Chapter 12: After the Storm

Morning came too early after a night like that. The storm had finally quieted sometime before dawn, but sleep didn’t come easily after all that wind and noise, even with Codex curled beside me like a warm, purring stone. When I finally rose, it was more out of habit than rest. The air in the workshop felt thick with the memory of the storm—damp, metallic, a faint trace of soaked canvas.

I slipped on my apron and slippers and padded downstairs, still yawning as I unlatched the inner door. The moment I opened it, I inhaled the deep, rain-washed scent of old wood and fresh earth. The storm had passed, but its fingerprints lingered everywhere.

The workshop was dim in the soft grey light, and I didn’t rush to turn up the lamps. Instead, I moved slowly from one corner to the next, checking each surface, each shelf. A shallow puddle still clung to the rear right corner of the display shelf where water had come in through the window frame. I toweled it up carefully, already mentally drafting a list of supplies I’d need for sealing it properly.

Two blank journals had caught the worst of it—spines bloated, pages swollen and puckering from absorbed moisture. I turned them in my hands, disappointed but unsurprised. One had been bound weeks ago and never claimed, and the other was a simple lay-flat meant for daily notes. They could be replaced easily enough.

I let my hands rest on the table edge for a moment, steadying myself before turning toward the back shelves where more precious volumes had been stored. I exhaled in relief. The restorations—Mrs. Alderwick’s recipe book, the wedding album, the water-damaged log—were untouched, wrapped and stored high on the inner wall where even the wind hadn’t found them. Their brown paper wrappers were dry and unblemished. I ran a finger along the edge of each, silently thanking whatever chance had kept them safe.

But the true test, of course, was the ledgers.

I crossed to the worktable where the captain’s twelve books sat neatly in two rows, each wrapped in waxed cloth after final drying. I selected the top one from the left stack, peeled back its cover, and inspected it inch by inch. No warping. No lifted corners. The sealant layer remained perfect—smooth, glossy without being tacky, with that faint beeswax scent that had become oddly comforting over the past week. I pressed a fingertip to the surface and watched as my breath fogged faintly against the finish before vanishing.

Perfect.

The others, too, were flawless. My sealant blend—my own, not Henrik’s—had held up against the storm’s dampness, even with the atmospheric pressure shifting and the air soaked through. They’d dry out entirely before the captain arrived this afternoon, and I could hand them off with confidence.

Feeling the knot in my chest begin to loosen, I rolled my shoulders and moved to the door that led to the garden.

Outside, the world smelled like wet soil and green things. The rain had flattened patches of the herb beds and knocked loose several of the lighter stakes I’d used to support young tomatoes, but the marigolds were fine, bright and defiant in the morning mist. I walked the path in slow steps, checking each section of the garden and brushing my hand over the rosemary, the sage, the calendula. Most of it had held. The woad leaves were crumpled and splayed, but intact.

I found three overturned pots near the shed and righted them, pausing to check that nothing had cracked. No damage, just a bit of soil spilled into the grass. Codex mewed behind me, her white paws delicately avoiding the muddy spots as she joined me in the garden. She sniffed at the edge of a water-logged planter and gave me a look of mild judgment, as if the storm had been my doing.

“Blame the clouds,” I muttered, stroking her behind the ears. “I’m only the caretaker.”

Back inside, I wiped my boots, poured a mug of tea, and took out my ledger—the other kind—to begin writing up my repair lists. Front window frame needs resealing. Interior wall needs fresh paint where water stained the plaster. Roof, obviously, requires more than a patch this time.

But all of it felt manageable now. With the ledgers finished and safe, and the restorations untouched, I had the breathing room I’d lacked this time yesterday. The storm had tested the shop, and we’d come through it—wet and rattled, but still standing.

I took a long sip of tea, letting its warmth settle in my chest. Codex hopped up to the worktable and circled twice before sitting beside the bundled ledgers, clearly deciding to supervise for the rest of the morning.

“All right,” I said aloud, smoothing my notes. “Let’s get ready for company.”

