Chapter 10: The Captain's Ledgers

The workshop smelled faintly of wax, parchment, and the lavender polish I’d used on the window sills the day before. Morning sunlight crept in at an angle, gilding the edge of my worktable and throwing the brass needlecase into a soft glow. I stretched my arms above my head and rolled my shoulders once, twice, listening to the quiet creak of joints and wood alike. Codex blinked at me from her perch on the stool near the wall, tucked safely away from scraps, thread, and the occasional flying chip of board.

All twelve ledger orders had been progressing steadily over the past week, and today was the final push on the last three. I had spent the previous afternoon folding signatures—precisely creased bundles of pages that would make up the interior of each book. My hands had remembered the rhythm, the angle of the bone folder, the tension of the fold. Henrik would’ve nodded in quiet approval.

Now came the sewing. I had the linen thread already measured and beeswaxed. Each book required tight, even stitches along the spine, with every pass through the paper piercing the exact same place—no drifting lines, no tugged holes. I threaded my curved needle carefully and placed the first signature bundle into the sewing cradle. Pierce. Pull. Knot. Repeat.

The first few stitches always felt mechanical, like my fingers were still reacquainting themselves with the rhythm. But then the pace settled, a kind of steady lullaby of movement. Codex watched with lazy disinterest, her tail wrapped around her paws, blinking slowly each time I adjusted my position or moved to the next set of holes.

By the time the first ledger’s spine was complete, the workshop had warmed from the rising sun and I had slipped into the meditative quiet that made me fall in love with bookbinding to begin with. My thoughts drifted as I worked—not far, just hovering in soft circles around the week ahead. The shop had settled into its own rhythm now. Mornings were for craftwork, mid-day for customers, and evenings for finishing what daylight had begun. I no longer tripped over furniture or forgot where Henrik stored his wax seal. I was starting to feel like the owner rather than the visitor.

I reached for the second book, carefully aligning its folded pages within the cradle. Each pass of the needle was deliberate and careful. My fingers ached slightly at the knuckles—so many stitches this week alone—but it was a productive kind of soreness, a signal that something tangible had been made by the end of it.

As I tied off the final knot and ran my finger down the newly sewn spine, I felt that quiet hum of satisfaction again. These were books someone would actually use. Pages filled with names, dates, weights, trades—daily life captured in tidy rows. The idea that the barge captains would rely on something I had built, something my hands had stitched and glued and shaped, brought a kind of still pride I hadn’t expected.

I set the finished ledgers in a neat row and stepped back to admire the lineup: ten completed, two to go. The stack of red and black cloth waited on the corner of the bench, trimmed and ready to be wrapped around each cover board once the sewing and waterproofing were done.

The final ledger felt heavier in my hands, though I knew it was only in my mind. I ran my fingers over the stack of folded signatures one last time before placing it in the cradle. By now, the room felt like it had folded in around me—workbench, window light, faint hiss of the kettle in the corner warming water for tea. The outside world had faded into a blur of birdsong and distant wagon wheels on stone.

When I tied off the last knot and placed the twelfth ledger next to the others, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I rotated my shoulders slowly, feeling the pull of effort in my back, then leaned against the bench to look over the row of work. Twelve books, every stitch in place.

I didn’t even realize Codex had padded over until I felt her tail curl along my calf. She let out a soft chirp and looked up expectantly, eyes half-lidded with approval. I scratched behind her ears and murmured, “You’re not the only one who deserves a treat after that.”

I poured water from the kettle into my mug and took it to the garden doorway, sipping the slightly bitter black tea as morning light spilled into the back garden. I stood in the doorway for a moment, tea in hand, gaze lingering on the flower beds and the small green shoots beginning to show from the marigolds. In a week or two, they’d bloom in little bursts of gold.

Back at the bench, I set the mug down and reached for my ledger to record the morning’s work. I entered the completion of the last three books, checking off the final stage in my neat, slanted script. One box left blank—for waterproofing. That would be the next task. Henrik had his own techniques for sealing books, but I’d found the process from school more efficient, at least for ledgers used in harsh conditions. Still, I had ideas I wanted to test today.

