Chapter 11: The Spring Storm

Clouds had gathered overnight like dark silk being drawn across the sky, and by morning, the wind carried the kind of weight that promised trouble. I stood at the workshop window with my tea cooling in my hands, watching the edge of a spring storm rise over the rooftops. The river, usually calm and glinting, had turned a muddied pewter, reflecting the heavy churn of the sky above.

There wasn’t time to waste. The final coat needed to be applied to the last two captain’s ledgers before the storm broke, or it wouldn’t dry properly. I had already managed ten—each one treated and tucked safely on the drying rack beneath the high shelf, away from any drafts or potential leaks.

I’d finalized the sealant the morning before, after a full round of testing. It was mine now—Henrik might have left the notes, but the balance of ingredients and layering techniques had taken shape under my hands. The mixture rested now in a heat-safe jar near the stove, where I’d placed it earlier to gently warm through, softening to the right consistency. A few swirls with a wooden stirrer confirmed it was ready: smooth, creamy, faintly golden, and thick enough to coat the paper without smudging or soaking.

I slipped into my work apron and checked the spines of the last two ledgers again—stitched tight with even spacing, boards aligned and pressed into shape. The pages were clean, crisp, and ready. I worked methodically, dipping the broad brush and applying a steady coat over each exposed edge, making sure to layer evenly across the outer folds. The enchantment embedded in the sealant shimmered faintly in the light, a soft glint that passed like oil over water. One pass for absorption, one to seal, and a third for durability. I murmured the words that activated the magic woven into the binding thread—a habit more than a necessity, but it helped focus the intent. The moment the enchantment took hold, the shimmer settled and vanished, like mist absorbed by sunlight.

Codex watched me from her usual perch on the windowsill, ears flicking toward the rising wind. She never liked storms, and neither did I. Not when they came with this much warning.

I wiped down the brush, capped the sealant, and checked each ledger’s alignment once more before carrying them to the drying rack. They fit neatly beside their siblings, a dozen sturdy volumes gleaming faintly beneath the high shelf’s protection. The sense of satisfaction that followed had nothing to do with pride—it was more like a quiet relief, like placing the final stone in a wall and knowing it would hold.

Outside, the sky had gone grey as iron. I glanced toward the southwest corner of the ceiling, where Corwin’s repair patch held firm from the last storm. No cracks, no stains. That was one less thing to worry about. Still, this storm felt different—stronger, meaner. The kind that tested old buildings and newer nerves.

I moved quickly through the shop, shifting vulnerable items toward the center shelves and double-checking the front windows. I hadn’t had any problems there last time, but it didn’t hurt to latch everything tight and tuck a few old towels along the baseboards just in case.

A gust slammed against the shutters, rattling them with enough force to make me wince. The first drops of rain followed, sharp and sudden, tapping against the glass like fingertips in a hurry.

I closed the workshop door behind me and secured the inner bolt. My hands were still tacky from sealant, and the faint ache in my shoulders told me it had been a longer morning than I realized. Still, the work was done. All twelve ledgers, finished and drying. On time. And, if the sealant held up as well as I believed, better than anything Henrik had ever sent upriver.

I allowed myself a breath, one hand resting against the drying rack’s wooden edge. The wind howled outside, and Codex gave a small, displeased chirp before hopping down to curl herself beneath the workbench, her usual storm haven. The storm had arrived. But the ledgers were safe. And so was I—for now.

The storm hit like a thrown stone—sudden, violent, and impossible to ignore. It began with a gust so strong that it rattled the shutters on the west-facing windows, a sharp report that startled me enough to drop the cloth I was using to wipe down the bench. I turned instinctively toward the glass, heart ticking up a beat. Outside, the lane had already emptied. The air, which moments ago had been merely unsettled, now rolled with a low, continuous growl.

I crossed to the front windows, where the first specks of rain were spattering against the panes. I caught sight of a few last stragglers in the square—heads down, cloaks whipped sideways—making for doorways as the wind rose to a howl. Over the rooftops, the sky was no longer grey but a bruise-dark blue-black, the kind of colour that meant thunder and fury and the kind of weather one remembered.

