteries that surrounded him that she didn’t even ask.

“Are we still using fake money, by the way?”

“We are. But not where we’re going.”

“Pity. That taxi driver was really nice.”

“He fancied you.”

“Do you think so?”

“Have you ever known a Frenchman to be polite without good reason?”

“Well…”

“And don’t mention Donatien.”

“But he always was nice to me.”

“He was a thief and a liar.”

“But Tom, so are you.”

“I suppose you have a type, then.”

He took her to La Place Cache where he bought her sweets and trinkets. They were hardly more than parlour tricks, but it was real magic she could hold in her hands. Passing through the statue made her dizzy, but actually seeing the place, hearing the sounds, tasting what he bought her, was thoroughly intoxicating. Tom smiled, remembering something of what it was like for him to first see Diagon Alley. It was a weakness of his to want to impress her, and magic sure did that… The whole day, she spoke of nothing else. The littlest thing mattered so much to her and it made his heart grow ten times over in his chest.

“Can we get some of those moving photographs before we leave?” she begged with a jumping chocolate frog clutched in her hands, melting away.

“Of course we can. What of?”

“Something wild… Something beautiful. A scene of nature with swaying trees and drifting clouds and bunnies and deer passing by.”

He got her a pretty landscape photo of a forest and she spent the whole way back to the hotel looking at it, her head resting serenely on his shoulder. It helped Tom decide what they should do on their final day there.

She wanted to see something untamed, entirely different from the marble monuments of Rome, so Tom took her to the Vincennes Woods on the eastern outskirts of the city. It was an overcast day and nobody else seemed to be travelling there, which suited them just fine.

They got blissfully lost after fifteen minutes of wandering aimlessly about and kissed between the grey shrubs by the lake. They found strange mansions tucked among the trees, and statues, and a marble birdbath with an owl cleaning its feathers in it.

“I saw a lot of owls there…”

“Where?”

“Yesterday, on the magic street.”

“You mean La Place Cache?” he asked with a cocked brow.

“That’s the one. Why do they have so many?” she asked as she hooked her arm around his.

“We use them to send letters.”

“Owls?”

“They’re highly intelligent. Best sort of bird for it.”

“So do you have a mailing owl at home?”

“No, not anymore. I used to when I was at school.”

“What was its name?”

“Morgana. She was a great horned owl with black and grey plumage.”

“Awww!”

“She was very noisy. And a glutton. She ate half a rabbit once that she caught out in the field and dumped the carcass on my bed.”

“I love her.”

“Sold her when I was about sixteen, didn’t need her anymore. Bought a diary with the money.”

“I want a pet owl…”

“Well, that can be arranged,” he smiled.

Fallen leaves bunched up around their feet, softening their steps. The sky was all but covered by the crowns of high trees and birds sang all around them. Tom created motes of light that lit the path when the forest grew the thickest, and they kept on walking.

He found a snake to speak to as well, an innocent green grass friend hidden in a winter burrow. Tom bent down and called her over as he invited the snake into his palm. Her eyes shone as she watched him speak in Parseltongue.

“Can I learn that?” she asked.

“Afraid not. It has to be inborn.”

“Not fair!”

“Here,” he said, holding out the snake in the cup of his hands. “Hold her, she won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t know, Tom…”

“He said you’re very pretty.”

“Liar,” she mumbled, but took the new friend anyway.

It hissed and shivered pleasantly, its muscles coiling and relaxing.

Tom laughed. “She says your hands feel lovely. She wants to stay there.”

“Oh no… How can I ever put her down now? Poor snake, down in that cold, dirty hole in the ground…”

Tom hissed and told the snake to kiss her. It did, slipping its forked tongue out to tickle at her pinkie finger. She gasped and Tom could see her face light up with sweet affection.

“She is so darling! Tom, I want to keep her…”

“If only you liked my kisses that much.”

“I do. Shut up,” she smiled, gently starting to pet the snake’s small head with her thumb. “Tell her she’s pretty too. That she has lovely scales.”

Tom’s smile turned a little sharper. “I’m starting to regret introducing you two.”

“Tom, tell her!”

He sighed and with a toothy smile conveyed her praises to the snake. Its lithe body shivered in delight and it nuzzled the cushion of flesh beneath her thumb, tail curling around to hide its eyes.

“Awww, she’s shy!”

“What a showoff.”

“Don’t be jealous.”

“Why not?”

She petted it a while longer then bent to put the snake back on the ground. As it slithered into its home she covered the entrance lightly with leaves, tucking the creature away for the winter. As for Tom’s jealousy, she soothed that with kisses beneath the swaying tendrils of a willow tree while he played at being angry for a few moments longer.

They eventually found the path that led out of the forest with the sunset and she gathered acorns as they went. The last bus took them to the hotel and Tom forged enough French banknotes for a feast. Her sense of honour protested again, at least until the first eclair touched her lips. Tom’s lips followed close behind to lick the chocolate from the edges of her mouth.

III

The North Sea was sleek and docile, swaying them in unfeeling waves like children being lulled to sleep. The sky had disappeared again, taking the sun with it, and they were left once more with a white void above. Everything had a feeling of finality about it akin to being doomed to death, but there was a hint of resurrection too. For Tom, it was as if returning from the underworld. For her, beginning a new life.

Surrounded by other passengers going about their ordinary lives, the two of them felt like the carriers of a great secret — which in a way they were. The story in the papers about the hunt for Ambrogio kept evolving but on pages further and further in the back. Nobody had been speaking of it in France, and now three days later it was as if it never happened.

They were still full of sweets and wine and lazy from the night before but they treated themselves to the snacks on the ferry as well and fed treats to one another in a hedonist repose. When she got tired, she slid down to lay on Tom’s lap as they sat beside the window atop red cushioned seats.

“Do you think we’ll be happy in England?” she asked.

“I never was,” Tom shrugged. “Were you happy in Italy?”

“I think so,” she said. “I had friends there, you know. And I had you.”