Codex hopped onto her stool once more as I cleared the bench and re-aligned my supplies. I couldn’t afford to waste even one of these books—the client needed every last one. But I had Henrik’s notes to work from, my training, and a hunch about combining the best of both worlds. The sewing was done. The real experiment was about to begin.

I set up my supplies at the front counter, the morning sun slanting through the windows and warming the worktop. The shop would be open soon, and I wanted to keep an eye on the door while working. Most of the day’s labor would be quiet, careful experimentation, and this wide front table gave me the best of both worlds: visibility for customers and space for testing.

The twelve sewn ledgers waited in a neat stack behind me, each one aligned and pressed, their spines identical in tension and stitch. I wasn’t ready to begin waterproofing them—not yet. Not until I was sure Henrik’s old suggestion was worth the risk.

I unrolled his margin notes again and reread the scribbled line at the edge of a formula sheet: “Try beeswax overlay after third coat—might seal better for salt air?” No elaboration. Just a hunch he’d never followed up on. But if he’d considered it, I trusted the idea was worth testing. And I had to test it properly. The barge ledgers weren’t for casual use; they’d be handled in damp holds, rained on, stacked in crates. I needed to be absolutely sure.

I reached for two sheets of test paper—same weight, texture, and grain direction as the ledger signatures. I labeled the corners with pencil: “Standard Coat” and “Beeswax Test.” Then I began the treatment. The salve was thick and golden, its enchantment latent until contact. It wasn’t my magic—not really—but when applied with care, the alchemical threads embedded in the mixture activated and wove themselves into the material.

For the ledgers, I wouldn’t have to treat every single page. That would be wasteful and nearly impossible to dry cleanly. The spellwork worked best through what we called block enchantment—applying the salve to the sewn text block at the edges and spine, where the energy would wick into the book as a whole. But for testing, I coated the full surface of each sheet, front and back, three times, with drying time between.

While the second coat cured, I boiled water for tea and kept an ear out for the bell. Codex jumped onto the windowsill, tail curled tightly over her paws as she watched the street with regal detachment. After the third coat was dry, I added the beeswax to one sample—softened gently in a pot and rubbed on in smooth, even strokes. I burnished it with a warm stone wrapped in linen, following the grain of the paper.

Both test sheets went into a shallow bowl of clean water, weighted lightly so they’d stay submerged. I set a timer for ten minutes and cleaned my brush while I waited, resisting the urge to peek early.

With no customers yet, I paced a little and organized my other supplies. Covers would need cutting soon. I arranged the binding cloth, checked the edge trims, and measured the spine width again. The ledgers would be pressed overnight once sealed. I’d need to rotate them carefully in sets of three to keep from warping the boards. A soft breeze rattled the top pane of the window, and I could smell the faint scent of lavender from the garden.

The timer chimed.

I pulled both sheets from the water and laid them flat to dry. The standard treatment had worked reasonably well—some moisture along the corners, but no real seepage. The beeswax sample, however, was pristine. Water had beaded cleanly, leaving no sign of softening. I shook it lightly over the sink, and the droplets scattered like rain on glass.

I bent closer, tapping the surface lightly with a fingernail. Still firm. Still dry.

With a satisfied nod, I reached for my personal journal and carefully noted the process: three coats of waterproofing salve, beeswax overlay, light burnish at 38–40°C. “Tested morning light, front counter. Salt air conditions—passed.” I circled the entry. This would be the version I used on the captain’s ledgers. It took longer—but it was the right method. And for a twelve-book commission that could bring more business, it needed to be perfect.

Only then—only with the experiment successful and recorded—did I allow myself to turn to the ledgers.

I took Ledger One from the stack, ran a hand along the spine, and brought it to the counter. This was the part of the job I loved best. Not invention, not ambition—just craft. Just the quiet rhythm of brush and cloth, of intention and care.

I dipped the brush and began the first coat, steady and slow, watching the salve sink into the outer pages and across the spine. The scent of herbs and beeswax curled up into the air, familiar and grounding. The entire block would absorb the enchantment from these outer applications, and I made sure every pass was even.