The clouds still lingered by mid-morning, low and bruised along the horizon, but the worst had passed. I was setting the kettle back on its hook when the knock came—two sharp raps on the front door, followed by a muffled voice.

“Elspeth? Brought someone with me.”

Marcus.

I dried my hands and opened the door to find him on the stoop, damp from the drizzle but grinning, with an older man beside him. The man had the sort of presence that filled the space without trying—broad shoulders, silver hair tied back in a leather band, and a weathered face set in a near-permanent squint. He carried a tool bag over one shoulder and smelled faintly of pine resin and old tobacco.

“This,” Marcus said, stepping inside and stomping water from his boots, “is Silas. Best roofer in Riverhaven. Taught Corwin everything he knows.”

Silas grunted, but not unkindly. “He learns quick. Doesn’t always listen.”

I stepped aside to let them in. “I thought Corwin was still catching up from last week’s wind damage?”

“He is,” Marcus confirmed, glancing up at the ceiling. “That’s why I asked Silas. He’s more expensive, but he’s got the time.”

Silas set his bag gently beside the counter and peered up at the workshop ceiling like a man reading tree rings. “Marcus tells me tiles came off last night?”

“Yes,” I said. “Right above that beam. There’s a drip line now—I’ve shifted everything away from it, but I’m worried the wood may already be compromised. And the front window leaked, but that’s a separate issue.”

Silas nodded once, then again, as if the building had answered him directly. “Show me the garden side. I’ll have a look from the rear and then climb up.”

While I led him through the back, Marcus stayed behind just long enough to unlace his boots before following. Outside, the sky was lightening—patches of blue beginning to show behind trailing wisps of cloud. Silas crouched by the edge of the stone path and examined the angle of the roof from below. His eyes, narrowed beneath bushy brows, followed the lines of gutter and beam with slow precision.

“This place is well built,” he said finally, “but old work. You patch one part, the strain shifts to another. Same as bones in the body. One weak joint throws off the whole gait.”

He retrieved a pair of thick gloves and climbed the rear ladder with the confidence of someone who knew where to place every step. Marcus braced the bottom as I watched from a few paces back, heart in my throat despite myself.

Once on the roof, Silas moved with care, testing each tile beneath his boots. He found the damage quickly—two rows of slate that had lifted and cracked in the wind, one of them half-dangling over the gutter. He knelt, tugged gently at the loose pieces, then called down.

“Main beam’s fine. No rot that I can see. Just torn flashing and broken mounts. You caught this early. Another week of rain like that and you’d be patching ceiling joists.”

He descended without haste, then opened his tool bag and withdrew a small slate chip wrapped in linen. “Take a look,” he said, handing it to me. “Same type as yours. I can match it. Won’t be cheap, but you’ll get thirty more years out of that ridge with proper repair.”

I ran my thumb over the slate’s surface—textured, slightly cool despite the rising sun. “How much?” I asked, bracing myself.

He named the price. It was fair. Not small, but fair. My stomach didn’t twist the way it might have a week ago.

“I can manage that,” I said, and meant it.

Silas nodded, approving. “We can stagger payments if you need. No rush on the second half.”

Marcus stepped beside me, elbow brushing mine. “Told you he was the best.”

“I believe you,” I said softly, grateful for the warmth of him there, quiet and steady.

Silas began packing his tools. “I can slot you in two days from now. Weather’s supposed to hold, and I’ve got spare tile in the shed. Henrik vouched for this place back when I needed work. Consider this my return.”

That stopped me. “Henrik helped you?”

Silas straightened and looked at me with something close to affection. “Long time ago. I was between crews, just out of apprenticeship. No one would hire me—too old to start, they said. Henrik brought me tea and let me fix a broken eave in exchange for a book on roofing techniques. Said if I liked stories so much, I ought to start writing them down myself.”

I blinked, the image forming clearly: Henrik offering both a job and a gesture of quiet dignity. “That sounds like him.”

Silas tipped an imaginary cap. “Keep his place going. You’re doing well.” And with that, he was gone, striding down the path with the ease of someone already mentally preparing for their next climb.

Inside, I leaned against the doorframe for a moment, watching Marcus watch the empty space Silas had occupied.