“And you have me still.”

She looked up at him, her eyes catching his upside down, and smiled. Tom held her tighter, feeling suddenly possessive in the way he got when he thought of his old diary or his grandfather’s ring.

“Well then, here’s one reason to be happy.” He leaned down to brush his lips over her temple. “Even if you won’t be happy in England, you’ll never be miserable on your own again.”

Her giggle was a crystalline chime and she reached up to kiss him. She curled her fingers in his hair and held on like they were sleek black reins to let him feel her possessiveness as well. Tom parted from her lips and sighed, but smiled. She was in his arms, soft and comfy on his lap, sweet on his lips, and filled with love. She smiled back at him as her hand still lingered in his hair, twirling a stray lock around her finger.

“I can’t wait for us to be alone,” Tom said.

“I’m sure,” she cocked a brow.

But that wasn’t how he meant it.

“We’ll have an eternity together. You’ll see. At the end of time, there will only be the two of us left.”

He could tell she couldn’t quite understand, and even if she did, he wasn’t certain she’d approve yet. But then again, she didn’t need to. Tom brushed a strand of hair off of her forehead and smoothed his thumbs over her brows. He’d clear a path in her mind, just as he’d carved a place for himself in her heart, for immortality.

“You’ll see. I’ll make you want to spend eternity away. With me.”

“Oh, silly Tom. I already do.”

[wellesleybooks]

Also New England! Yesterday, downtown Wellesley.

And YES, we are always reblogging @myjetpack Tom Gauld.

An autumn cartoon that feels appropriate in London today...

[nothwell]

Do you have time to read three romance novels?

Are you able to judge without bias?

Are you ready to have fun?

Serve as a judge for the New England Readers’ Choice Awards Contest!

Readers, librarians, booksellers, and unpaid bloggers/reviewers are all welcome to judge the NERW contest.

(Published romance authors and paid reviewers are not allowed to serve as judges.)

Judges will be asked to read and score 3 novels/novellas. Ebooks will be sent out one at a time; once judges have submitted their scores for their first book, they will be sent a second, and then a third, book to judge. If judges submit scores for all three books early, and wish to judge more entries, additional books will be sent out if they are available (up to a limit of 10 per judge).

Our contest coordinators will assign books based on reading preferences indicated by judges on the judging intake form.

Books will be sent out between March 2024 and April 2024, as they are received by the contest organizers. Judges will need to submit all scores by April 30, 2024.

Visit NERW dot org to sign up!

[mercerislandbooks]

Book Notes: A Natural History of Dragons

Many of us had big hopes for future employment when we were younger. Some of us aspired to being astronauts or veterinarians. I was convinced that I was going to be a mermaid fairy princess (that's a real job, right?). Now I'm a bookseller, which is honestly about as close to little Becca's dream job as I could have gotten, other than playing a mermaid at an aquarium or something similar. By working at a bookstore, I'm constantly surrounded by little enclosed worlds of endless possibilities. One of my newest favorite possibilities is in A Natural History of Dragons, the first book by Marie Brennan in a series set in a fantasy version of Victorian England. In fact, this may have unlocked a new childhood dream job for me: dragon naturalist.

Isabella is determined to live life her way. And living life her way means studying dragons. But she is the only daughter of a well-to-do family in Scirland (fantasy England). As such, she's expected to compose herself accordingly, find a husband, and lead a proper life as a member of the aristocracy, hosting parties and raising children. But her fascination with dragons pulls at her, and she yearns for something more in life. When a fateful encounter (engineered in part by her usual partner-in-crime, her closest brother) leads her to a like-minded man who doesn't mind her eccentricities, a match is made. Parents placated by her new husband's respectable title, now all she has to do is convince him to take her on a sponsored research expedition to an unfamiliar and survive the adventure that follows. In a small village full of superstitions and wary of strangers, surrounded by dragons that are going after travelers in unprecedented attacks, and fighting for her place in a male dominated field -- what could possibly go wrong?

Reminiscent of Dragonology (the book I always longed for at my childhood book fairs), A Natural History of Dragons is written as a mix between a naturalist's research journal and the memoirs of an adventurer, and is full of gorgeous illustrations of the dragons they find along the way. If you're intrigued by the natural world or are a lover of fantasy (or just dragons), this series will capture you the way it has me.

-- Becca

[theanarchistscookbook]

No Copyright Law: The Real Reason for Germany's Industrial Expansion

Fotostrecke

Photo Gallery: The Power of the Book

3 Bilder

Foto: Topical Press Agency/ Getty Images

No Copyright Law

The Real Reason for Germany's Industrial Expansion?

Did Germany experience rapid industrial expansion in the 19th century due to an absence of copyright law? A German historian argues that the massive proliferation of books, and thus knowledge, laid the foundation for the country's industrial might.

Von Frank Thadeusz

18.08.2010, 16.52 Uhr

Zur Merkliste hinzufügen

Dieser Beitrag stammt aus dem SPIEGEL-Archiv. Warum ist das wichtig?

The entire country seemed to be obsessed with reading. The sudden passion for books struck even booksellers as strange and in 1836 led literary critic Wolfgang Menzel to declare Germans "a people of poets and thinkers."

"That famous phrase is completely misconstrued," declares economic historian Eckhard Höffner, 44. "It refers not to literary greats such as Goethe and Schiller," he explains, "but to the fact that an incomparable mass of reading material was being produced in Germany."

Höffner has researched that early heyday of printed material in Germany and reached a surprising conclusion -- unlike neighboring England and France, Germany experienced an unparalleled explosion of knowledge in the 19th century.

German authors during this period wrote ceaselessly. Around 14,000 new publications appeared in a single year in 1843. Measured against population numbers at the time, this reaches nearly today's level. And although novels were published as well, the majority of the works were academic papers.

The situation in England was very different. "For the period of the Enlightenment and bourgeois emancipation, we see deplorable progress in Great Britain," Höffner states.