Codex yawned behind me and stretched on the windowsill, casting a sleepy eye toward the street. Still no customers, though I could hear cart wheels on cobblestones in the distance. I pressed Ledger One gently between glass boards and turned to the next.

By midmorning, I had coated three ledgers and left them to dry. The rest would follow in stages—two more sets before tea, then the beeswax later in the day. The test sheets had reassured me, but I still worked carefully, not rushing the process. It was a long commission, but I wanted the captain to look at every book and know he’d chosen someone who respected the river, the craft, and the hands that would use these ledgers. And so, I worked, quietly and steadily, the shop bell hanging above and Codex watching beside me.

By midday, the morning's chill had finally lifted, and sunlight filtered through the front windows in gentle shafts. The bells over the door jingled precisely three times before the clock struck one. A welcome, manageable pace. The first visitor was Mrs. Pembridge, dressed as immaculately as ever, her long coat a soft dove-grey today with embroidery at the cuffs that suggested it had been custom-stitched. She set down her woven basket with a little sigh, the wickerwork creaking softly as it settled against the counter's edge.

"Afternoon, dear," she said briskly, pulling off her gloves finger by finger. "Henrik always kept the nicest paper for correspondence. I've run low, and I was hoping you'd have some of his old stock—or your own, of course, if it's just as fine."

I smiled, already turning toward the cabinet behind the counter. "I have a new batch just in. Slightly smoother finish, but the same weight. Would you like to test a sheet?"

She took the offered sample, pinching it delicately between thumb and forefinger, then held it up to catch the light streaming through the window. The paper glowed like fresh cream. "Yes. This will do very well."

"Actually," I said, pausing before I began counting sheets, "I wanted to show you something new. I've been putting together some letter-writing kits. A few different styles, depending on preference—paper, envelopes, sealing wax, even a little guide for folds and form."

Her eyes lit with interest, and she set down the paper sample. "Have you now? Henrik never stocked such things, but it always seemed a missed opportunity. We do write a great deal of letters in this village, you know."

I guided her over to the front table where the finished sets were displayed, her basket bumping gently against her hip as we walked. "These are the simple ones," I said, gesturing to the modest kits bound with string, "and here are the more ornate options—hand-cut paper, matching seals, and some imported ink packets I sourced last week."

Mrs. Pembridge leaned in, examining each set with the critical eye of someone who took correspondence seriously. Her gloved fingers hovered over the marbled stationery of the finest kit. "Oh yes," she murmured, a note of satisfaction in her voice. "This one will do nicely. And I'll take a second for my sister in Millcroft—she's finally figured out how to use her letter seal without burning through the page."

I chuckled, remembering my own early mishaps with sealing wax. "A valuable skill to master."

She browsed a moment longer while I gathered the two kits, nodding approvingly at the growing selection of supplies I'd arranged on the shelves. "These are just the sort of touches a shop needs to distinguish itself," she said. "People will remember this."

"I hope so," I replied, carrying the sets back to the counter. "I've been trying to balance the restoration work with creating new pieces for sale. It's slow going, but I'm getting there."

"Quite right. Restoration is important, but it doesn't fill the shelves. Now then, let me settle up."

I wrapped both kits in brown parchment with extra care, knowing they'd travel to her sister, while Mrs. Pembridge produced the right change from her coin purse with practiced ease. As I tucked her receipt into her basket beside what looked like a jar of preserves and a bundle of fresh herbs, she adjusted her gloves.

"Oh," she said, pausing at the door. "Young Thomas mentioned he might stop by. The artist boy—you'll know him by the state of his hands. Miri's been encouraging him to get proper supplies." She smiled knowingly. "He's terribly shy, but his sketches are quite good. Be patient with him."

But before leaving, she turned back, her hand on the door handle. "Henrik left a fine legacy, Miss Whitfield," she said, her tone warm but measured. "But it's clear the bindery is in very good hands. Don't forget to take rest where you can."