“He doesn’t talk much,” I said, when the silence stretched.

“No, but when he does, it sticks,” Marcus replied. “That’s why I brought him.”

I turned to him then, fully, and let the moment settle between us. “Thank you. Truly. For knowing who to call.”

He shrugged, but the smile tugging at his mouth was unmistakably pleased. “I said I’d help however I could.”

We stood in the entryway for another moment, the soft drip of the garden’s runoff the only sound. My heart was calmer now. The damage was real, but it wasn’t ruinous. And help—honest, steady help—had arrived before I even thought to ask for it.

Back at the worktable, I reopened my ledger and began adjusting the schedule. Two days for roofing repairs meant moving the start of my next commission, but I could make it work. There was a rhythm forming beneath it all, a steadiness I hadn’t expected but now clung to like a lifeline.

The ceiling would be repaired, the front window sealed. The books were safe. The bindery was weathering not just storms, but change—and holding strong.

By early afternoon, the sun had returned in full, turning puddles to mist and steam along the flagstones. I was in the workshop brushing dried droplets from the sealed ledgers when I heard the steady stomp of boots on the front step. No knock this time—just the door swinging open with confident ease, and there he was: Captain Brannick in full riverwear, oilskin coat gleaming slightly from its morning journey, and his leather gloves tucked into his belt.

"Miss Whitfield," he said, stepping inside and pausing to wipe his boots on the mat—a small courtesy I appreciated. "I know I'm a day early, but thought I'd check in."

"Actually, they're ready," I said, gesturing toward the counter where the bundles waited, wrapped in sets of two. "Just finished the final waterproofing yesterday before the storm hit."

His eyebrows rose. "All twelve?"

"All twelve."

He crossed the room in measured strides and set a sturdy leather pouch down on the wood with a satisfying thump. "Well then. Let's have a look."

I watched as he selected the topmost bundle, taking his time with the twine knots. He untied them with the same care I imagined he'd use on rigging—deliberate, patient. When he lifted the first two ledgers free, he held one up to the light, tilting it to examine the spine.

"You matched the spine bands," he observed, running his thumb along the raised cords.

"I wanted them to look like a true set," I replied. "Each one's labeled by date range on the inside cover, just as you noted."

He nodded, setting the first ledger aside and opening the second. His movements were unhurried, methodical. I found myself holding my breath as he examined the front leaf where I'd left a small embossed mark: a discreet river compass symbol I'd worked into the binding edge.

"Nice touch," he murmured, then reached into his coat pocket. He produced first a water flask, then a stub of graphite wrapped in paper. "Now for the real test."

Without ceremony, he let a few drops of water fall across a back page. The water beaded instantly—tight and spherical, rolling across the page without sinking in. He gave a satisfied grunt, then picked up the graphite.

"Most important part," he said, sketching a quick series of marks—coordinates, from the look of them. The graphite moved smoothly across the treated surface. He waited a moment, then rubbed his thumb across the marks. They stayed crisp, no smudging, no bleeding into the fibers.

"Now with water," he said, and before I could respond, he splashed another droplet directly onto his writing. We both watched as the water rolled over the graphite marks without disturbing them.

His weathered face broke into a genuine smile. "That's what I'm after. You know how many ledgers I've lost to one rogue wave catching the writing before it's dry?"

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"Too many, I'd guess," I said, finally breathing again.

"Far too many." He closed the ledger and hefted both books in his palms, testing the weight. "Good balance, too. Not too heavy when they're stacked."

He carefully rewrapped the two he'd tested, retying the knots with practiced efficiency. His hands paused over the other bundles but he didn't open them. "If these two are representative, I trust the rest are the same quality."

Codex wandered out from the workshop to investigate, sniffing at his boots with feline suspicion.

"Shop cat?" he asked, not moving as she conducted her inspection.

"Inherited with the building," I said. "Her name's Codex."

"Fitting." He watched as she apparently approved of whatever river scents clung to his boots and padded back to her sunny spot. "Henrik mentioned her in letters sometimes. Said she had opinions about everything."

