You write the three names at the foot of the folio in a bone pen and it goes down dark and even, and the hide takes it like paper takes nothing ever should.

The faded clause comes back in front of you, line by line, as if somebody were putting it down underneath the page.

MioneIt is being restored into the binding. Not the ink. The binding. The clause is going into the leather.

The hide of a man who died in 1611 tightens across the cover and the crease in the corner smooths out and disappears.