Within minutes, the drizzle turned into horizontal sheets of rain, pelting the shop like thrown handfuls of pebbles. I checked each latch in turn, forcing two of them to catch properly, and reached up to close the outer shutters on the front-facing windows, just as a sudden sharp crack of thunder echoed down the lane. The vibration reached through the floorboards and up into my ribs.

“Corwin’s patch should hold,” I murmured aloud, glancing at the southwest corner where a silvery edge of his handiwork peeked beneath the eaves. I believed that. His work was sound. But this storm was another matter entirely.

I moved quickly, lifting the more vulnerable stock off the bottom shelves, stacking wrapped journals and unboxed paper kits on the central table where they’d be safe from any leaks. Then I moved through the workshop, repeating the process—stacking blank paper off the floor, pushing a stool beneath the skylight in case it decided to drip. The final ledger I’d sealed just before the first thunderclap still sat upright on its drying rack, unbothered by the chaos outside. I double-checked the rack’s position, then slid the small bench beneath it just in case I needed to move it quickly. The waterproofing I’d finished yesterday was holding beautifully, but I wasn’t going to tempt fate.

Another sharp crack of thunder split the air, followed by a long, low groan that I realised—too late—was not the sound of wind but of water finding its way in.

I spun toward the sound and saw it: a thin, steady trickle running down from the front right corner of the shop, just beneath the display shelf. The old wooden window frame, which had always seemed secure, now held a visible line of water, glistening against the glass like a slow tear.

“Oh no,” I breathed, grabbing the spare cloths from the peg and dropping to my knees. I stuffed the cloth along the bottom edge, where the leak was trickling down the wall and pooling on the display shelf. The paper samples there were already damp, corners curling miserably. I yanked them off the shelf and tossed them in the waste bin before they could infect anything else with mildew.

The wind shrieked again, louder this time, and another crash reverberated through the building—this one higher, sharper. I froze. That had come from the roof.

The next drop of water landed squarely on my wrist.

I looked up.

A thin line of water snaked its way down one of the wooden beams crossing the ceiling—one I’d never worried about before. It dripped again, just to the left of the hanging lantern, splashing onto the workbench with a soft plink.

I backed away and fumbled for another cloth, weighing it down with a ceramic bowl to catch the worst of the leak. From the garden door, I could hear the storm’s voice, wind and water roaring together in a chorus so loud it nearly drowned out the next sound entirely:

A knock.

Sharp, persistent, right at the back door.

“Just a moment!” I called over the gale, shoving the drying rack with the ledgers back another foot to keep them out of harm’s way. Then I dashed through the workshop and unlatched the rear door, pulling it inward just enough to see who could possibly be out in this mess.

Mrs. Hedgewood stood just beyond the threshold in a long cloak, its hem soaked, hood half-blown back. She looked like she’d stepped out of an old tale about sea witches and river storms, her braids plastered to her cheeks.

“This one’s a proper tempest!” she called, raising her voice above the roar. “Need help?”

“I—yes! Come in—please!”

She ducked inside, shedding her dripping outer layer and shaking out her arms like a wet cat. “Heard something crack on my roof and thought I’d best check on the neighbours. Your lights were flickering—I figured that meant trouble.”

I pointed toward the ceiling. “We’ve got a leak. Window too.”

“Let’s have a look, then.” She took in the damage at a glance. “Aye, this beam’s new. Not the one Corwin patched. That was the southwest—this is center-east. New breach.” She clicked her tongue. “This weather’s testing all of us.”

We worked quickly. She helped shift the rest of the display table, then assisted in stacking the books from beneath the new leak. I fetched a bucket from the garden shed to catch the worst of the dripping while she adjusted the angle of the drying rack so the captain’s ledgers weren’t anywhere near danger.

“Haven’t had one like this in a good five years,” she said as she checked another shutter. “Used to be Henrik would climb up there himself. Foolish man, half-blind in one eye and still scrambling on the roof like a spider.”