"That hasn't changed," I said dryly.

Brannick chuckled and pulled the payment from his pouch—counted it out in front of me, copper and silver in neat stacks. "As promised. Plus a bit extra for the quality. These are better than I expected."

"Thank you," I said, gathering the coins. "Will these be distributed among your different barges?"

He nodded, stacking the wrapped bundles carefully. "I run six vessels on the eastern routes. Each one needs two—one for active use, one for backup. Can't have the crew sharing ledgers when we're separated by miles of river."

"That makes sense," I said. "I hope they serve you well."

"If they hold up like I think they will," he said, gathering the bundles into a manageable carry, "I'll be telling every captain who'll listen where to get proper ledgers. Most of them are still making do with whatever they can find in port cities—pages that bleed through at the first splash."

I smiled, already calculating how much paper I'd need to order. "I'd be happy to take more commissions. Though maybe not all at once?"

"Don't worry," he said with a knowing grin. "Captains are particular about their books. They'll want to see mine first, test them out, probably spill half a mug of tea on them just to watch the water bead. Could be midsummer before the first one works up the nerve to order."

He paused at the door, glancing back. "One more thing—some of the smaller crews won't commission ahead. They'll want to buy what you have on hand. Might be worth keeping a few ready-made."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said. "Thank you for the advice."

"Thank you for the ledgers," he replied. "Haven't seen work this careful since Henrik's best years."

The bell chimed as he left, and I stood in the quiet shop, surrounded by the afternoon light and the lingering scent of leather and beeswax. Outside, I could hear normal village sounds returning—children playing, someone calling about fresh bread.

I looked down at my ink-stained fingers, then at the healthy stack of coins on the counter. Enough for repairs, supplies, and maybe even that small press I'd been eyeing in the catalogues.

Codex emerged again, leaping onto the counter to investigate the payment with typical feline interest.

"Yes," I told her, scratching behind her ears. "We did it. First big commission, delivered on time."

She purred, which I chose to take as approval.

The light was golden and low when I stepped out into the garden, basket in one hand and a few spare stakes under the other arm. The storm had left its mark—muddy patches around the herb beds, a snapped trellis by the calendula, and more than one tomato plant leaning at an angle like a drunken sailor. Still, it could have been worse. The rosemary and thyme had held their ground, the lavender bent but not broken. I knelt near the tomato bed and began the quiet work of righting each plant, pressing the stakes gently into the damp soil and tying the stems with twine.

The air smelled of damp loam and crushed mint, and though my shoulders still ached from the work of the past few days, there was something soothing in this. The rhythm of tending. The promise that things could be put back in order.

I was so focused I didn’t hear the gate until it creaked behind me.

“Thought you might need a few extras,” came a familiar voice, warm and low.

I looked up to see Marcus holding a bundle of new stakes and a small coil of cord. He was dressed in his work clothes again—rolled sleeves, boots splattered from river mud, hair still slightly windblown from the day. Behind him, the light caught on the small brass compass charm that always swung from his belt.

I stood to greet him, brushing my hands clean on my apron. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” He grinned, stepping closer. “But I had them, and I figured you wouldn’t turn them down.”

“I wouldn’t,” I admitted, taking the stakes from him. “Thank you.”

He crouched beside the calendula bed, inspecting a broken support with the eye of someone used to fixing things. “This one’s snapped right at the base. Want me to dig it out while you handle the tomatoes?”

I nodded, and just like that, we fell into a companionable rhythm. He worked with quiet competence, never needing to be told what to do. I moved from plant to plant, tying stems with a little more care than strictly necessary, aware of his presence a few feet away. The rustle of leaves, the creak of wood, the low hum of bees still lingering around the lavender—it was all steady and grounding.

At one point, I glanced up to find Mrs. Hedgewood peeking over the garden wall, arms folded on the top stones, a bemused smile playing across her weathered face.

“You’ve got help tonight,” she called softly. “Good. No shame in letting someone hold a few stakes for you.”

“Marcus brought them,” I said, trying not to sound too pleased.

