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“I did those,” said Blue Tweed. “I enjoy gilding.”

“It’s pretty,” said Little Lyman. “No, it’s more than that. It’s beautiful.”

“Then it’s yours.”

“For nothing?”

Blue Tweed shrugged as if to saySure, if that’s how it’s got to be.

“I can’t take it,” said Little Lyman, handing it back. “It wouldn’t be right.”

Blue Tweed wagged the index finger of his right hand approvingly, like a tutor noting a student’s prowess.

“Because you understand that it has value, and we don’t value what we receive without cost, not even love.”

“I suppose that’s true,” said Little Lyman, who had never been in love, or not so that he’d been able to identify it as such.

“So what would a book like this be worth, do you think?” asked Blue Tweed.

“I couldn’t say. I suppose it would depend on the buyer, wouldn’t it?”

Blue Tweed raised his finger again, this time wagging it more forcefully, his whole frame practically vibrating with satisfaction.

“You see,” he said, “you get it. There are factors outside the seller’s control, and the more unusual the item, the more those factors come into play. There isn’t another book like this, not anywhere. It’s one of a kind. As the seller, I have to find a buyer capable of appreciating how special it is, and that buyer and I then have to agree on a price, because financial and intrinsic value are not the same. When we’re done, we’ll have settled on the correct sum if both of us emerge from the deal equally satisfied—or unsatisfied, the two not being unrelated.

“But beyond that, as not only the seller of this item but also its creator—because I’ve put time and effort into the restoration, and I’ve left my mark in the form of the gilding on the capitals—I want the book to find therightbuyer, and that may not be the one with the most money. Would I want this book to end up in the hands of a collector of religious curios, to become just one more addition to their shelf, a bauble to be taken out for examination and display maybe once a year, if that, but otherwise touched only to be dusted off? No, I would not. I don’t need money that badly. I want this volume to be appreciated, to be cherished, so that in fifty years, or a hundred, a mannot unlike myself, a craftsman if not an artist, might take it in hand, fix its scars, retouch its gilding, and find another owner for it—but again, the right owner.”

Blue Tweed stroked the book’s cover. His gaze grew fixed. He was staring beyond Little Lyman, at a place or a period of which he alone was cognizant.

“The right owner,” he repeated. “Wrongful ownership is not far removed from outright theft, because it’s depriving another of what should properly be his. For those who care about such matters—and there are fewer of us than there ought to be—it’s an error that cries out for correction, a necessary restoration of the natural order.”

Movement returned to his eyes, and they flicked to Little Lyman. “Men,” he concluded, “have died for less.”

Little Lyman, who had never stolen from anyone, not unless holding back from the IRS counted, which it didn’t, saw no reason to disagree.

“So I’ll ask you again,” said Blue Tweed. “What do you think a book like this might be worth?”

Little Lyman swallowed hard. He knew he’d be buying the book. Part of him didn’t want to disappoint the little man by not purchasing it, but he also feared bad luck might follow if he failed to oblige, even if he could not have said why. He’d been played, but played well.

“Fifty dollars?”

Blue Tweed pantomimed offense, but there was genuine hurt behind it nonetheless.

“Fifty dollars? Why, that bottle of whiskey cost more and it’s not even sui generis. This book, there isn’t another like it and never will be.”

“But I’m not sure I want it,” said Little Lyman.

“We’re negotiating, aren’t we? That means you do want it, deep down. The only question is: How badly? Two hundred badly?”

“I own suits that cost less than two hundred dollars,” said Little Lyman.

“So two hundred is too much?”

“Yes.”

“Well, now we’re in the ballpark. It’s between two hundred dollars and fifty dollars. I’d be happy with a hundred, but I believe you’d consider that excessive.”

“I would.”