“Did he leave any notes?” I asked, thinking aloud as I crossed to Henrik’s wall of notebooks. “For severe weather?”

Mrs. Hedgewood nodded. “Back row, far left. Should be labelled ‘Protocols—Shop and Weather.’” Her tone had that no-nonsense briskness I was growing used to. “I helped him write it.”

I found the book easily—plain cover, tied with twine—and flipped it open as we perched at the edge of the workbench, listening to the wind howl around us. The pages were neat, methodical. Diagrams of storm-proofing procedures. Inventory placement charts. And, about halfway through, a page underlined in dark red ink: If significant roof leak appears: check attic access above rear workroom beam. Possible weak tiles near center ridge.

“I can’t get up there in this weather,” I said, eyeing the note. “It’s not safe.”

“No,” she agreed. “You’d need someone with better footing. But if you’ve got buckets, cloths, and something for the door seals, we can hold till it passes.”

We worked together for the next hour, shifting vulnerable stock, laying out more cloths, and stuffing bits of waxed cotton into the window frame to stop further seepage. The light from the lamps flickered once but held, and I said a silent thanks for the recent re-wiring I’d insisted on during my first week.

Eventually, Mrs. Hedgewood straightened with a groan and rubbed her back. “That’ll do for now. I’ll go see if the tavern’s lost power. They’ve got a wood stove, just in case.”

“Thank you,” I said, deeply and sincerely, as I saw her to the back door again. “Truly. I wouldn’t have managed all this alone.”

She just waved a hand. “We help our own in Riverhaven. You’ll get used to that.”

Then she was gone, cloak flapping like a sail as she disappeared back into the rain.

I shut the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, listening to the wind scream and the buckets drip and the old bones of the bindery creak and settle. I was soaked through the sleeves from carrying water, my knees were damp from crawling on the floor, and my hands ached from how tightly I’d clutched the railings during the worst of it.

But we’d made it through the first assault. The storm was far from over—but for now, the shop still stood. The ledgers were safe. The roof held—barely. I took a deep breath, the scent of wax and paper and rain mingling around me, and waited to see what would come next.

The rain had been coming in horizontal sheets for what felt like an hour, slamming against the windows with such force I half-expected the glass to bow inward. I'd set out half a dozen towels to catch stray leaks and repositioned buckets twice already. The workshop had taken on the dim, honeyed hue of lamplight in mid-afternoon, and still the storm showed no signs of easing.

The worst leak was from a beam I’d never thought to worry about—directly over the corner shelf where I’d moved some of the journals earlier. One of them had taken a few drops before I noticed. I shifted the stack and blotted the moisture gently, setting the book to dry spine-up beside the hearth. The ledgers, thankfully, remained untouched in the center workbench. Their waterproofing had more than proven itself earlier when I’d spilled my rinsing water. Still, I didn’t trust even my best work against a sudden rush of weather. I’d placed the entire set in a sealed storage crate in the corner, just in case.

Codex had retreated to her basket under the stairs and made it clear she intended to stay there, tail flicking only when thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows.

I was in the middle of taping up a sheet of oilcloth over the front display shelf, leaning precariously across a stool, when a thunderous knock shook the back door—three sharp raps, urgent enough to startle me upright.

I wiped my hands and hurried to the door, lifting the latch and pulling it open with effort. Wind tore at the gap immediately, and rain slashed sideways into the doorway.

Marcus Riverstone stood on the garden stoop, completely drenched.

“Storm’s throwing tiles all the way past the docks,” he said, raising his voice over the roar of the wind. “I came to check if you were all right.”

His hair was plastered to his forehead, coat soaked through to the shoulders, and his boots squelched visibly on the flagstone. He looked like a man carved out of the river itself, chiseled by weather and willpower. I stepped back, holding the door wide enough for him to duck inside.

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“You’re mad to be out in this,” I said, but I couldn’t quite keep the relief from my voice.

“And yet here I am,” he replied with a grin, already tugging off his dripping outer layer. “I saw the roof and thought you might need help.”