Equally Developed Industrial Nation

Indeed, only 1,000 new works appeared annually in England at that time -- 10 times fewer than in Germany -- and this was not without consequences. Höffner believes it was the chronically weak book market that caused England, the colonial power, to fritter away its head start within the span of a century, while the underdeveloped agrarian state of Germany caught up rapidly, becoming an equally developed industrial nation by 1900.

Even more startling is the factor Höffner believes caused this development -- in his view, it was none other than copyright law, which was established early in Great Britain, in 1710, that crippled the world of knowledge in the United Kingdom.

Germany, on the other hand, didn't bother with the concept of copyright for a long time. Prussia, then by far Germany's biggest state, introduced a copyright law in 1837, but Germany's continued division into small states meant that it was hardly possible to enforce the law throughout the empire.

Höffner's diligent research is the first academic work to examine the effects of the copyright over a comparatively long period of time and based on a direct comparison between two countries, and his findings have caused a stir among academics. Until now, copyright was seen as a great achievement and a guarantee for a flourishing book market. Authors are only motivated to write, runs the conventional belief, if they know their rights will be protected.

Yet a historical comparison, at least, reaches a different conclusion. Publishers in England exploited their monopoly shamelessly. New discoveries were generally published in limited editions of at most 750 copies and sold at a price that often exceeded the weekly salary of an educated worker.

London's most prominent publishers made very good money with this system, some driving around the city in gilt carriages. Their customers were the wealthy and the nobility, and their books regarded as pure luxury goods. In the few libraries that did exist, the valuable volumes were chained to the shelves to protect them from potential thieves.

In Germany during the same period, publishers had plagiarizers -- who could reprint each new publication and sell it cheaply without fear of punishment -- breathing down their necks. Successful publishers were the ones who took a sophisticated approach in reaction to these copycats and devised a form of publication still common today, issuing fancy editions for their wealthy customers and low-priced paperbacks for the masses.

A Multitude of Treatises

This created a book market very different from the one found in England. Bestsellers and academic works were introduced to the German public in large numbers and at extremely low prices. "So many thousands of people in the most hidden corners of Germany, who could not have thought of buying books due to the expensive prices, have put together, little by little, a small library of reprints," the historian Heinrich Bensen wrote enthusiastically at the time.

The prospect of a wide readership motivated scientists in particular to publish the results of their research. In Höffner's analysis, "a completely new form of imparting knowledge established itself."

Essentially the only method for disseminating new knowledge that people of that period had known was verbal instruction from a master or scholar at a university. Now, suddenly, a multitude of high-level treatises circulated throughout the country.

The "Literature Newspaper" reported in 1826 that "the majority of works concern natural objects of all types and especially the practical application of nature studies in medicine, industry, agriculture, etc." Scholars in Germany churned out tracts and handbooks on topics such as chemistry, mechanics, engineering, optics and the production of steel.

In England during the same period, an elite circle indulged in a classical educational canon centered more on literature, philosophy, theology, languages and historiography. Practical instruction manuals of the type being mass-produced in Germany, on topics from constructing dikes to planting grain, were for the most part lacking in England. "In Great Britain, people were dependent on the medieval method of hearsay for the dissemination of this useful, modern knowledge," Höffner explains.

The German proliferation of knowledge created a curious situation that hardly anyone is likely to have noticed at the time. Sigismund Hermbstädt, for example, a chemistry and pharmacy professor in Berlin, who has long since disappeared into the oblivion of history, earned more royalties for his "Principles of Leather Tanning" published in 1806 than British author Mary Shelley did for her horror novel "Frankenstein," which is still famous today.

'Lively Scholarly Discourse'

The trade in technical literature was so strong that publishers constantly worried about having a large enough supply, and this situation gave even the less talented scientific authors a good bargaining position in relation to publishers. Many professors supplemented their salaries with substantial additional income from the publication of handbooks and informational brochures.

Höffner explains that this "lively scholarly discourse" laid the basis for the Gründerzeit, or foundation period, the term used to describe the rapid industrial expansion in Germany in the late 19th century. The period produced later industrial magnates such as Alfred Krupp and Werner von Siemens.

The market for scientific literature didn't collapse even as copyright law gradually became established in Germany in the 1840s. German publishers did, however, react to the new situation in a restrictive way reminiscent of their British colleagues, cranking up prices and doing away with the low-price market.

Authors, now guaranteed the rights to their own works, were often annoyed by this development. Heinrich Heine, for example, wrote to his publisher Julius Campe on October 24, 1854, in a rather acerbic mood: "Due to the tremendously high prices you have established, I will hardly see a second edition of the book anytime soon. But you must set lower prices, dear Campe, for otherwise I really don't see why I was so lenient with my material interests."

[uwmspeccoll]

Milestone Monday

Happy National Dictionary Day!

Although the day was introduced to honor the birthday of American lexicographer Noah Webster, we are more interested in his innovative predecessor Samuel Johnson (1709-1784). Johnson was an English writer with credits as a poet, playwright, essayist, literary critic, sermonist, biographer, editor, and lexicographer. In 1746, he was approached by a group of publishers to create an authoritative English dictionary and agreed, boasting he could complete the dictionary within three years. In the end, he single-handedly completed the task within eight years utilizing only clerical assistance. 

Johnson’s A Dictionary of the English Language was first published in London by noted Scottish printer and publisher William Strahan on April 15, 1755. While certainly not the first dictionary, it was groundbreaking in its documentation of the English lexicon providing not only words and their definitions, but examples of their use. Johnson accomplished this by illustrating the meanings of words through literary quotes, often citing Shakespeare, Milton, and Dryden. He also introduced lighthearted humor into some of his definitions, most notably describing a lexicographer as “a writer of dictionaries; a harmless drudge that busies himself in tracing the original and detailing the signification of words”. Of equal amusement, oats are defined as “a grain which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people”. 

