Chapter 1: A New Beginning

The scent of cinnamon and baking butter reached me before I opened my eyes. For a long, still moment, I lay tangled in linen sheets, listening to the house breathe around me. The clatter of pans came softly from downstairs, punctuated by the creak of the stovepipe expanding as it warmed. Somewhere in the distance, a milk cart rattled over cobblestones, and the faint clang of a bakery gate echoed through the mist. A lamplighter’s footsteps faded into a side alley, and the low murmur of voices drifted from an early-rising merchant’s courtyard.

The city was beginning to wake, quietly and with purpose, like a machine built of breath and habit. It was far too early—still more night than morning—yet the quiet sounds of morning told me someone was already up and moving through the kitchen below. That someone was almost certainly Mother. I sat up slowly, blinking in the lamplight filtering through the curtain gap. From downstairs, I heard her voice rise through the quiet house.

“Elspeth! Elspeth! Elspeth Whitfield, come down and eat before you miss your barge!”

It was not shouted, exactly, but had the pointed rhythm of someone who had already reminded me twice. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the floorboards cool beneath my feet, and rubbed my thumb along the side of my nose where I always seemed to smudge ink.

I was the eldest of three, and the only one with a habit of falling asleep with an open book and uncapped pen. My auburn hair was twisted into a loose bun, pinned messily for sleep. My nightdress was warm wool, worn thin at the cuffs, and I crossed to the wardrobe to dress quickly in a sturdy wool skirt, tall leather boots, and a long-sleeved blouse under a fitted traveling coat. Practical clothes, meant for a barge ride and a busy day ahead. I looped a soft scarf around my neck and tucked a pair of knitted gloves into the coat pocket. My satchel, already packed the night before, sat waiting by the window. I left it there, ready to grab on my way out, knowing Maisie would likely try to check it one last time before I could. The ink stains hadn’t budged from my fingertips, no matter how hard I scrubbed. I would likely arrive in Riverhaven with the familiar blue ghosts of yesterday’s work still marking my skin.

Already caught in the gentle pull of departure, I moved quietly through the room, breathing in the stillness of one last morning at home. My thumb again found the edge of my nose, smudging that ever-present trace of ink. The stain had seeped into the creases of my fingers, and no doubt my nails would still be tinged when I arrived in Riverhaven.

Riverhaven. The name felt strange in my mind, like something half-remembered from a dream. I had been hopeful when I placed the bid, nervous that my offer wouldn’t be enough—that someone with deeper pockets or longer experience would swoop in and claim it first. A dusty little bindery on the riverfront in a trade hamlet no one else had wanted—not with its lack of heirs, no apprentices, and not a hint of the flashy enchantments the city shops were known for. But for someone like me, newly graduated and unable to afford even a windowless nook in Highspire’s artisan quarter, it had shimmered with possibility.

Henrik, the previous owner, had passed away the winter before, leaving behind shelves of well-kept journals, unfinished commissions, and faintly glowing ink recipes. The townsfolk said he kept to himself. That he never took on help. That the place would likely stay empty. That was before I saw the garden scrawled in the margin of the estate listing and imagined what I could grow there.

It would be my new beginning. My chance to build something of my own. To bind books not for school marks but for ship captains and shopkeepers, for brides and old men with stories to preserve. It was the kind of shop that asked for care more than cleverness. No one else had wanted it. But I did.

Downstairs, the warmth of the kitchen enveloped me like a wool shawl pulled snug around my shoulders. The hearth glowed low, a few fresh logs catching in the grate. The lamplight flickered across familiar surfaces: the uneven knot in the table’s edge, the crack in the tile near the pantry door, the herb bundles hung to dry above the window. Mother stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her robe cinched tight, stirring something thick and fragrant in her favorite green pot. She didn’t turn.

“You’re up,” she said. “Tea’s ready. There’s toast, and the oatcakes are nearly done. I thought a full breakfast would help.”

I crossed to kiss her cheek, catching the faint scent of lavender and flour dust in her hair. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did.”

The table was already set with real plates, a small but deliberate gesture that marked this morning as something different from the usual shuffle of mugs and toast eaten over open paper. The good napkins were out too, folded square and crisp. A small pot of jam sat near the butter dish, and a pitcher of warmed milk steamed gently beside the teapot.

