It was a game his grandfather had taught him, much to the dismay of his father, when Henri was hardly tall enough to reach the books. No peeking, the old man had said. Feel the books. When you think you are ready, make a selection.
     Henri did as he was told, eventually pulling a slim volume from the rows in the stall, holding it against his forehead. The object of the game was to describe the case without seeing it.
     The material, Henri. What do you feel? Fine linen or rough leather? Or both? And the stamping? The foil? You could try smelling it if you think it would help.
     Can anyone actually smell a good book, Grandfather?
     Of course not, the old man would bluster. All the buyer need do is hold it. As you are now. Let it rest in their hands. Curl fingers around the spine as if it were stitched for only them. Run a thumb along the soft edges of is pages. When they hold it, Henri, is when you have them. After that they can smell it all they like.

     Henri chose a book and put it to his nose. A whiff of lavender. Henri pictured himself standing in a field of purple flowers. he turned at the sound of pounding hooves. A huge black horse sped past him as full gallop, the rider hunched in close to the mane, one arm brandishing a heavy sword. Henri saw the cruciform of a crusader sewn across the back of the rider's tunic. In the distance a castle smouldered with the fires of a siege.
     Henri thought of purple.

     He opened his eyes. The case was calfskin, as black as tar. The stamped design on the boards was ornate: tiny flowers in bloom, a twist of stems and leaves flowing across the case, over the spine and onto the back. The title had been foiled over in copper, mottled now with the damp. Henri took another sniff. There was a faint odour of smoke.
     His grandfather would have shaken his head. Purple, Henri? Wherever would you get such a notion?

-- The Emperor of Paris, CS Richardson