“Of course he did,” she replied with a wink. “Don’t let him do all the work, now.”

“I’m just here for moral support,” Marcus offered, straight-faced.

“Hmm,” Mrs. Hedgewood said, clearly not buying it. She gave a final nod of approval before disappearing back into her own garden.

We worked in silence for a while longer, the only sounds the creak of wood, the snip of clippers, and the soft call of a night bird from the hedgerow. The last of the golden light pooled along the fence line, casting everything in a warm, softened hue.

“Storm didn’t shake you too badly?” Marcus asked at length, adjusting one of the new stakes.

“Shook the shop more than me,” I replied. “Some water damage, but nothing that can’t be fixed. The ledgers stayed dry. That’s what mattered.”

He glanced over, a thoughtful crease between his brows. “It’s a good thing you finished them in time.”

“I nearly didn’t. If the rain had started an hour earlier, they’d have dried unevenly.” I paused, running a hand over one of the repaired trellises. “But it held. Everything held.”

“I saw the captain leaving this afternoon,” he said. “He looked downright cheerful. Not a word I use for Brannick lightly.”

“He liked the ledgers,” I said, feeling that quiet warmth return. “Said he’d recommend me to other captains.”

Marcus’s smile widened, genuine and proud. “That’s no small thing. Word of mouth travels fast on the river. Especially from someone like Brannick.”

“Does it really make that much difference?” I asked, honestly curious.

He sat back on his heels, resting his arms on his knees. “You’re near a main thoroughfare, with half the eastern trade routes passing through. There’s always a need for reliable books. If yours can survive storms, spray, and the occasional clumsy deckhand, you’ll have more work than time soon enough.”

“I’m hoping for just enough,” I said with a half-smile. “Not so much that I lose the joy in it.”

“That’s a good line,” he said, and there was something in his expression—something thoughtful, maybe a little fond.

The last plant was staked, and the garden looked steadier than it had all day. The herbs were upright, the tomatoes secured, and even the calendula had regained some dignity. I brushed dirt from my palms and looked toward the back steps.

“Would you like to come up for tea?” I asked. “I’ve got that blend from Thaddeus, the one with the orange peel and licorice root.”

Marcus tilted his head. “You’re not too tired?”

“I’m exhausted,” I said, honestly. “But tea with someone else is different. It doesn’t use the same kind of energy.”

He chuckled and stood. “In that case, lead the way.”

The tea had steeped a little longer than ideal, but I didn’t think Marcus would mind. I poured two cups, the steam curling into the quiet air of the kitchen while he examined the shelves above the hearth, where I’d lined up small jars of herbs and labeled tins. He didn’t sit until I did, and even then, he seemed almost careful in how he settled across from me at the small round table, as if not wanting to disturb the mood.

For a few moments, we just sipped. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just a little shy. Codex padded in halfway through, gave Marcus a perfunctory glance, and then leapt up to claim the windowsill. The rain had stopped earlier, but the clouds still hung thick, making the kitchen feel more enclosed and warm than usual.

Marcus glanced down at his mug, turning it between his palms. “This is nice,” he said finally, nodding toward the tea. “What blend is it?”

“One of Thaddeus’s,” I said. “Chamomile and lemon balm. Meant to ease strain after a long day.”

“Perfect, then.” He smiled, that slightly lopsided smile that made his eyes crinkle. “You’ve had more than a few long days, I imagine.”

I laughed softly. “Yes. But it’s a good sort of tired.”

He leaned forward slightly, his fingers tracing the handle of his mug. “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if it’s too personal.”

“All right.”

“What made you want to be a bookbinder?”

I blinked, not because it was unexpected, but because no one had asked me that directly in a long while. I took a slow breath, letting the warmth of the tea settle my thoughts.

“I always liked libraries,” I began, “but it wasn’t the reading, exactly. Not at first. It was how the books were arranged. How they felt in my hands. There’s something… solid about them. Self-contained. Orderly. Even the damaged ones still held stories—still had worth.”

He nodded, quiet and listening.