A Dictionary of the English Language was published in two volumes with volume one containing A-K and volume two L-Z. Its pages were 46 cm tall and 51 cm wide, and it is said that outside of a few special editions of the Bible no book of this size and bulk had been set to type and that no bookseller could print it without help. Johnson’s dictionary was the pre-eminent dictionary for over 100 years until the completion of the Oxford English Dictionary in 1884. Despite some criticism about his etymology and orthoepic guidelines, Johnson’s dictionary was tremendously influential in its methodology for how dictionaries should be constructed and entries presented, casting a shadow over all future dictionaries and lexicographers. 

Several of the words in Johnson's dictionary were painstakingly defined. "Take" has 134 definitions running 8,000 words over 5 pages.

Woodcut tailpieces adorn the dictionary interspersed between letters.

Special Collections holds a facsimile reproduction of Johnson's dictionary, published in 1967 by AMS Press of New York.

View other Milestone Monday posts.

-Jenna, Special Collections Graduate Intern 

[redgoldsparks]

October Reading and Reviews by Maia Kobabe

I post my reviews throughout the month on Storygraph and Goodreads, and do roundups here and on patreon. Reviews below the cut.

Finna by Nino Cipri, read by Amanda Dolan

Ava is having a rough time: three days ago she and Jules broke up, and since then she's been avoiding them at their horrible mutual job at LitenVärld, a dystopian Ikea. Then a customer goes missing in a wormhole in spacetime, and Ava and Jules are chosen to try and retrieve the missing grandma. Very short, very fun. Written by a nonbinary author. Gave this a re-listen as an audiobook because there is a sequel now :D

Defekta by Nino Cipri read by Ramon De Ocampo 

This novella takes place in the same LitenVärld store that Ava and Jules worked at in book one in this series, but follows Derek, the store's most loyal and dedicated employee. He lives in a shipping container in the store's parking lot, and has no friends and no life outside his time at the store. In fact, he doesn't even have any memories from before he started working at the store... or any explanation for why the store seems to make sense to him, and even speak to him, in a way it doesn't to any of his co-workers. Then something even more shocking than an wormhole occurs in the store: the furniture starts waking up and coming to life. Derek's entire worldview and sense of self are completely upturned. Unfortunately this story didn't capture me as strongly as book one; despite being a novella it felt oddly slow. I was rooting for Derek and the wayward furniture by the end, but the structure of the story was not as strong or streamlined as Finna. I do still want to keep reading Nino Cipri because I love the way they effortlessly include nonbinary characters in their sci-fi and I want a third installment that returns to Ava and Jules!

Princess Floralinda and the Forty Story Tower read by Moira Quirk 

A four hour fantasy novella read by the talented and wonderful Moira Quirk, who also reads the Locked Tomb audiobooks. This original fairy tale features Floralinda, a princess captured by a witch and imprisoned in a tower full of monsters. When all of the princes who try to rescue her fail Floralinda has to to take up arms against the monsters herself. I was entertained throughout my whole time listening to this story, but it didn't have a particularly strong emotional impact. I would mostly recommend it to Tamsyn Muir completionists; though it was published in the same year as Harrow it feels like an earlier work. I kind of wanted the ending to be either more hopeful or more horrible.

My Aunt is a Monster by Reimena Yee 

Safia is blind, but she was raised by booksellers who read her stories of adventures and the wide world. After her parents tragically die in a fire, Safia is adopted by a distant relative, a reclusive aunt who used to be the world's most famous adventurer. A curse ended her traveling career, but a rival adventurer and the discovery of an ancient city might pull the whole family back into the world. This book was sillier than I expected, but I still greatly enjoyed the art style and the magical whimsy.

Thistlefoot by GemmaRose Nethercott read by January LaVoy 

Isaac and Bellatine Yaga grew up on the road with their parents' traveling puppet show, but neither has a good relationship with their parents as adults. Isaac ran away as a teen and has lived as a train-hopping actor and scam artist into his early twenties. Bellatine moved across the country to study woodworking in New England were she is trying desperately to live a normal life despite her power to bring inanimate objects to life. Her power, and Isaac's shapeshifting ability, are inheritances of a generational trauma from a history they barely know. But then another inheritance arrives for them in New York: a house on chicken legs, built by a Russian Jewish ancestor who survived the pogroms of the 1920s and the turmoil of the Russian Revolution. To Isaac, the house is an opportunity. To Bellatine, it is a home. But it comes with a curse: a shadow man follows the house to America, wanting to finish the destruction he started. I loved this story, woven through with Jewish folklore and American folk songs, a road trip story, a story of facing and accepting family history and how far its shadow falls into the present. I image this book gets compted with American Gods by Neil Gaimen and The Golem and the Jinni by Helen Wecker but it is very much its own book with its own lyrical tone. And its queer! Highly recommend.

The Death I Gave Him by Em X. Liu 

This queer, modern retelling of Hamlet is set in a scientific lab and contained mostly within a tense 12 hours. Hayden Lichfield finds his father's cooling body in Elsinore labs within the first few pages; he immediately calls on the sentient AI system, Horatio, who controls the security cameras and many other aspects of the building. Horatio reports a 1.5 hour gap in the video logs. Hayden and his father, Dr Lichfield, were working on formula to reverse death. Hayden's immediate assumption is that the killer was after his father's research. The lab goes into lockdown and Hayden is trapped inside with his uncle Charles, lab technician Gabriel Rasmussen, Hayden's ex and research intern Felicia Xia, and her father Paul Xia, head of security. Unless they find an intruder, one of them is the murderer. I enjoyed how deftly this novel kept me guessing even when following a plot I know well. I was genuinely unsure how many, or who, of the people trapped in Elsinore would survive the night. I was also into the unashamed queerness of an AI in love with a human, and the ways in which that love could and could not be reciprocated.