Father was seated at his usual place, spectacles low on his nose, the shipping news unfolded beside his teacup. He looked up, offering me a soft, steady nod.

“Spring weather looks good,” he said, folding the paper. “Barges are running smooth this week.”

I nodded, trying not to fidget. “That’s good.”

Maisie burst in, trailing the scent of peppermint soap and sleep, her braids crooked and one sock half-on. She clutched my satchel like it might try to flee on its own.

“I went through it again. Twice. Just to be sure. You’ve got your journal, right? The nice one, with the stitched spine? And the pencils, sharp ones? And soap, and—”

“Yes,” I said, grinning despite myself. “And yes, and yes.”

She shoved it into my hands, then leaned in close to tuck a thin pressed flower between the pages of my sketchbook.

“Just in case you need a bit of home,” she said.

Gareth arrived last, hair tousled and boots half-laced. He tried for a casual stroll but couldn’t quite hide the sleep in his eyes. I caught the quick swipe of his sleeve against his cheek when he thought no one noticed.

“You’re late,” I told him gently.

“No I’m not,” he muttered, then bumped into the cupboard with dramatic clumsiness. I heard the quiet crinkle of paper and turned just in time to see him slipping two honey oatcakes into the top of my satchel.

“Emergency rations,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He ruffled my hair without meeting my eyes and dropped into his chair.

Mother turned from the stove and set the pot down with a gentle clatter. “Now then, do you have the key? And the letter from the solicitor? Your identification slip?”

I patted my coat pocket. “All here.”

“Are you sure? Check again.”

I did, if only to reassure her. The iron key pressed cool and solid against my fingers, the smooth ridges worn by decades of use.

Then Bristle came bounding into the room, nails clicking on the tile as he made a beeline for my satchel. He stuck his nose in it, tail wagging like a metronome, and tried to climb halfway in.

“Bristle, no,” I laughed, tugging the bag away. “That’s not for you.”

Father lowered his paper with a faint smile. “Maybe he wants to come along.”

“There’s not room,” I said. “Besides, he’s terrible at alphabetical shelving.”

Laughter rippled through the kitchen, warm and real. For a moment, it was almost possible to forget I was leaving.

We ate together, slowly, savoring each bite as if it could stretch the morning thinner. There was toast with berry jam, oatcakes still warm from the griddle, slices of egg pie flecked with chives and cheddar. Gareth teased Maisie about packing my bag three times. She stuck her tongue out and declared that someone had to make sure I remembered clean socks. Father pointed out a trade route on the back page of the paper that he had once traveled with my grandfather. Mother topped up my tea every time I took a sip, like she could keep me home a little longer that way.

I traced the grain of the table with my thumbnail, memorizing the little gouge where Gareth had dropped a chisel, the faded ring left by a pitcher of lemonade one summer. The kitchen smelled of woodsmoke, rosemary, cinnamon, and the faintest trace of ink that clung to my skin no matter how often I washed. When the dishes were cleared and the conversation dwindled, Father rose and crossed to his desk. He returned with a small brass compass, the lid dented but still functional. He held it out to me without ceremony.

“Your grandfather gave this to me when I left for Highspire,” he said. “It won’t help you much in town, but sometimes it’s good to know where you’ve come from.”

I took it with both hands, my fingers curling around its weight. I didn’t trust my voice enough to speak, so I just nodded. There were no speeches, no sweeping farewells. We weren’t the kind of family for drawn-out speeches or long goodbyes. Instead, we packed my satchel together one final time, layering the essentials alongside the small comforts they couldn’t quite bring themselves to put into words. A pressed flower. The brass compass. Honey cakes wrapped in paper. A thousand small love letters folded into gestures.

When the clock chimed a soft quarter to five, we stood as one. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Mother adjusted my cloak. Maisie hugged me hard enough to knock the breath from my chest. Gareth stood with his hands jammed into his pockets, eyes suspiciously bright, then we stepped outside into the dark pre-dawn.