“I remember the first time I learned how to sew a spine. I was probably twelve. The stitches were uneven, and the covers didn’t line up properly, but when it was finished…” I smiled, the memory warming me more than the tea. “I held it in my hands and thought—I made this. It wasn’t just a school project. It was something someone could use. Something they might treasure.”

Marcus tilted his head, still watching me. “And that never wore off?”

“Not once,” I said. “Even with restoration work. Maybe especially then. It feels like helping someone, in a quiet way. Returning a bit of history. Honouring what someone else once loved. I’m not the author. I’m not even the reader most of the time. But I’m part of the story’s survival.”

“That sounds like you’re holding the past together,” he said, his voice soft. “Like stitching lives with thread.”

I ducked my head, embarrassed by how much that pleased me. “I suppose it’s something like that.”

He smiled again, then looked out the window briefly before turning back to me. “Do your family understand it? The work you do?”

I hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “They try. They’re merchants—cloth, mostly. So they understand quality and craft, but not why I’d leave the family business to bind paper instead of selling bolts of silk.”

“They didn’t want you to come here?”

“They didn’t not want me to,” I said carefully. “But it was... a surprise. And a little lonely, at first.”

His expression softened. “You don’t seem lonely now.”

“No,” I agreed, glancing toward the windowsill where Codex now slept, curled in a little crescent of fur. “Not anymore.”

We finished our tea without rushing. I offered him more, but he shook his head, then set the empty cup down with a thoughtful sound.

“I was going to say goodbye tonight,” he said.

“Goodbye?”

“Before the storm, I mean. I’d planned to leave after the paper samples were delivered, give you time to settle into the work and figure out what you needed next.”

I felt something small catch in my chest. “But?”

“But then the storm happened. And we ended up fixing a roof together and sharing soup and tea and quiet hours. And I realized I didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.”

The confession hung between us like a carefully hung sign—honest, but gentle. I looked at him, really looked this time: the faint lines from smiling, the river-tan still strong from time on the docks, the steady way he watched me without pressing.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” I said quietly.

His smile returned, slower this time. “Then maybe I’ll make it official.”

“Official?”

He pushed his chair back slightly, not rising, but just enough to signal a change in posture, in intent. “Would you have dinner with me? Tonight. At the tavern. Just us, this time. On purpose.”

The warmth that rushed through me wasn’t from the tea. I found myself nodding before I’d even fully processed the question. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”

He stood then and held out a hand. I took it, and we walked out together, our fingers laced gently, naturally.

The air outside smelled of wet earth and soot, the last traces of the storm clinging to the eaves. The sky remained overcast, but the light had softened, and everything seemed quieter, calmer. We didn’t speak much as we walked. The silence between us no longer shy, but companionable.

The late afternoon sun dipped low as Marcus and I walked hand in hand toward the tavern. The path curved gently along the river’s edge, where reeds rustled in the breeze and the water caught flickers of gold in its ripples. My fingers curled around his, warm and firm, and I traced the soft calluses at the base of his thumb with mine. The sky above us was brushed in watercolor tones: lavender, peach, and soft blue, reflected in the quiet current beside us.

We didn’t speak much as we walked. The silence between us felt full and easy, a kind of closeness that didn’t need words. Birds settled into the trees, their soft evening songs punctuating the hush. Every now and then, Marcus glanced sideways at me, and I caught the quiet smile playing on his lips. I kept my eyes forward, but my cheeks burned with a pleased flush. I liked the way he matched his steps to mine, the way he didn’t rush the walk or the silence.

We paused at a bend in the path where a willow trailed long branches into the water. Marcus reached up and gently brushed aside a leafy curtain, letting me pass through first. "This part always reminds me of old stories," he said. "Secret paths, enchanted woods."

I smiled, ducking beneath the green fringe. "You think we’ll find a talking fox ahead?"

"Only if he’s after our stew," he replied. "Or if he wants a copy of the river ledger."

I laughed, the sound soft and unexpected. “I’d trade a ledger for a story like that."

As we neared the tavern, the sounds of village life gathered: snatches of laughter, the creak of a sign in the breeze, a dog barking once and then settling again. The tavern sat at the bend where the street widened, its windows aglow with amber light and laughter spilling out into the street. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread wafted through the air, comforting and familiar.