The Feather Thief by Kirk Wallace Johnson read by MacLeod Andrews

This book does an unbelievably thorough job of recounting one of the most devastating recent thefts from a modern museum. In 2009, an American student studying at London's Royal Academy of Music broke into the Tring museum, which contains thousands of natural history specimens including birds collected by Charles Darwin and his contemporary Alfred Russel Wallace. Darwin and Wallace both independently formulated the theory of natural selection and survival of the fittest in the same decade, by observing and collecting birds on remote islands during the height of the British Empire. They both believed in the importance of preserving these birds for future science. At the same time, the colonial empire had developed a huge appetite for exotic and colorful feathers for Victorian hats, the cabinets of curiosities and natural history specimens which were in vogue in the upper class, and for another aristocrat's hobby: tying salmon flies. These appetites nearly drove many bird species to extinction. Modern day lovers of the Victorian art of salmon fly tying now comb the internet for feathers from these rare birds, desperate to get their hands on materials mentioned in Victorian books. The majority of these feathers are now semi-illegal to possess or sell. It was this obsession that drove 20 year old Edwin Rist to break a window at the Tring and escape with nearly 300 stolen bird skins. There followed a long detective investigation into how he'd done it and what happened with the feathers afterwards. I enjoyed the audiobook and was impressed by the persistence of the author, who pursued this story for half a decade.

Asylum by Greg Means and Kazimir Lee 

A short but rich story about platonic adult friends who bond through a competitive fantasy card game, but end up supporting each other through all kinds of life transitions both joyful and heartbreaking. Allen and Zekia are both single, both wish they were dating or partnered, but instead they're sharing hotel rooms at geeky conventions, setting up mutual friends, attending weddings and funerals, babysitting other people's kids, and most of all playing the card game Asylum. Zekia, a Black lesbian, struggles with her self-worth, feeling unlovable and too socially awkward to date. Allen, a straight cis man, take a more philosophical view of his situation, appreciating the good things he has in life, including his many strong friendships. The black and white art is simple, clear, and effective. I read it all in one sitting!

Sincerely, Harriet by Sarah Winifred Searle

This is a very quiet and soft story of a girl struggling with an invisible chronic illness, and the resulting isolation and loneliness. Harriet and her parents recently moved to Chicago (to be closer to hospitals and specialists) and she doesn't know anyone in her neighborhood yet except the older woman, Pearl, who lives on a lower floor. Harriet misses friends she made at a summer camp and sends them postcards, lying about her new busy and fun social life. Pearl lends Harriet a series classic of books to try and gently nudge the girl out of her shell. But Harriet struggles to focus on them, instead wondering about a possible ghost living in the attic. There are other emotional struggles hinted at, but they are very subtle and a lot is left to the reader's imagination. The line art is very careful and lovely.

[wellesleybooks]

Friday night sunshine in Wellesley Square.

[the-dust-jacket]

Hello. I've already read the Kingston Cycle, Half a Soul and I'm about to finish the Stariel books. Do you have more recommendations? Thank you in advance.

Oh absolutely!

A Matter of Magic, by Patricia C. Wrede (for cross-country Regency romps, rogues, magicians, spies, and Ladies of Quality)

A Marvellous Light, by Freya Marske (for murder and mystery and secret Edwardian wizardry, romance, grand old houses and creepy curses)

Spellbound, by Allie Therin (for forbidden love, found family, and frightening magic in 1920s New York)

Shades of Milk and Honey, by Mary Robinette Kowal (for frothy and impeccably evocative Regency magic)

Sorcerer to the Crown, by Zen Cho (for schemes both magical and mundane and the world of fairy crossing into the world of the tonne)

To Say Nothing of the Dog, by Connie Willis (for laugh-out-loud time travel shenanigans and questionable Victorian aesthetic choices)

Soulless, by Gail Carriger (for vampire assassins, werewolf aristocrats, interrupted tea time, and other terrible inconveniences which may beset a young lady)

A little darker:

The Magpie Lord, by KJ Charles (for semi-secret magical society, creepy family estate, steamy romance all in an Extremely Victorian Gothic setting)

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, by Susanna Clarke (clever and deeply atmospheric tour of a magical 19th century England, but definitely not romance)

Salt Magic, Skin Magic, by Lee Welch (for curses and magical bonds and frightening fairies)

Widdershins, by Jordan L Hawk (for Gilded Age mystery and romance featuring Lovecraftian horror and humor)

More fantasy:

Uprooted, by Naomi Novik (for fairytale magic and whimsy, adventure and romance and creepy trees)

Seducing the Sorcerer, by Lee Welch (for wizard fashion, romance and humor and whimsical magic)

Stardust, by Neil Gaiman (for wild romps in the fairyland next door, alternately humorous and haunting)

More historical:

The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting by KJ Charles (for saucy Regency romance and determined social scheming)

Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons (for dry humor, wacky hijinx, and extended family shenanigans)

Hither Page or The Missing Page by Cat Sebastian (village and manor house mysteries respectively, featuring lots of queer romance and found family with a dash of jaded post-war espionage)

I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith (for yearning and laughs and first love and an eccentric family living in an increasingly run down castle)

A little farther from the brief, but might be worth checking out On Vibes:

The Left Handed Booksellers of London, by Garth Nix

The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, by Diana Wynne Jones

His Majesty's Dragon, by Naomi Novik (more Regency fantasy, but full on Age of Sail adventure rather than comedy of manners, romance, or secret magic)

Among Others, by Jo Walton

Arabella of Mars, by David D. Levine

A Natural History of Dragons, by Marie Brennan

It also sounds like a Georgette Heyer or Jeeves and Wooster binge would be really fun right now!

[wellesleybooks]

We hear it, we live it, we love it.

My cartoon for this week’s Guardian Books. #books

p.s I have made five new prints of my cartoons, visit www.tomgauld.com for details.

[studiolemonboy]

This is a background color test (using CMYK halftones) for with one of locations in my comic.

Atomic Video is a location in the town of Cherry Creek from my new YA cosmic horror comic set in 1990's New England. "Cherry Creek Paranormal Club" (formerly Peach Creek Paranormal) follows Paranormal Club Members Louise, Jean, Alejandro, Christine, and Sam as they uncover the dark secrets bubbling up to the surface and threatening to destroy their town, all while navigating their last year of middle school.