He cast a practiced eye upward toward the darkened ceiling beam, the one I’d now surrounded with two buckets and a towel-wrapped display board. His gaze swept the room like someone checking the rigging on a barge, assessing damage in a storm.

“That’s new,” he said, nodding at the drip.

“Started about twenty minutes ago,” I confirmed. “I’ve patched what I can, but I can’t get into the attic safely.”

“No need,” he said. “I know where that leak’s coming from. I helped Corwin haul up those tiles last year, and we skipped one section near the chimney because of a wasps’ nest. My guess is the wind peeled that spot open.”

He glanced out the window toward the rising gusts and rain. “I can make a temporary patch. Rope and canvas should hold it through the night.”

“You can’t go up there now,” I said, instinctively horrified. “It’s still howling. The wind might take you right off the roof.”

“It might,” he agreed mildly. “But it might also let up just enough. If I can get up, fasten the canvas, and get back down before the next gust—”

“I’d still rather not watch you go flying,” I said, moving toward the stairs where I kept a bin of emergency supplies. “But I’ll hold the ladder.”

He smiled at that. “Deal.”

Within minutes, we were in the garden again, the rain soaking through my sleeves despite the oilskin jacket I’d hastily thrown on. Marcus carried a length of heavy canvas, a coil of rope slung over one shoulder, and a bundle of tile nails in one hand. The wind shrieked around us like a live thing. I set the ladder carefully, bracing it with my foot as he climbed swiftly, moving with the practiced ease of someone who had clambered up and down storm-slick structures a hundred times before.

I barely breathed as he reached the top. The wind kicked harder then, catching the canvas like a sail. He fought it down, straddling the ridge and securing one corner before lashing the rope through a metal hook near the chimney. My heart pounded with every movement.

And then came the noise—sharp and wrong. A tile shifting loose somewhere higher up. I shouted, though I wasn’t sure what, just noise and warning. Marcus looked up just as a slate tile came tumbling down, shattering on the edge of the roof. Another gust slammed into him and he lost balance for one terrible second, sliding toward the gutter.

“Marcus!” I yelled, instinctively gripping the ladder tighter.

He caught himself, legs braced wide, rope looped around his wrist. He swore under his breath—loud enough to hear—and made his way back down in jerky, hurried motions. As soon as he hit the last rung, I grabbed his arm and half-dragged him through the door.

We slammed it shut behind us, soaked and breathless. His hands were trembling slightly from the cold, or maybe the adrenaline, and mine weren’t much steadier.

“That,” he said, water running off his hair into his collar, “was a bloody foolish idea.”

“And yet effective,” I said, peeking out the window. The canvas tarp held, pulled taut by the ropes and angled just right to keep the worst of the rain off the weakened section. “You bought us a few hours, maybe even the night.”

“I’ll take it.” He exhaled, then laughed—deep and startled. “I think we both deserve a mug of something hot.”

“I’ll put the kettle on,” I said, brushing wet hair from my forehead. “Towels are by the hearth.”

While the water heated, we worked quickly to reposition buckets under the worst drips and mop up what we could. The storm outside remained fierce, but for now, we had contained the worst of it. Marcus shed his soaked coat and set it near the fire, his shirt beneath clinging to him in a way that should not have been as distracting as it was. I turned back to the tea with more haste than was strictly necessary.

He joined me at the workbench, both of us cupping warm mugs. I had pulled out Thaddeus’s spice blend—the cinnamon and ginger sharp in the air, a comfort against the rain. Codex, ever the fair-weather companion, padded out of her basket at last to wind around our ankles, sniffing Marcus’s boots with vague approval.

“We’re quite the storm crew,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now that we weren’t shouting over wind.

“I suppose we are,” I replied, resting one hand on the bench. “Thank you. Really. I didn’t realize how much worse this one would be.”

“You handled it well. Most people panic when leaks start pouring in.”

“I nearly did. Then I remembered Henrik’s old note—storm protocol. He always kept backup supplies under the stairs.” I glanced at him. “And I suppose he always had you to call, too.”