Marcus paused just outside the door and looked at me. “You sure?”

I nodded, though my stomach gave a quiet flutter. “Yes. Just... give me a minute if I need it.”

He squeezed my hand gently. “Always.”

We stepped inside, and warmth embraced us: woodsmoke, chatter, and the thrum of shared life filled the space. The tavern was lived-in and welcoming, with mismatched chairs and well-worn tables. A cat curled near the hearth, and the barkeep was polishing mugs with a towel slung over one shoulder.

A cheer rose from a long table near the fire as we stepped inside, surprising both of us. Laughter and a few claps joined in as several people called out to Marcus by name, waving us over with exaggerated gestures. Tankards were raised mid-toast, and the scent of stew still lingered around them.

Marcus blinked and then chuckled. "Well, I didn’t expect them to be here tonight. That’s my crew. Come on, they’re loud, but they mean well."

"There he is! And he’s brought the bookbinder!" called Bren, a stout man with a beard like wild bramble.

I hesitated at the edge of the room, my fingers tightening slightly in Marcus’s.

He leaned down, voice soft at my ear. "They’re harmless, I promise. And surprisingly fun, once they’ve eaten."

His warmth and confidence settled me. I laughed quietly, the tension easing. "If you say so."

We joined the table, and they made space for us with cheerful insistence. I ended up between Marcus and a wiry woman named Salla, who offered a warm grin and passed me a fresh roll. A steaming bowl of stew appeared in front of me before I could ask, and someone slid a cup of cider my way.

The teasing began almost at once. "You been hiding her from us, Marcus? Afraid we’d scare her off?"

"I wasn’t hiding anything," Marcus replied, but his ears pinked slightly.

"We’ve heard about you," Salla said to me. "You made those ledgers for the captain, didn’t you? They’re a marvel. Word’s going to spread. You’ll have more orders than daylight."

I blushed and ducked my head with a small smile. "That’s kind of you to say."

“Kind and true,” Bren added. “The captain was mumbling about index tabs just yesterday. What kind of ink did you use to make the headings glow like that? He was showing them off this afternoon at the dock.”

Their questions eased me into comfort. “It’s a simple shimmer mix. I’ve been adjusting the formula for durability. Henrik left good notes.”

Salla leaned in. “You’ll have half the merchant guild knocking on your door before long. And maybe us too. Marcus never remembers which crate is which unless it’s color-coded.”

Marcus snorted. “Lies.”

“Truth,” Salla corrected with a grin. “Tell her about the eel.”

Marcus groaned, but it was too late. The stories tumbled out: how he once woke with an eel in his boot, how he slipped off the barge trying to impress a dockhand, the time he ran from a goose that had taken an unreasonable dislike to his hat.

I laughed until my sides ached, my spoon long abandoned in my stew. The cider was sweet and light, and the fire’s warmth curled around my bones. The tavern’s noise softened into comfort: tankards clinking, boots scuffing the floor, quiet songs beginning in corners.

We lingered long after the food was gone. At some point, Salla handed me a wrapped parcel of leftover bread. “Take it for tomorrow. You’ll forget breakfast while you’re threading signatures, I bet.”

I took it with a grateful smile. “You’re not wrong.”

When the candles burned low and the tavern quieted, Marcus stood and offered me his hand again. We stepped back into the night, cooler now, the air sharp with the scent of rain on stone and the far-off perfume of apple blossoms from omeone’s yard. We walked slowly. Our hands found each other again without thought, fingers fitting together like they’d done so a dozen times before. The village had fallen into hush: lamplights flickering low, shutters drawn, footsteps soft.

When we reached my door, I turned to him. His face, warm in the glow of the lamplight, looked steady and kind. I let my gaze linger a little longer. Then I leaned in and kissed him, soft, certain, and brief. The kind of kiss that felt like choosing, like trust folded into a single breath. I pulled back, smiled, and whispered, "Goodnight," before slipping inside, leaving him blinking at the door, wonder etched into every line of his face.