Ribbons Book Novels & Stories

It was General Cole, or what the three paper Assessors had left of him. The long single strip of ribbon that had wrapped around her wrist during midnight had unwound itself rising from the zinc floor like a snake. The ribbon did not have eyes. As it caught the orange light from her chest, the printed text along its length, the names of the conscripts and the inventory of the sector, began to flake off into the wind like gray ash leaving behind a blank double-sided band of oiled silk that whistled in the cold draft. "The treasury clock did not delete the account " the ribbon whispered. "It liquidated the collateral. Look at the valley road, Elara. Look at what's left of the fence."

"They have, ever since she was born." Cassandra set the little serpent among the piles of gold coins. The creature sagged in defeat and exhaustion after lying before that terrible fire. "There it is," Vasilisa's voice came from behind a mountain of walnut-sized raw rubies. It wasn't hard to find the book. It was placed on a golden stand in between two golden Sirin statues. The grimoire turned out to be the largest book Cassandra had ever seen, with pages made of parchment illuminated with tracery, and it was open to a page thickly covered with elegant, intricate writing.

he sighs and grips my shoulders. “That ribbon you’re seeing is called a Red Thread of Fate, which means you’re Gabriel’s Fated. But you have to promise me right now that you will not mention it to him. Promise me right fucking now, Katherine or both of you will die.”

It was elegant, understated, but clearly expensive. What was going on? She hadn’t even gotten the chance to thank him for the dress and he was giving her something else? Her throat tightened. “This is too much. I can’t accept—” “It’s a bookmark,” Riven interrupted mildly. “It’s for your script. Nothing excessive.” She bit her lip, torn. It wasn’t extravagant jewelry, yet it felt heavy for no reason. “Still…” Suddenly, Riven leaned slightly closer, his eyes catching hers. “Miss Monroe, if something this small makes you uneasy… what will you do later?”

A crisscrossed purple ribbon bound it together. She looked at me affectionately and said, “This is my birthday present for you, my princess. It’s a grimoire, your grimoire,” emphasizing the word “your.” She handed me the book, and I removed the ribbon to see what it looked like inside. It was empty, and the pages were made of thick, handcrafted materials. I thanked her, and I could see pride and something else in her eyes, like fear or worry. I shook my head to get rid of the thoughts; I must have been overthinking.

After a little distance, I opened the bag. Everything remained. I closed it. I continued walking. Then checked again. Still there. Good. I found the books while looking at ribbons. I was not buying ribbons. Looking was free, and there were several shades of blue I intended to look at thoroughly. The neighboring stall sold used things. Candlesticks. Belts. A cracked mirror. A painted box without a key. A cup dented badly enough that I wondered what had happened to the person holding it. And books.

“But fear is just the start.” Rising from his chair, he approached a grand bookshelf packed with tomes of ancient magic. My fingers trilled across the spines until I landed on the one I was looking for — a spellbook lost to most witches. I opened it up to a page that had a blood-red ribbon bookmark.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside was a book. A rare first edition of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, its leather-bound cover delicate yet immaculate. She gasped, her fingers brushing over the gilt lettering. Nestled beside it was a small, cream-colored card. She picked it up, her breath catching as she read the elegant script: “For a literature enthusiast. —N.B.”

“When you mentioned the red moon, something came back to me. Parts of it talked about the red moon and its significance with the moon witch.” Damien leaned closer. His shoulder brushed mine as he watched me open the heavy pages. I flipped through them quickly, the scent of old paper and dried herbs rising with each turn. My pulse quickened when I found the section marked with a thin black ribbon. The ink looked darker here, as if my mother had pressed the quill harder while writing it.

“Stop thinking of weird things Ivy. Think of flowers, the Ebon Testament, stealing candies from Roxie's secret stash, tripping Luciana in front of the whole cafeteria.” Ending my inspirational TED talk, I resume my search. ‎ ‎There's a narrow section with a small reading table that is squeezed between shelves. It's covered with dust like I've never seen before. It seems as if it hasn't been altered in decades, if not for centuries. ‎ ‎On the table lies just one roll of parchment. There's an eerie aura around it. It's tied with a purple ribbon. Though the parchment itself and the table are terribly dusty, the ribbon was strangely clean. There wasn't a speck of dust on it. It's even shining.