Marcus shrugged modestly. “I helped where I could. But this—this you handled on your own. I just ran damage control.”

He sipped his tea, then looked around the workshop. “You’ve made this place your own, you know. I can see it.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Thank you. That… means a lot.”

He smiled again, this time slower, more thoughtful. “You’re not just keeping things running—you’re building something new.”

The silence that followed was comfortable. The worst of the storm still raged outside, but inside the bindery, with the fire crackling and our mugs warm, it felt like we had carved out a safe harbor.

When the rain finally began to soften, a tap at the garden door startled us both. I opened it to find Mrs. Hedgewood wrapped in a rain cape, balancing a basket and a bundle under one arm.

“Thought you might need hot soup and dry clothes,” she said cheerfully. “Saw your rooftop acrobatics, Marcus. Brave—or foolish.”

“Bit of both,” he said, grinning.

“Come upstairs,” I said, gesturing for them both to follow. “Let’s dry off properly before either of us catches cold.”

As we climbed the stairs, Marcus fell into step beside me. His hand brushed mine once—deliberately, I thought—but didn’t linger. Upstairs, the hearth welcomed us with steady heat, and the sound of rain softened into a low, comforting patter on the windows. We had weathered the worst together, and something in that truth settled warmly in my chest.

By the time we’d peeled off our wet clothes and wrapped ourselves in the garments Mrs. Hedgewood brought—Marcus in a soft flannel shirt a little too big, and me in one of her husband’s well-mended sweaters—the storm had gentled into something manageable. The wind still sighed around the eaves, but the frantic rattling had eased to a steady, whispering hush. Outside the windows, rain fell in silver threads, quiet and ceaseless, but no longer violent.

The kitchen hearth, stoked by Mrs. Hedgewood’s expert hand, cast a cozy glow across the wooden table where two bowls of soup steamed beside thick slices of buttered brown bread. Marcus and I sat opposite one another, Codex curled between us on the hearthrug, her purring a low counterpoint to the occasional crackle of the fire.

“I can’t believe it,” I said quietly, my spoon halfway to my mouth. “They stayed dry.”

I’d already checked them twice since we’d come upstairs, but it hadn’t truly sunk in until now. All twelve ledgers—waterproofed, sealed, boxed—were untouched. The rest of the bindery had taken its knocks, but the captain’s commission, the job I’d nearly torn my hands apart finishing, was perfectly intact.

“You were right about the sealant,” Marcus said, offering me a small, proud smile. “I’ve seen a lot of ledgers, Elspeth. Most can’t handle a good splash, let alone a storm like this. You’ve made something solid. Functional and beautiful.”

I flushed, the compliment warming me more than the soup. “I think it’s finally the right formula. Took enough tries.”

“Worth it,” he said, breaking a piece of bread in half and dipping it into the broth. “You’ll see. Word’s going to get around. Barge captains like reliability, and they talk. If this set holds up, you’ll have orders lined up through summer.”

I blinked at him. “You think so?”

He shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “I know so. This is a busy route—river traffic, traveling merchants, small traders with precious few places to get custom books made to their standards. Henrik had a good reputation, but he stuck to familiar orders. You’re expanding. Building something new. They’ll notice.”

For a moment, I didn’t say anything. Just let the words rest there between us, warm and weighty. The idea that my work—my methods, my improvements—might not just sustain the bindery but grow it? It hadn’t felt real until now.

Mrs. Hedgewood bustled about the kitchen behind us, putting the kettle on for a second pot of tea. “We’ll need to bring in Corwin tomorrow,” she said firmly. “No sense pretending that beam won’t need replacing. And the window frame’s swelling already. I’ll have my husband give it a look.”

“I can afford it,” I said, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. “Between the ledger commission and the restoration work, I’ve enough set aside.”

“Well then,” she said with a nod of satisfaction, “we’ll get the repairs sorted before the next storm thinks to knock.”