The cobblestones gleamed with night mist, the air cool and damp. The scent of ash and waking bread ovens drifted in from farther down the street. For just a moment, I stood still, letting the chill bite gently at my cheeks. I breathed in the quiet, the warmth that clung to my clothes, the distant hush of a city just about to stir.

I took one last breath of home, letting it settle deep into my chest—the scent of bread rising in distant ovens, the faint sharpness of chimney soot, the earthy damp of stone still holding onto the night. The hush that hung over the city felt both familiar and strange, like the space between heartbeats when something is about to change.

I curled my gloved fingers tighter around the strap of my satchel, feeling the shift of its weight, the shape of each object packed with care. My boots clicked softly as I moved, each step slow at first, then steadier. The others fell into rhythm beside me, and our footsteps echoed together into the waking dark.

Mother had insisted they walk me to the docks, despite the hour.

“We’ve seen you off to school enough times from the front stoop,” she said, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “This is different.”

She didn’t say it was final, but we all heard it.

The city was beginning to wake. Smoke drifted from a baker’s chimney half a block down, and the scent of yeast and rising bread curled through the morning air. A milk cart rumbled by on a side street, the driver half-asleep, cap tugged low.

Maisie linked arms with me almost immediately, her cloak fluttering slightly in the breeze. “You know, I think you packed too light,” she said. “What if they don’t sell your kind of soap there?”

“Then I suppose I’ll smell like river reeds and regret,” I replied.

She snorted. “It’s not a bad scent, if you ask me.”

Gareth walked just ahead, carrying my satchel over one shoulder despite my protests. He was quiet, but I could tell he was listening. Occasionally, he’d glance back to make sure I hadn’t vanished in the fog.

Father pointed out buildings as we passed, his voice low but steady. “Remember this place? You got lost in that alley when the puppet show passed through. Gave your mother a fright.”

“I was six,” I said.

“You were stubborn,” he said fondly. “Still are.”

Every few houses, another memory surfaced. The corner where Maisie scraped her knees chasing Gareth. The lamppost I once tied a red ribbon to so I could find my way home from school still stood at the corner, the memory of that bright bit of silk vivid in my mind even if the ribbon itself was long gone.

The morning was crisp but not cruel. I breathed in deeply, and the air felt clean, full of distant woodsmoke and the sharpness of wet stone. Crocuses pushed up in garden boxes, their pale lavender heads just visible beneath the mist. One window had a line of daffodils in mismatched pots, nodding slightly in the breeze. We walked in silence for a while—not the uncomfortable kind, but the sort that wraps around you like an old quilt. Familiar and heavy with meaning. Mother kept straightening my coat. Maisie squeezed my arm every few steps. I could hear Gareth adjusting his grip on the satchel now and then, like he needed to fidget with something just to stay steady.

The streets widened as we reached the merchant quarter, the paving stones cleaner, the buildings grander. Shop signs still dark hung overhead, and metal shutters gleamed with early condensation. A few early workers passed us with nods of recognition. One woman called out, “Safe journey to Riverhaven, Elspeth!”

I smiled and nodded, not trusting my voice to work. Then, around the last bend, the river came into view. Sunlight touched the horizon, just barely, brushing the water with a shimmer of silver and rose. The docks were already stirring. Crews moved like clockwork, hefting crates and coiling ropes, voices calling through the morning in practiced tones. Gulls circled lazily overhead. It smelled of brine and rope tar, fish and river wind. And something else I couldn’t name—something that meant motion and distance and beginnings.

Father sighed softly beside me. “Looks like they’re just about ready.”

We paused a moment before stepping onto the wooden planks. I turned to look at them all one last time in this place. Gareth with my bag. Maisie with her fluttering hair and anxious hands. Father with his creased coat and calm eyes. And Mother, always mother, already reaching for my collar again.

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“You’ve got everything?” she asked for the dozenth time.

I smiled. “Yes.”

“The shop key?”

“Still in my pocket.”

She looked at me a long moment and adjusted my coat one last time. I hugged them each in turn, trying to memorize the feel of it. Gareth’s solid grip, Maisie’s shaky squeeze, Mother’s soft cheek, Father’s warm arms. And then we stepped onto the dock, and the barge came into focus. It was long and low, painted in muted greens and browns, and already half-loaded with crates and passengers. The captain stood midship calling out a few last instructions. Everything was moving, everything was ready. It was time.