"I'll try," I promised, touched by the sincerity in her voice.

The bell sang her departure, and I stood for a moment in the soft hush that followed, grateful and a little buoyed. These quiet exchanges meant everything—they built something real. And I couldn't wait to keep building. I found myself tidying the already-neat counter, wondering about this Thomas and his artwork, my hands still warm from the satisfaction of a successful sale.

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I didn't have to wonder long. Not twenty minutes later, the bell chimed again, though this time it was a traveler who stepped in—dusty boots and a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, the kind of wear that spoke of long roads and countless miles. He moved with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to new places, his gaze sweeping the shop before landing on the shelf of blank books near the window.

"You the new binder?" he asked, crossing to the journals without ceremony. His fingers, weathered and sure, flipped through the topmost book with practiced ease.

"I am," I said, watching him inspect my work. "Let me know if you're looking for something specific."

He examined the lay-flat spine with the critical eye of someone who knew quality, then gave a satisfied grunt. "Blank one'll do. I've got a long ride ahead, and thoughts to keep in order." He glanced up, crow's feet deepening as he smiled. "Good binding. Clean work on the signatures."

I offered to wrap it, but he waved me off, producing coins from a pouch with the same easy efficiency. "No need. It'll go straight in the saddlebag." As he counted out payment, he added, "Henrik would've liked you, I think. He appreciated careful hands."

The compliment settled warm in my chest as he left, the dust motes he'd disturbed dancing in his wake.

I'd barely returned to wiping down the workbench when the bell announced my third visitor. This time, a teenager slipped through the door—fifteen or sixteen at most—wearing a charcoal-grey smock liberally decorated with graphite smudges and ink stains. They paused just inside, blinking as their eyes adjusted from the bright afternoon to the shop's softer interior light.

"Hi," they said, the word barely above a whisper. Their hands twisted together, leaving fresh smudges on already-stained fingers. "Um... I heard you have books. For, like... drawing?"

Thomas, I realized. Mrs. Pembridge's shy artist.

I set down my cloth and offered my gentlest smile. "You're in the right place. Sketchbooks are on the shelf to your left. Do you know what size or paper type you'd prefer?"

They—Thomas—took a breath as if gathering courage, then crossed to the shelf with quick, purposeful steps. "Not really. I've just been using folded parchment and scrap, but Miri said I should try a real book. She bakes. Said you might help me figure it out."

That explained the faint scent of cinnamon and yeast that clung to their collar. "She was right. What sort of drawing do you like to do?"

Thomas relaxed slightly, fingers ghosting over the book spines. "People. But also buildings. I like rooftops—the way shadows fall on them, how chimneys make patterns against the sky."

I moved to stand beside them, careful not to crowd, and selected two different books. "Let me show you the differences." I opened the first. "This one has smoother paper, better for pens and fine detail work. See how the surface is almost polished?" Then the second. "This one has what we call tooth—texture. It grabs pencil better, holds charcoal if you work with that."

They took both books, testing each surface with the pad of their thumb.

"This one," Thomas said finally, clutching the textured sketchbook with sudden certainty. "I like the way it feels. Like it wants to hold the drawings."

I took the book to wrap it, then paused. "Do you want a strap for it? I can add one—just a length of twine through the spine with a loop. Useful if you carry things while you're sketching."

Their whole face transformed. "Yes, please. I carry things a lot. Sometimes I climb things to draw, and it's hard to hold everything."

While I threaded the twine and knotted it securely, Thomas watched with intense focus, as if memorizing the technique. They paid with coins from a cloth pouch, counting them out carefully, then cradled the wrapped book like something precious.

"I've never bought something like this before," they admitted, running a finger along the parchment wrapping. "Feels like it matters."

"It does," I said, leaning against the counter to meet their eyes properly. "You're making space for your art to grow. That's important. Every artist needs good tools."

They beamed then, a smile that transformed their whole demeanor from anxious to radiant. "Thanks. I'll come back when I fill this one. Maybe... maybe I could show you some of the drawings? If you wanted to see them?"

"I'd like that very much."