After she’d gone, we lingered a while longer. Marcus helped me gather the empty dishes, and I dried while he washed. There was a quiet rhythm to it, a gentle ease to working side by side like this. His sleeves were rolled up, his hands sure and steady as he placed the bowls in the rack, then leaned back against the counter to watch me.

“I like it here,” he said suddenly. “Riverhaven, I mean. Not just the work. The people. The quiet. The way everything moves at its own pace.”

I looked up from folding the dishcloth. “You grew up nearby, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “Mostly on the water. My uncle raised me on his barge after my father passed. We ran the long route for years—docks all the way from Deepmere to Northwell. But when I was old enough to take work of my own, I chose this end of the river.”

“Because it’s quiet?”

“Because it feels like home.” His voice softened. “And lately… it feels even more so.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. The words hung between us, not heavy, but meaningful. He wasn’t the kind to speak lightly, not like that. I met his eyes, and in the golden wash of the kitchen fire, they seemed deeper somehow. Like river water at dusk—dark, reflective, full of unseen currents.

“I think I know what you mean,” I said finally. “About things feeling more like home. The shop’s still a bit of a mess, and I haven’t figured out the garden completely, but… it’s starting to feel like mine.”

“It is yours,” he said. “You’ve made that clear.”

We stood there for a while, leaning near each other without touching. It wasn’t tense—it was warm, tentative. The kind of silence that asks a question without speaking.

Eventually, he glanced toward the window. “Rain’s letting up.”

I nodded. “Do you want me to walk you back to the docks?”

His smile crinkled at the edges. “I was going to ask if I could walk you home.”

I laughed. “Marcus, I live here.”

“Then let me at least walk you to the door.”

We put on dry cloaks borrowed from the Hedgewoods and stepped out into the night. The storm had passed, leaving the world smelling of clean earth and damp leaves. Puddles glistened in the moonlight, and the air held the cool hush of something washed and made new.

We stopped just shy of the bindery’s back door, where the rain barrel overflowed gently and the garden beds glittered with water droplets. The roof still held Marcus’s canvas patch, a little crooked now but doing its job.

“Well,” I said, turning to face him. “Thank you for everything today.”

“I’m glad I came,” he said. “Even if I did nearly fall off your roof.”

I smiled. “I’m glad too.”

There was a beat. A pause that stretched, soft and full.

Then, hesitantly, he asked, “Would it be all right if I kissed you?”

My breath caught, but I nodded. “Yes.”

His hand came up to gently brush a strand of damp hair from my cheek, and then he leaned in, slow and careful. The kiss was warm, unhurried—a promise more than a question. My hands found his coat, still faintly damp at the shoulders, and I leaned into the quiet certainty of his presence.

When we finally parted, neither of us said much. We didn’t need to.

“Goodnight, Elspeth,” he said, his voice low.

“Goodnight, Marcus.”

I stepped inside, heart still racing, and leaned against the door as it clicked shut behind me. The workshop lay dim and quiet now, but I didn’t feel alone. Codex padded out from the hallway and meowed as if to ask what had taken me so long.

I scratched behind her ears and whispered, “I think I might be falling for a ferryman.”

She meowed again, unimpressed, then led the way upstairs. The hour was late, but sleep remained just out of reach. Even though the wind had long since quieted and the shutters no longer creaked, my body still carried the storm's residue—tension in my shoulders, a restless flutter behind my ribs. Codex had already curled up at the foot of my bed, her breathing slow and steady, tail flicking once as I shifted beneath the quilt. She'd been a picture of calm through the chaos, watching from the warmest corner of the kitchen while the rest of us ran around with buckets and towels. She was far less disturbed by falling roof tiles than I was.

Rather than continue to toss and turn, I eased out from under the covers, wrapped myself in my dressing gown, and padded softly down the hallway. I paused in the kitchen to light the lantern, poured myself a small cup of Thaddeus's sleep blend, and settled into the armchair in the sitting room with my writing board and a fresh sheet of parchment. The mug warmed my hands. The storm had passed, but the house still smelled faintly of rain and old wood—a comforting scent now that everything was safe. I smoothed the paper on my lap and uncapped my pen. My hand hovered for a moment before I began.