Maisie sniffled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Write to us. Not just in your head. Real letters.”

“I will,” I said.

“Every week.”

“Every week,” I promised.

Then I turned toward the barge and took my first steps onto the ship.

The barge rocked gently beneath my feet as I stepped aboard, the wooden planks damp with river mist and worn smooth by years of cargo and travelers. A young crewman checked my name against a list on a clipboard, nodded once, and gestured toward the front of the deck.

“Passenger seating’s up there. You’ve got a trunk already aboard, right?”

“Three, actually,” I said, still half-worried something had gone wrong.

He grinned. “Then you’re the bookbinder. Don’t worry, we loaded them yesterday. Safe and dry. They’ll be delivered to your bindery once we dock.”

That alone made my shoulders loosen a fraction. I thanked him softly and made my way toward the bow, finding a place on a low bench where I could settle my satchel beside me. The river ahead shimmered with morning light, mist curling up from its surface like breath. It was quieter here than I expected, even with the bustle of loading cargo.

Other passengers trickled aboard: an older couple with matching walking sticks and gentle, weathered faces; a sleepy young woman hugging a mandolin case to her chest; a stocky man carrying a crate of softly peeping chicks. We exchanged polite nods—that shared traveler’s acknowledgment of shared space. Most of us were alone. Most of us were quiet.

The barge captain called out, and with a groan of ropes and splash of wake, we pushed off. The sounds of Highspire dulled behind us. Once beyond the river gates, I felt the hidden magic come alive beneath my boots, a subtle hum, more felt than heard—the enchanted propellers doing their work. We were headed upriver, but the barge glided forward with quiet power, no resistance at all.

Highspire began to shrink behind us. From the river, the city softened. Its tall spires rose through morning fog like chalk towers sketched on pale vellum. Rooflines gleamed where sunlight touched slate. I closed my eyes and tried to picture our home street—not that I could see it from here, but I knew the shape of it in my bones. The garden cypress leaning east. The wobbly step Gareth never fixed. I let the memory hold for a moment, then gently set it aside.

I drew my traveling cloak tighter and pulled out my notebook—the one Maisie had checked and re-checked, sliding her flower bookmark inside. I smoothed the first page and let my pencil drift, sketching the curve of the barge railing and the morning light on the water. Not to create anything polished—just to remember this beginning.

The view began to shift sooner than I expected. Beyond the stone bridges and outer docks, the landscape opened: broad fields stitched in early green, bare fruit trees with buds swelling at their tips, sheep grazing in uneven clumps. A heron lifted from the reeds as we passed, slow and graceful in the warming light.

The countryside looked different from the water. Wider, gentler. Layered like a story unfolding. Here and there, smoke rose from small cottages or distant kilns. I spotted a line of bee skeps tucked against a low wall, and beyond that, the flicker of orchard rows just starting to blossom.

At midday, I unwrapped the parcel Mother had tucked into my satchel: oatcakes with honey, a slice of egg pie wrapped in wax paper, a little tin of sugared cranberries. The scent alone brought a lump to my throat. I ate slowly, each bite an echo of the kitchen I'd just left behind.

A woman seated a few benches away leaned over with a grin. Her silver hair was braided into a coil pinned with a wooden skewer, and she wore a moss-colored shawl that smelled faintly of cloves.

“Is that oatcake I smell?”

I held out half before I could hesitate. “Would you like some?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” she said, taking it with a wink. “First time upriver?”

I nodded. “I’m moving to Riverhaven. I'm the new bookbinder.”

Her smile deepened. “So you’re the one taking over Henrik’s old place. I used to deliver goods there when he was still about. Neat as a pin, that man. Always paid in coin and calendula-scented wax.”

I laughed, the image both surprising and oddly charming. “That sounds like him. I’ve only read about the shop—never saw it in person.”

“It’s a good spot,” she said, biting into the oatcake. “West square gets morning sun, and there’s a bench beneath the apple tree if no one’s stolen it. Traders pass through daily. Market days are something else—crowds thick as stew and every kind of stall. You’ll want to get there early if you need supplies.”