Thomas tucked the book into a satchel that bore evidence of many artistic experiments—paint splatters, charcoal smudges, and what might have been dried paste. At the door, they turned back. "Miri was right. You do help people figure things out."

The bell sang them out into the afternoon, and suddenly the shop felt very quiet. I stood there for a moment, hands resting on the counter where three very different customers had stood, each seeking something only I could provide. Mrs. Pembridge with her elegant letter-writing kits, already imagining the correspondence they would carry. The traveler with his need for a repository of thoughts. Young Thomas, taking the first real step toward claiming their identity as an artist.

The wood beneath my palms still held traces of warmth—from the afternoon sun, from the coins that had crossed it, from the small interactions that were slowly weaving me into the fabric of this place. I wasn't just keeping Henrik's shop running. I was becoming part of its story, adding my own chapter to whatever long history these walls had witnessed.

Outside, the afternoon stretched on, golden and patient. Inside, the tools of my trade waited—patient too, in their own way. There would be more books to bind, more pages to fold and stitch, more letter-writing kits to assemble. But for now, I allowed myself this moment of satisfaction. The shop may not have been full, but it had been enough. More than enough.

By mid-afternoon, the sunlight had mellowed into a soft golden hue that filtered through the bindery windows, warming the worktable and casting elongated shadows across the floor. I had the shop door propped open to catch the breeze, the bell above it silent for now. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that settles deep and makes room for real focus.

I poured the steeped tea Thaddeus had blended for me into my favorite clay mug, the one with the chipped rim that somehow made it more mine. The blend smelled faintly of mint and something grounding, like dried root. I took a careful sip, letting it anchor me, and then set the mug at the corner of my workbench, just out of reach of Codex’s inevitable curiosity.

The final stretch of the captain’s ledger order had arrived. All twelve were sewn now—spines even, thread tension smooth and balanced. It had taken days of steady effort, a rhythm I had grown into. This morning, I had finalized the waterproofing sealant, a new mixture born of Henrik’s notes and my own trial and error. It had taken most of the morning to get it right, experimenting with beeswax proportions and testing samples until I could be sure the result would protect the books without stiffening the paper. The success still warmed me like sunlight.

Now came the finishing work. I laid out all twelve ledgers, their signatures neatly sewn and their covers—cut days ago—stacked in sets beside them. I began by pairing each text block with its corresponding cover pieces, checking carefully for fit and alignment. The boards had to match not just in size but in feel. The way they opened. The resistance in the hinge. Everything mattered.

Codex watched from the windowsill, her tail twitching as I moved between the drying racks and the bench. She had learned, through trial and error of her own, not to step too close to wet sealant. I caught her watching me with narrowed eyes, as though silently judging my technique.

I started with the sealant. Each ledger had already received one coat this morning, just after the formula was finalized. I checked for absorption, touching the edges of the endpapers and the inside of the spine with the back of my fingers. Dry. I dipped the soft-bristle brush into the mixture—thicker now that it had cooled slightly—and applied the second coat with long, steady strokes. The scent was faintly herbal, beeswax mingling with the subtle tang of the waterproofing agent. I worked with care, making sure the sealant soaked evenly across each surface. If applied too thin, the pages would warp under moisture. Too thick, and the book would lose its suppleness.

Once the second coat was applied to all twelve, I left them to dry upright on the wooden rack Henrik had built years ago, its slotted base still holding true. While they cured, I turned to the covers.

Assembly was never fast. It demanded patience, the kind that came from years of muscle memory and a deep respect for materials. I laid out the cloth pieces, already cut and pressed, and began gluing them to the boards in careful order. A layer of enchanted glue spread thinly with a bone folder, a precise press of cloth to board, then smoothing outward to prevent bubbles. The glue had a faint shimmer to it—visible only when it caught the light—and would bind cloth and board more tightly than any mundane adhesive.

Each cover needed a clean spine joint and firm corners. I clipped the fabric at angles and folded it inward, pressing with the folder, then added the paper lining to strengthen the hinge. All of this I did in silence, letting the routine settle into my bones.