Atomic Video is the video store where Alejandro's horror-buff older brother, Francisco, works, and it becomes a frequent meeting spot for the Club outside of school. Francisco, in his infinite movie-trope related wisdom, sometimes acts as an esoteric guide to the weird world of movie monsters and high-concept sci-fi shenanigans that the Club may face on their quest for the truth. He also lets them hang out and play on the arcade cabinets. Don't ask about his break-up with the goth bookseller at Black Cherry Books across the street; it's still pretty fresh.

[sebastianswallows]

The English Client — Eight

— PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: The year is 1952. Tom is working for Borgin and Burkes. He is sent to Rome to acquire three ancient books of magic by any means necessary. One in particular proves challenging to reach, and the only path forward is through a pretty, young bookseller. A foreigner like him, she lives alone, obsessed with her work... until Tom comes into her life.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 2.8k

— TAGLIST: @esolean @localravenclaw @slytherins-heir

I

It had been several days since she’d introduced Tom to the Baron. Perhaps a full week already passed. In truth, she stopped keeping count.

She had waited outside the Baron’s office for him, and pretended it was just to make sure he didn’t lose his way on his way back to the hotel, but selfishly she was curious to know how their meeting had gone. Did the Baron like the books? Did he like Tom? Did Tom like him? The latter was unlikely. Only special personalities ever did, and her new friend was neither bootlicker nor snob.

But Tom was frustratingly silent on their way back to the station, and no gentle prodding from her would nudge a hint of what had happened. His body was stiff and straight as if in a march, and his gaze was focused on the road ahead. He spared her only a few, rather shy glances now and then, as if he had just taken something from her. There would be no further trade, she understood that much…

She hadn’t seen him since.

The old routine of life that she fell back into suddenly no longer satisfied. She frustrated herself by thinking of him now and then, his face appearing to her for an instant, and then she would start wondering where he was, what he was doing, was he thinking of her, would he ever come back… For all she knew, he had left for England already, and then she would become spontaneously angry and afraid, and her handling of the books would roughen, and her steps would sound quite loud, and nothing would taste good to her anymore.

But all it would take to lift her spirits was the chiming of the bell — was that Tom? — before she saw it was just Sister Silvia or another flock of tourists. Oh. Buongiorno.

She was stocking the shelves at the far end of the shop one morning when the bell ran once again, and through the silence, she heard steady footsteps, firm and prim and strong. She descended and went to them, and when she saw a dark head of hair and a tight lean torso in a plain white shirt, her heart trilled. She smiled as she approached him, faster, faster, and called out a bright ‘hello’. But then the young man turned and broke the spell.

“B-buongiorno,” she mumbled, stopping to a halt. “Posso aiutarla?”

“Oui, er… Si. Cercando un libro di… Torchia?” he said in lightly accented Italian. Was he French? “Quello nella vetrina.”

“Certamente. E come si chiama, signore?”

“Clement Merle,” he said with a smooth rolling of the tongue. “Piacere, signorina.”

Whatever faint smile she had faded. She realised with horror that she would have to tell the Baron about this, and suddenly everything felt quite cold. She forced a grin and nodded, and invited Clement further inside.

II

Tom did not particularly enjoy the taste of coffee, even after having to inflict it on himself these past few weeks for the sake of fitting in. It was a muggle drink and made him somewhat restless when he drank too much of it.

But now that he had started partaking of it on an almost daily basis, he recognised in it a certain quality. It, unlike tea, did not remind him of Mrs. Cole, nor any of the other ladies at the orphanage. Combined, they must’ve drank the Empire’s supply of the stuff while he was there, and to this day he couldn’t bring himself to touch certain varieties, like the Ceylon they favoured.

But he was here now, just another dark-haired man sipping from a little cup throughout the hour while he sat outside and pretended to read a newspaper…

The whole day, he hadn’t ventured anywhere outside of the hotel. He ordered breakfast in his room and spent most of the morning reading. Later, he had lunch at the restaurant downstairs and let the hours drain away at the bar. He hadn’t brought any books with him, they were too important — especially the ones that screamed when opened.

People came and went, and between lunch and dinnertime, he was propositioned on at least four occasions. It was hard to tell with foreign women… They were either too overt, too subtle, or both. But it reminded him, in a manner that made a chill slink down his spine and rise up in his stomach, of the Baron: that same narcissism and pride. As for the attention of the women, that reminded him of England, and his extra-contractual work for Burke. Depravity, fel need, and the loneliness of witches.

Perhaps it was their wealth that he resented, or their looks that he despised, women married for their money with the grit to bear a loveless match… Tom humiliated himself for them, swallowed his own pride, and touched, when it came down to it, their most guarded parts. But no matter what deluded charms they exercised, they never entered through his blood, his eyes, his mouth, to reach him, and Tom could not imagine any of the women he had met so far as able to, through their lips or tender touch, incite his soul to plummet to the level of the body, nor bring his body to the dark heights of his soul.

And of course, how could they? Women who had never worked a day in their lives, women who slept on treasures they neither valued nor truly recognised. Selfish creatures suffering vainly in their little cages, whose ignorance and cowardice enticed him to the brink of murder. No, now that he was away from England and free from Burke and Borgin’s demands, he would not subject himself to any more of that.

“Signor Riddle?”

He nearly jumped from his seat as he heard the clerk call for him from the entrance.

“Si?” he asked, turning around. This was the same prick who recommended that horrible restaurant to him. His eyes narrowed.

“Ah, telephone for you. Cabine two.”

“Grazie,” he muttered.

Tom left the newspaper and his cold coffee behind and walked out to the little chamber on the other side of the hotel where the phone booths were.

“Ahem, yes? Tom Riddle speaking.”

“Tom? Oh, hello! I was afraid you wouldn’t be in…”

It was her.