Dear Family,

The nib scratched quietly over the page as I wrote, the only sound in the otherwise still house.

We had quite the tempest today.

I paused again, letting the ink dry slightly. Then I added,

The repair from last week held beautifully, but the storm found new ways in. A bit of ceiling trouble and the front window frame, but nothing too serious. We managed it.

Managed it. That didn't quite capture the hours of worry, the clamor of buckets, or the tiles clattering down like broken dishes. I glanced toward the window, where the soft drip of water still echoed in the downspout. The house was quiet now, but it had fought to earn that calm.

Mrs. Hedgewood was a marvel, of course, I continued. She arrived with soup and reinforcements just when I needed her most. Marcus helped too—he climbed up during the worst of it to patch the roof and kept us from losing half the workshop.

I hesitated, my pen still. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I wrote the next line.

He arrived like something out of a river legend, storm-soaked and determined, ready to battle the wind itself. He knew exactly what to do, how to move, where the danger would be. And he stayed afterward to help sort the mess.

I reread that passage once, twice, and promptly crossed it out with a neat line of ink. Too much. I reached for a fresh sheet, starting again.

Big storm today. Some damage, but nothing that can't be fixed. I've already arranged repairs—Corwin's patch held perfectly, but we'll need to replace some tiles and reseal the front window frame. Thankfully the ledgers were untouched, even with all the water. The new sealant formula worked like a charm. All twelve copies stayed perfectly dry, and I can't tell you how satisfying that is.

That part, at least, I could leave in. The truth of it made me smile.

Business is steady. There's a good rhythm to the days now—repairs, commissions, walk-ins. Word's spread through the riverfolk, it seems. I've had several restorations come in this week alone.

I paused to sip my tea, the chamomile and rose hips soothing the ache in my throat. The cup was warm against my palms, the fire now little more than embers in the stove, casting a low orange glow across the floorboards.

I miss you all, of course, I wrote, the words coming easier now. Thank you for your last letters—they've been such a comfort on quiet evenings. I've read them more than once, especially on days when the shop feels too big and too quiet all at once.

A soft smile touched my lips as I remembered sitting by candlelight, tracing Maisie's sketches with my finger, laughing at Gareth's dry observations about city life.

The captain's ledgers are nearly finished now—just the final waterproofing left to cure. Marcus says if they hold up well, word will spread quickly among the barge crews. Apparently river traders talk constantly, and if one captain's pleased, they all hear about it within a fortnight. I'm trying not to get my hopes up, but the idea of regular commissions from the river trade would change everything.

Codex gave a low, sleepy chirp from the other room, shifting in her sleep.

I started planting last week, I added. There's ink plants now—woad, calendula, a few others—and I set aside a corner for kitchen herbs. The marigolds are already sprouting. I found Henrik's notes about pest control and ink mordants. I think he meant the garden to serve the bindery directly. I'm trying to continue that, but add my own shape to it.

And then, finally,

Mum I've been drinking Thaddeus's blends, keeping the workshop clean, and eating well—even if the tavern does most of the cooking these days.

I paused. Looked at the line. Smiled.

The neighbors have been wonderfully kind. More than I expected.

I let the ink dry before folding the letter in thirds, sliding it into one of my handmade envelopes. I sealed it with the wax stamp Maisie gave me years ago, the one with a tiny inkpot and quill. Then I set it on the sill by the door, ready for the post tomorrow. The storm outside had long since passed, and with it, the tension in my spine. The bindery had held, in its own way. So had I.

I banked the embers in the stove and blew out the lantern. Upstairs, the sheets waited, still warm from earlier, and Codex had already returned to her place near the footboard, curling tighter as I approached. I slid into bed with a long exhale, tucking the quilt up under my chin. As I closed my eyes, the memories of the day flickered softly behind them—water on the windows, wind in the trees, Marcus's hand on mine as he climbed back in from the roof. Somehow, despite everything, I felt safe. I whispered into the dark, "Goodnight, Riverhaven." Codex purred, and the house settled into sleep around us.