She introduced herself as Marda, a merchant of ribbons, threads, and small luxuries, retired now, but still traveling to visit family and check in on her nieces. One of them, she explained, worked at the general store in Riverhaven. Another ran the lantern stall at the seasonal markets. She told me to stop in, drop her name, and make myself known.

“And Marcus,” she added, after a pause. “You’ll want to meet Marcus. One of the ferrymen. Kind, helpful, a good man in a pinch.”

That name again. I hadn’t expected to hear it more than once before arrival, but apparently Marcus was well known along the river.

We talked through the afternoon—or rather, she talked and I listened. Stories spilled from her like a dropped skein of yarn: how the spring fair brought floating lanterns down the river, how the orchard behind the bindery exploded in pale blossoms come Frost’s End, how no one really believed Henrik had written those guidebooks on river flora himself.

I asked questions where I could. What were the people like? Did she think the townsfolk would welcome someone new? Was it hard, setting up shop in a place where everyone already knew everyone else?

She waved those worries off with a chuckle. “They’ll size you up same as a new tea blend, but if your bindings hold and your smile’s honest, you’ll do fine. Just don’t underprice your services. People’ll expect quality from someone brave enough to take on Henrik’s ledgers.”

The day wore on. Some passengers dozed, others read or hummed quietly to themselves. The young woman with the mandolin began strumming a gentle tune, her voice rising in a soft shanty that wove through the sound of the river. The rhythm of the barge seemed to match her melody: steady, rolling, comforting.

I pulled my notebook back onto my lap and began sketching again. Marda’s descriptions turned into images: a tree heavy with blossoms, a bindery window lit from within, market stalls fluttering with ribboned pennants. I drew a crate of floating lanterns, then added more, hundreds, filling the river with light.

Every now and then, I glanced upriver. The sun angled westward now, turning the river gold and the treetops burnished green. We passed hamlets with crooked docks and leaning rooftops, their chimneys releasing little threads of smoke. Children waved from a riverbank, and the barge crew answered with a horn that echoed between the hills.

And through it all, the barge moved forward—not with haste but with certainty. A magical pace, smooth and unshaken. Miles fell behind us, but it never felt rushed. Just inevitable. Like the pull of a tide. I leaned back and let it carry me. No lists. No more packing. No ink to scrub from my fingers. Just water, light, stories, and the promise of a new place waiting just around the bend.

The sun had long since dipped behind the treeline by the time the last of the light bled from the sky. I sat cross-legged on the deck, bundled in my cloak, watching as stars blinked into being overhead, one by one, like someone lighting lanterns across a velvet ceiling.

Above the river, far from the city’s lamplight and smokestacks, the stars felt impossibly sharp and close. I had never truly seen the constellations before. Highspire’s sky was always hazed with chimneys and glow, the stars faint and few. But here, they spilled across the heavens in great drifts and arcs. I leaned back on my elbows, breath caught somewhere between my ribs and throat, unable to name a single one but knowing, somehow, that I’d never forget the sight. It was like looking up at an entirely new map of the world, vast and glimmering, laid out just for me.

As I sat watching, a crewman passed nearby, his lantern casting a gentle arc across the deck.

“You planning to sleep out here?” he asked, voice low and not unkind.

“Yes, if that's allowed,” I said, unsure of the rules.

He nodded toward a lidded trunk set near the bulkhead. “Help yourself. We keep spare bedrolls and blankets in there for passengers. Or there’s the shared cabin if you’d rather a bunk.”

“Thank you,” I said, already stepping toward the trunk.

I selected one of the bedrolls, clean and neatly rolled, with a folded wool blanket tucked inside. It smelled of cedar and river wind. Returning to my spot near the railing, I spread it out with care and sat cross-legged atop it, my cloak still wrapped around my shoulders. Around me, others had done the same, settling into the quiet comfort of the deck. A few had retreated into the cabin, but many chose the open air, trusting the weather and the enchantments that kept the journey smooth.

The crewman lingered a moment longer. “First time upriver?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll like Riverhaven,” he said. “Market mornings start early, though.”

“I’m used to early,” I replied with a tired smile.