“Yes, took a break from sight-seeing,” he answered, casually leaning against the booth. “It’s good to hear from you again. Everything alright?”

“Of course, of course it is.”

“Really? You sound a little… nervous.” It was hard to keep the smile from his voice.

“No, everything’s fine,” she said quietly. “I just called because… because…”

Tom held the phone to his ear tightly. She sounded like she was going to cry any minute.

“Because I was wondering whether you’d be able to stop by the shop anytime soon.”

“I’d be glad to,” said Tom, summoning a tone of innocent confusion. “But what’s this about?”

“The… the Baron has reconsidered your offer.”

“He’ll trade the books?”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, the connection wavering. “I just know he wants to talk to you. He’d like to make an offer.”

“Very well. When?”

“When can you come?”

“Today.”

“Oh, that’s… That would be perfect,” she said excitedly.

“Good,” Tom smiled. “You close at half past five, yes? I can come then.”

“Thank you so much, Tom. I’ll be waiting for you inside. Bring the books with you, just in case.”

“I will,” he said. “Goodbye for now.”

“Bye…”

III

He arrived there a little early and waited for a while. He hadn’t expected to see a dark little car parked beside the shop, but at least it confirmed what he already suspected. The Baron was inside.

From the outside, the place seemed closed for the day save for a faint little light coming from a corner of the room. He knocked on the door and, as he waited for somebody to answer, he looked in through the window. There was no sign of Clement anywhere, but that volume of Torchia — the bait they set for him — was gone.

It didn’t matter what happened to Clement, of course, because Tom had been at the hotel all day which all the staff there could attest to. It might have been a little callous, sacrificing him like that, but at least it took suspicion away from him. That, and the monogrammed Swiss knife he’d left under the table. Oh well. Clement had been annoying anyway.

Like a light in the darkness, she came into view.

“Tom!” he heard her say from the other side. She rushed to open the door, her smile shaky and wide. “You came…”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” he grinned cockily as he took his coat off. “So, how have you been?”

Silent as he stepped through, she locked up again behind him, then took his coat and hung it up on the rack behind the door. There was a haunted look in her eyes that wished to say so much.

“Fine, just fine. And how are you?”

“Good,” Tom nodded. He looked down at her figure — fetching as always but closed off, tight, her legs stiff and her hands ruddy as if she’d rubbed them raw in icy water.

“Enough with the pleasantries, I haven’t got all night!” came a familiar voice from the next room.

“Si, signore.”

“Venite qui!”

With an apologetic sigh, she showed him through.

“I’ve been well, by the way,” Tom said to her. “I did so much sightseeing this past week that it was nice to rest for a few days.”

“I honestly thought you’d returned to England by now.”

“Oh, I’m in no hurry to do that.”

“And your employer?”

“Is far away. Just the way I like it,” he winked. He knew she felt the same.

She gave him a knowing smile, then stood aside as she invited him into the last room.

The Baron was there, seated in his bulky wheelchair by the table. He was smoking his pipe, or rather chewing on it, as he levelled a thick scowl at Tom. The dark surrounded them. The only point of light was a faint lamp glowing before the Baron.

“Mr. Riddle,” he said. His expression was unchanged as Tom stepped through as if he were talking to a projection in his mind and not a person right before him. “It seems we were destined to meet again.”

“And I thought you willingly invited me,” he smiled.

“I asked you to come here. I haven’t invited you to anything yet.”

Tom shrugged and looked around, pretending to be less familiar with this room than he really was.

“I must say, Baron, being called on such short notice, so suddenly and rushed… It seems, if I can afford to say so, quite unlike you.”

The old man took another puff and clenched his jaw in thought, the loose teeth creaking in his mouth.

“This place will be of interest to you, I can assure you,” he said.

“So, should I give you the books now, or…?”

The Baron and the girl behind him exchanged a look. She closed the door behind them, then moved to the left. Tom turned his head and followed her shadowed silhouette.

She bent and pulled the carpet neatly by the edge, skirt tightening enticingly around her thighs, then knelt. He couldn’t see just what she was doing, but he could hear the click of a metallic lock, and when she stepped over to the side he could see an entrance where that trapdoor was, a gaping doorway in the floor. The jaundiced light fell over a few wooden steps that descended into darkness.

Tom looked at her. She seemed quite… apprehensive, as if afraid, but proud as well to share a secret part of her with him. Tom considered using Legilimency on her to see if he was in any danger — they had probably killed Clement, after all — but he did not yet know what magical defences this place had, and now that he was so close to penetrating their little group it would have been foolish to gamble.

“Join me downstairs,” the Baron said, and as if summoned she hurried to his side to help roll him forward. “I have something to show you.”

She avoided Tom’s gaze as she walked past, and stopped at the trapdoor. The railings on its side hooked neatly underneath the wheelchair and, carefully held by his clerk, he descended. Tom followed close behind.

The steps went on for quite a while, and soon the light from upstairs vanished. He held on to the same railings as he went down step by step, further into darkness and unknown alike. He smelled wood and dirt, and the dry chill that came with old stonework.

After a while, he heard a shuffling and squeaking of wheels, which meant they’d reached the floor. Someone flipped a switch, and light pooled underneath. Tom squinted for a moment, then continued his descent. He could estimate they were some two stories deep.

A shadow began climbing toward him. He slowed his steps and, once she reached him, touched her arm. She stopped and only then looked into his eyes, their bodies were closer now than ever.

“Where does this lead?” he whispered.

“Just follow the Baron,” she said with a weak smile in an air of surrender. “I’ll be with you shortly. I just need to close the door behind us.”

“Nobody else is coming, the shop is locked up,” he scoffed.

“It’s the rule,” she said, shrugging her arm out of his grasp and climbing onward.

IV

The Baron was waiting at the bottom and began rolling away when Tom arrived. He took a moment to look around him, but there was nothing remarkable to see. Merely an empty corridor of smooth cement, and a few electric fixtures on the walls, small lightbulbs the size of candle flames. There wasn’t even anything on the ground, although judging by the fading on the edges Tom could guess a carpet had been there not long ago.

