Leather Book Cover Novelas e Histórias

Inside lay a small book. It was bound in cloth the colour of old wine, the spine cracked, the corners worn to the board. There was no title on the cover. When he opened it, the pages were soft as linen, brown at the edges, and every one was crowded with a small, quick, looping hand in pencil.

Máire smiled warmly. “Ah, here it is.” Shae announced, bringing down a thick leather-bound book. The leather was worn, and the edge of the pages yellowed with age. I couldn’t make out any lettering on the binding. I wondered just how old this tome is. I was so eager to touch it and possibly date it that I took it from Shae before John could.

The book cover was made of thick leather with parchment pages tightly bound together with twine. With trembling hands, Anna opened the cover and began reading the first page, and the next, and the next. She was astonished to see the text was word-for-word the exact same as the manuscript her publishing company was about to release in a few days, plus several thousand years in the future.

I raised a brow, wondering why this area was locked and the reason for these books not being with the others. There was a table in the center of the room, which I approached carefully. A comfy chair was pulled up to it, and resting in the center was a book. I felt a pang within my stomach as if knowing this was important to my cause. Listening to my instincts, I took a seat and examined the book cover. It was made of leather and looked quite ordinary, thankfully not made of human skin or anything ridiculous like that. Given there was a cult here, that was always a concern to me at this point.

Just expensive furniture and abstract art that looked chosen to impress rather than express. I passed through the living room, my attention drawn to a large bookshelf covering one wall. The collection impressed me—ancient texts on pack history, rare volumes on wolf magic, modern novels organized by genre rather than author. Many of the books looked unread, their spines uncreased. One leather-bound book caught my eye—its dark cover embossed with strange symbols that resembled no language I recognized. I reached for it, but it refused to budge. Odd. I tried again, pulling harder. The book remained firmly in place, as if glued to the shelf.

Either well loved, badly looked after or older than the room which houses them, there is something beyond the obvious that sets them apart. I carefully pull the first of four from its place, the leather flakes in my hand and I cringe and tense as I imagine what father would have said. Who am I kidding? He would never have let me get this close. Deep purple, swirling script and tiny inlayed gemstones decorate all the available covers space.

But then my fingers felt something against the book's spine, something that was definitely too hard to be leather. My eyes squinted and I ran my fingers over the spot and tried to feel what it was. Something was stuck in the spine, some sort of metallic object I assumed. How had it even gotten there? I wondered and carefully opened the pages, checking for a way to undo the binding without tearing the book apart. After playing with the hardbound for a while I could remove it and saw that there was another special kind of slit inside the cover. My heart began to beat in excitement as I carefully set the pages aside and spread the leather cover flat on the table.

Tilting my head slightly, I trailed my fingers along the shelves as I walked, reading the titles printed in faded gold. Some of them looked centuries old while others looked like they were just fixed in the shelf. After walking for a while, I stopped out of curiosity. I was staring at a book wedged between two thick encyclopedias. Pulling it out, I allowed my fingers to trace it's edges. The book was heavier than it looked. The leather cover was worn out but it was smooth. There was no title, just a symbol that looked like a crescent. For some reasons my heart began to race as I flipped the first page open then turned to another page and another.

Columns of faint silver light rose from the floor, rearranging the void until the space resembled something between a courtroom and a cathedral. At the center, a plinth formed. On it rested a book. It wasn’t the Great Ledger. It was a derivative. Smaller. Thinner. Personalized. My name wasn't written on the cover; it was embedded into the leather, as if the book had grown around the letters. I approached without hesitation. Each step felt lighter than the last, as if gravity were a luxury the system was slowly taking back. When I placed my palm against the cover, the sensation was immediate.

It was wonderfully, messily alive. Liora found a stall selling parchment and inks. The old man running it had kind eyes and ink-stained fingers. “Looking for anything special, miss?” he asked. “A blank book,” Liora said. “The biggest one you have.” He smiled and pulled a heavy, leather-bound journal from under his counter. The cover was a rich, dark brown, and the pages were creamy and blank. It smelled of new leather and possibility. As she paid for it, her fingers brushed against the old one in her pack. It felt like saying goodbye to an old friend.