He tipped his head and moved on, the lantern swinging at his side.

The other passengers had begun settling in for the night. A few murmured goodnights and disappeared into the low cabin, but many, like me, remained on the open deck. It was spring, after all, and the air was cool but gentle. Crisp without biting. I liked the idea of sleeping beneath the stars, with the sound of the river all around. It reminded me of long-ago camping trips just outside the city walls, back when I was too small to help pitch the tent and my only job had been to keep the firewood dry.

I lay back on the bedroll, using my folded cloak as a pillow. The planks were firm but familiar, like the floor of the workshop where I used to nap between classes. The scent of old varnish and river air mixed with the faint hint of pine tar. I could feel the faint pulse of the magical propellers thrumming beneath the boards, steady as a heartbeat, like the boat itself was dreaming.

The crew moved quietly, their voices low and practiced. I caught pieces of their conversation as they passed:

“Dockmaster’ll be busy tomorrow. It’s market day in Haven.”

“Marcus’ll have his hands full, then.”

“Always does. That lad knows every crate and cask before it hits the ramp.”

They laughed, soft and admiring, and I smiled a little to myself. I didn’t know this Marcus yet, but if he was anything like they described, I’d probably be grateful to meet him come morning.

Further off, someone strummed a quiet mandolin, the notes drifting lazily across the deck like ripples on the water. After a few moments, they began to sing, low and tuneful, an old river shanty that spoke of tide and timber, trade and time. It rose and fell with the gentle current, threading through the quiet like memory. A spoon clinked gently against a metal tin. One of the chicks in the wooden box gave a soft peep, as if talking in its sleep. A lantern swayed slightly overhead, casting a golden glow that flickered like fireflies across the deck.

I shifted onto my side, the key to the shop still tucked into the small inner pocket of my coat. I touched it again, a nervous habit I hadn’t quite shaken. Cold and solid. Real. Proof that this wasn’t a dream.

The river whispered around us. Water against hull. Reeds rustling. Somewhere onshore, frogs sang to each other. Spring peepers, Mama always called them. I remembered helping her plant herbs along the garden wall while they chirped in the dark, her sleeves rolled and her hair pinned up, earth under her nails. That memory clung to me like warmth, as if her voice might drift out of the shadows and hum me to sleep.

I thought about Marda’s stories. Blossoming apple trees. Floating lanterns. A square full of stalls and conversation. I wondered what it would feel like to set out a table of my own. To make something with my hands and see someone else choose it. Not because they were my teacher or my family, but because they wanted it. Because it spoke to them. That kind of recognition felt impossibly distant in Highspire, where everyone was always rushing to be better, faster, more clever.

I had always loved the quiet parts of binding. The fold and cut, the tension of thread through paper grain, the slow press of leather over board. There was magic in it, even without enchantments. I hoped Riverhaven might be the kind of place where that mattered. Where slow work still held worth. Where someone might pick up a book and run their hand over the spine and smile—not because it was flashy, but because it felt right.

Above me, the stars wheeled on. I traced their patterns with my eyes, trying to memorize the sky, as if I could take it with me and pin it above my bed in the shop. Somewhere, a shooting star stitched a line of silver through the darkness. I whispered a wish without thinking, letting it catch in my chest before it faded.

I didn’t sleep quickly. My thoughts wandered and looped, trailing behind the mandolin notes and drifting with the current. But eventually, warmth crept into my limbs, and the hush of the river grew heavy against my ears. When sleep came, it carried the scent of pine and the hum of magic and the shape of a waiting doorway, opening gently in my mind.

I woke to the sounds of shifting crates and quiet footfalls, the sky just beginning to turn from indigo to a pale, hazy blue. The stars had vanished, leaving behind a thin veil of mist that hovered above the water. Around me, passengers stirred in a slow ripple of motion, yawning, folding blankets, brushing hair with their fingers, and pulling on boots with the sleepy precision of early travelers.

The barge had slowed. I could feel it in my bones before I opened my eyes—a subtle change in rhythm, the gentle resistance of the current no longer met with the steady churn of magical propellers. We were close. The air felt different too, touched with the scent of woodsmoke and silt, rich with the promise of landfall.