After a few moments of walking in silence, the Baron spoke again.

“I have something for you to evaluate tonight.”

“Something?”

“A few books,” he said. “What exactly is your profession in England?”

“I serve my employer as both sales clerk and purchasing agent.”

“For how long?”

“Seven years, sir.”

“That’s not a lot,” said the old man, “for them to trust you with an international assignment like this.”

“It seems they are satisfied with my work so far.”

The Baron hummed, and Tom could tell he was trying to seem less impressed than he was. Typical of men like that, to downplay the achievements of others. A bully’s attitude. Tom could not — and indeed refused to — say that he knew muggles well, but he knew arrogance, and pride, and stuck up aristocracy.

With a prim clipping of the heels, they were joined again by his assistant. Her hands went immediately to the handles of the wheelchair and she began to help the Baron forward.

“Where’s halfway there,” she said, a little out of breath.

“Hurry up, then, before he leaves.”

Tom cocked a brow, wondering who they were referring to.

“So, how do you feel?” she asked him in a quieter voice.

“I should be asking you that,” said Tom.

“Oh, I’m fine…”

It sounded like the sort of ‘fine’ that women often gave when they had something else to say. Her large eyes, her tight closed lips, the whole nervous energy of her that night disturbed him. He liked her better up a ladder, picking dusty volumes off high shelves, her body held up in the air just by one little foot and a few fingers. Or poured over a hot desk, her breath suspended as she wrote, ink pen poised between her fingers much like a witch’s wand. Not… this. This servitude. It made bile rise up in Tom’s throat. For a moment, he imagined their places switched, then realised it would have made no difference — he was the same with Burke as she was with the Baron. He put aside this notion before it made him angry too.

They were finally approaching something different than grey walls and naked lightbulbs. Tom could see thick red drapery and lamps, and the hint of doorways further on. A single blade of light cut across the floor, shivering with hints of a figure moving on the inside.

“Now, Mr. Riddle,” said the Baron, “we’ll see if you’re worthy of carrying those books with you, and of carrying yet more.”

Tom’s left hand secured the strap of the messenger bag around his shoulder, and his left hovered at his pocket, near his wand. That had sounded an awful lot like a threat.

[fatehbaz]

One of the tasks of the European voyages around the globe from the sixteenth through the eighteenth century was to discover new environmental resources. In 1578, in the Strait of Magellan [...], the English traveler John Winter found a new plant, which was officially named in his honor: Drimys winteri. Nowadays, the ground bark of the species is actively sold as a “Mapuche pepper from the canelo tree.” This is a popular commercial product, which represents one of the recent gastronomic symbols of modern Chile.

In Mapudungun, the language of the Mapuche people -- one of the Indigenous communities [...] in central and southern Chile and southern Argentina -- the tree is called foye. The Mapuche [...] have used it for funerary rituals and medicinal purposes [...]. In the seventeenth century, the Chilean writer Francisco Núñez de Pineda y Bascuñán and the Spanish Jesuit Diego de Rosales [...] reported [...] [medicinal] Indigenous uses of the plant. Nevertheless, their manuscripts were not published until the end of the colonial era. [...] [S]ailors considered Drimys winteri a food spice, since it had a similar taste to pepper (Piper nigrum) or cinnamon (Cinnamomum verum). The tree’s bark was also used as a remedy against scurvy [...] during long travels. At the same time, European scholars did not report any use of the plant among the Indigenous communities [...].

The exclusion of Indigenous and local knowledge was also supported in the Natural History of Chile [...], published [...] in 1646. According to sailors’ reports, Ovalle stated, there is a tree [...] called canelo, similar to pepper and cinnamon. European descriptions of Drimys winteri were primarily based upon the records of navigators, who emphasized analogies with cinnamon in order to boost sales of the product. [...] Colonial botanists mainly stressed the similarity of Drimys winteri to cinnamon. French botanist and traveler Louis Feuillée, among others, classified the specimen within European plant taxonomy as Boigue cinnamomifera, consciously evoking the taste and color of cinnamon. [...]

In the Natural History of Chile, Jesuits presented canelo to a European audience, stressing the analogy to the European knowledge system. [...] At the end of the seventeenth century, the British physician William Salmon and booksellers Thomas Passenger and Ebenezer Tracy began to sell a special product by the name of “Balsam de Chili.” The remedy was advertised as being similar to “Balsam de Peru,” a famous panacea in that period.

The miraculous ingredient in this balsam, reported to be a “small tree of Chili,” was probably Drimys winteri.

In the same period, the studied plant, known in England as Winter’s Bark or Winter’s cinnamon, was used by English apothecaries in many recipes (Figure 4).

Nevertheless, the Chilean native plant was often confused with cinnamon and Canella alba (Canella winterana). After [...] 1693 [...] Balsam de Chili gradually disappeared from the English market.

During the colonial period, Indigenous and local environmental knowledge about Drimys winteri was partly ignored by European voyagers. The constructed knowledge system circulated in the European written sources was mainly based on travelers’ reports [...]. [E]xclusion of Other ecological knowledge might represent [...] the inability to give specific meaning and importance to plants for the European audience. The environmental ignorance surrounding Drimys winteri supported the European epistemic hierarchy, entrenched coloniality, and promoted the persisting unbalanced relationship between different forms of knowledge. The Drimys winteri sold nowadays with the Spanish name canelo, as a food spice similar to pepper and related to Mapuche culture, represents one of the outcomes [...]. Consequently, [...] [this] was not a temporary process. It [...] has long-term effects and still affects contemporary knowledge circulation about Drimys winteri in Chile.

---

Images, captions, and text by: Matteo Sartori and Julia Prakofjewa. "Drimys winteri: Circulation of Environmental Ignorance in European Written Sources (1578–1776).” Environment and Society Portal, Arcadia (Summer 2023), no. 15. Rachel Carson Center for Environment and Society. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]