By the time the sealant on the text blocks was dry to the touch, I had assembled covers for half the order. I moved on to casing in—fitting the bound signatures into their finished covers. This part always felt like an exhale. The book took its final shape, its structure made whole. I lined the spine with a final strip of backing paper, added the endpaper paste, and set each one into the press.

The press groaned gently under the weight, but it was a familiar sound, almost comforting. While the first batch rested under pressure, I began assembling the second set of covers, repeating the careful layering and folding. My shoulders ached by the time I finished, but it was the kind of ache that meant something was getting done.

As the light dimmed outside, I took a break to stretch my back and sip the last of the lukewarm tea. Codex jumped down from the sill and began her evening patrol of the shop floor, inspecting each press with what I could only assume was approval.

By the end of the day, ten ledgers stood finished on the drying shelf, their spines smooth and reinforced, their seals resilient against the damp life of the river. Two more remained, their covers still resting under the final weight of the press. I would finish them tomorrow.

I cleaned my tools with slow, methodical motions. Glue pot sealed, brushes washed, cloth scraps folded. The shop smelled of beeswax, fresh cloth, and tea leaves. I turned the lights down low, checked the door lock, and gave Codex her evening ear-scratch. There would be more work tomorrow, more orders, more repairs, but tonight, I could rest knowing the captain’s ledgers were nearly complete—and better, they were mine now. Not Henrik’s, not anyone else’s. The process had become my own.

By the time I rinsed the last of the glue from my brush and set it in the rack to dry, my hands were aching fiercely. The kind of ache that throbbed in the wrists and reached up the forearms in dull pulses. I flexed my fingers slowly, then held them still over the workbench. No more for today.

The ledgers were stacked neatly at one end of the table, ten complete, their covers burnished and bindings precise. Two remained, and I’d finish them tomorrow. I was on schedule. Maybe even a hair ahead.

But I wouldn’t be cooking tonight.

The idea of kneading dough or lifting a pot made me wince. I’d earned a proper meal—and a rest. I rubbed rosemary salve into my palms, shrugged on my shawl, and locked up the shop, the door creaking closed behind me with a tired finality.

Evening had settled in, soft and amber. The last glow of sun touched the rooftops, and the streets were gentler now, quieter. A few neighbours strolled past with baskets, and someone down the lane was laughing as they tried to corral a particularly stubborn goose. I walked slowly, letting my pace match the cooling air and my own weary limbs.

The Alder and Ivy was already glowing when I reached it, its windows lit from within, spilling golden light onto the cobbles. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the promise of roasted onions and fresh bread reached me before I even stepped inside.

I didn’t hesitate this time.

The tavern was busy but not packed. I paused in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust to the firelit interior. The same low beams, the same copper pans hanging near the kitchen pass-through. A few tables were filled with regulars—dockhands, shopkeepers, the occasional cloaked traveler. And there, near the back wall, sat Marcus Riverstone. He was alone, a half-finished cider beside him and a plate still steaming. He wore the same threadbare coat I remembered, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, revealing strong forearms dusted with flour or maybe paper lint. His eyes met mine almost immediately. A smile bloomed across his face, slow and warm. He lifted a hand in greeting and gestured to the chair across from him.

“Time to return the favour,” he said as I reached the table, voice pitched just for me. “Join me?”

I blinked, startled by the sudden warmth in my chest. “I—yes. If you’re sure?”

“Very sure.” He pushed the chair out with his foot. “You look like someone who’s had a long day and deserves a good meal. Sit.”

I didn’t need convincing. My hands ached and my shoulders had that particular tired slump that only came from a day of fine, focused work. I slid into the seat with a sigh of relief.

Marcus passed me the menu slate, though I noticed he’d already scribbled a few recommendations in the margin in what looked like chalk. I raised a brow at him.

“They’re known for their stew,” he said with mock solemnity. “But the baked root pie is the real hidden gem. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

When the server passed, I ordered the pie and a pot of tea with honey, and Marcus added a refill of his cider. Then, with that quiet lull only shared meals can offer, he leaned forward slightly.