I sat up and stretched, reaching for my satchel with one hand while the other ran over the deck beside me, grounding me. A splash of river-cold water from the deck basin cleared the last of sleep from my thoughts. I changed into a fresh shirt, smoothed the worst of the wrinkles from my skirt, and checked the shop key in my pocket—a gesture more reflex than necessity by now.

Riverhaven rose through the morning fog like something out of a well-worn storybook. Low rooftops in warm stone clustered close to the river’s edge, their silhouettes softened by the drifting mist. Tidy chimneys dotted the skyline, and from somewhere farther in, the mellow clink of milk pails and a rooster’s cry broke the hush. The scent of damp reeds and baking bread mingled in the air, grounding the moment in a strange but welcome familiarity.

The docks were already bustling despite the hour. Vendors moved with purpose, unloading carts, arranging displays, and shifting crates into neat rows. Lanterns still glowed beneath striped awnings, though the rising sun was beginning to outmatch them. A rhythm pulsed through it all—unspoken and clearly practiced, the cadence of Riverhaven’s mornings.

A clear voice rang out over the activity, practiced and purposeful. “Cargo offload, line two. Personal trunks, check with landing crew. Watch your footing.”

As I stepped onto the dock, the wooden planks felt solid beneath my boots, though my body swayed slightly, still tuned to the movement of the barge. It was a peculiar feeling, like waking in a bed that kept shifting under you. The journey had ended, but my muscles hadn’t yet caught on.

A tall young man in a navy sweater moved easily among the bustle, clipboard in one hand, directing the flow of traffic with practiced ease. He navigated crates and crews like water finding its channel. When he spotted me, he paused briefly, offered a nod, and spoke.

“Bindery?”

“Yes.”

“Your trunks are in the delivery queue. Should already be halfway to your doorstep, if the runners are keeping pace this morning.”

He didn’t linger. Another gesture, another instruction, already moving on. There had been something kind in his tone. He was not rushed—just efficient. Someone who didn’t need to prove anything to be competent. I watched him a moment longer than necessary, then adjusted my satchel and stepped forward.

The walk up from the dock brought me into the heart of the morning. The baker’s shutters were propped open, releasing a slow exhale of warm, yeasty air. A woman swept the apothecary steps with sure strokes, humming to herself. A child ran by with a basket of pears and a scolding voice echoed from somewhere behind him. Riverhaven was neither sleepy nor hurried. It simply was. Awake and already deep in the rhythm of its day.

I followed the directions I’d committed to memory. Left past the chandler’s, where the waxy, citrus scent lingered in the doorway. Two blocks uphill, boots scuffing over cobblestones slick with dew. A crooked weather vane shaped like a crescent moon turned lazily in the breeze. Right at the ivy-covered post that looked more plant than sign.

And there it was. The bindery, just as described, though it felt somehow smaller in the waking world than it had in my imaginings. The door was narrow and slightly weathered, its frame fitted snugly between two sun-warmed stone buildings that leaned together like old friends. A brass plate near the latch caught the light with a muted gleam, the letters faint but still legible. It had the look of something quietly important, meant to be noticed only by those who needed to find it.

Curled on the stoop as though it had been waiting precisely for this moment was a cat. Large, long-limbed, with a thick tail wrapped neatly around its paws. It blinked at me, slow and deliberate, as if evaluating my worth. Its ears flicked once in acknowledgment, not approval, and it remained precisely where it was, offering no sound, no greeting, only its presence.

I paused, taking in the details. The ivy trailing down from the eaves. The slight lean of the old rain barrel beside the door. The scent, already present, of aged paper and something floral beneath it. Faint but unmistakable. Familiar, though I had never stood here before.

Drawing the key from my pocket, I held it for a moment in my palm. The weight of it felt different now—less like a question and more like a beginning. I slid it into the lock. It turned with the quiet confidence of a mechanism well made and long tended.

The door creaked open, and a breath of air met me—cool and dry, carrying the unmistakable scent of binding glue, parchment, lavender dust, and time. I stepped across the threshold and stood just inside, letting the door ease shut behind me. My fingers rested on the satchel strap at my shoulder, my gaze adjusting to the light, my breath catching as I realized I was home.