“So,” he said, “what’s been keeping you so busy in that bindery of yours?”

I wrapped my hands around the warm mug when it arrived and took a long breath. “Ledgers. A full order—twelve, for one of the barge captains. But they needed something more specialized. Damp-resistant. So I’ve been experimenting with sealants.”

His brows lifted, impressed. “And? Did it work?”

“I think so. The third coat seals it well, but I had to modify the formula—Henrik had some margin notes, and I added a beeswax layer after. Tested it this morning. The water beaded off like it had hit stone.”

He let out a low whistle. “Sounds like you’ve built something even better than Henrik managed.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” I felt a flush rise to my cheeks. “But I’m proud of it. The process was—well, satisfying.”

Marcus nodded thoughtfully, rubbing the rim of his mug with one thumb. “You should be proud. You figure out a way to keep ledgers dry on a river route, and you’ll have more captains knocking than you’ll know what to do with. There’s a real need for that sort of thing. Especially in spring, when the spray carries all the way up to the docks.”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” I admitted. “I just wanted to get this order right.”

“Well,” he said, lifting his mug in a quiet toast, “here’s to getting it right.”

We clinked our drinks together with the softest chime of ceramic and clay.

Conversation flowed easily after that—gentle, quiet things. He asked how I was settling in, and I told him about Mrs. Hedgewood and her marigolds, about Codex commandeering the garden bench, about Thaddeus’s tea blends and the first time a customer cried when I handed them a restored book.

And in return, he told me how he started working the river runs—how his uncle used to say the river taught patience, because you couldn’t rush it, couldn’t force it. How he’d thought about long-haul trading once, but realized he liked knowing the names of the shopkeepers, liked seeing the same faces month after month.

“There’s something comforting about staying close,” he said, gaze distant for a moment. “Knowing the bends in the river. The weather shifts. The people.”

“I think I understand that,” I said softly. “I used to want to run far. But there’s something about being rooted—about watching the same window catch the light at different times of day. It’s not boring. It’s... grounding.”

His eyes met mine again, and something passed between us. That careful, testing awareness. Not quite a question, not quite an answer.

I felt it like a chord tightening in my chest.

By the time we finished our meals, the tavern had begun to empty. A few tables lingered, quiet conversations low and familiar. Outside, the streetlights flickered on one by one, casting soft pools of amber on the cobbles.

I stretched my arms, then winced. “I’m going to regret those glue pots tomorrow.”

Marcus stood when I did. “Then you’d better let me walk you home. It’s the least I can do after stealing your evening.”

“You didn’t steal anything,” I said, gathering my shawl. “You returned the favour.”

We stepped out into the cool evening together, the tavern door swinging closed behind us. The street was quiet now, just the two of us walking side by side. Our steps matched easily, and we didn’t rush.

Outside the shop, I paused with my hand on the key.

Marcus stopped beside me, his hands tucked loosely in his coat pockets. He looked up at the sign—Moonscribe’s Bindery—then back at me.

“I’m glad you came to Riverhaven,” he said, voice low. “I think this place suits you.”

“I’m starting to think so too.”

A silence settled, warm and expectant.

Then, quietly: “Elspeth... would it be alright if I kissed you?”

He didn’t step forward. Didn’t presume. He just waited, his voice soft with hope and restraint.

I looked up at him, heart suddenly beating like a hummingbird’s. And I nodded. “Yes.”

He leaned in, slowly, like he was afraid to startle me. And when our lips met, it was nothing like I expected—gentle and deliberate, a promise rather than a question. His hand found mine, fingers warm and callused.

When we parted, I was breathless. Not from the kiss, but from everything in it.

“I should go in,” I whispered.

He smiled, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “And I should let you. Goodnight, Elspeth.”

“Goodnight, Marcus.”

I watched him walk back down the lane until he turned the corner, then stepped inside and closed the door with a quiet click. The shop smelled of parchment and lavender, and the lamplight caught the edges of the ledgers still waiting on the worktable. My hands still ached. But the ache didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.