Chapter 13: The Wedding Commission

The bell over the shop door chimed just as I was setting out a fresh pot of tea. The morning had been quiet so far—just me, Codex, and the steady scratch of my pen as I worked through yesterday's accounts. I'd opened the windows early to let in the fresh air, and the shop smelled of paper and the lavender I'd hung to dry above the doorframe last week.

I glanced up to find a young woman on the threshold, her cheeks flushed with excitement, and beside her stood a tall man with sun-tousled hair and the kind of expression that suggested he'd follow her anywhere. They both carried the unmistakable glow of people in love—that particular radiance that made even mundane errands feel like adventures.

"Are you Miss Elspeth?" she asked, her voice carrying a musical quality that immediately marked her as not quite human.

I smiled and nodded, setting down my pen carefully. "I am. Come in, please."

They stepped inside, moving with a grace that made me pause. The morning light caught on their features, and I noticed what I'd half-suspected—the woman's fine features and the gentle point to her ears marked her as elven, and her companion shared the same quiet elegance. Their movements had that particular fluidity that made even simple gestures seem choreographed. The woman smiled as she stepped up to the counter, her eyes bright with anticipation.

"We're from Willowshade," she said. "Mrs. Pembridge wrote us a letter on one of your note sheets. The paper was so fine, and the ink held up beautifully—even after it got caught in a rainstorm on the way. We had to come see for ourselves."

The woman's eyes swept across the shelves of bound journals and the display of hand-pressed papers on the counter. I noticed how her gaze lingered on the small things—the way I'd arranged the ink bottles by color, the pressed flower bookmarks I'd made last week, the sample of gold-edged paper catching the light. She held a small bundle wrapped in linen, which she set down with care. Her movements were light, almost reverent, as though she already imagined the finished book that would one day hold the names of everyone dearest to them.

"We're getting married in the fall," she said, her voice light and musical. "And I want something special for our guest book. Something with flowers—roses, specifically. Our initials, maybe, twined together?" She glanced at her companion, who nodded encouragingly. "We met in a rose garden, you see. It was during the midsummer festival three years ago, and I'd gotten my dress caught on the thorns..."

"And I tried to help," the man added with a gentle laugh, "but only managed to tear it worse. We spent the rest of the evening hiding behind the arbor, trying to pin it back together."

She untied the linen bundle with careful fingers to reveal three pressed rose blooms, pale pink and delicate, carefully preserved between the folds of parchment. Even dried, they retained a subtle fragrance.

"He gave them to me the first day he called me his sweetheart," she added, glancing at her fiancé, who looked down at her with a quiet kind of awe, as though still surprised by the good fortune of loving and being loved by her. "I've kept them safe ever since."

I moved behind the counter, already thinking through possibilities, and they remained standing across from me. From a drawer, I pulled out a few sample books, each with different bindings, stitching patterns, and cover styles. I'd learned to keep a variety on hand—couples often didn't know exactly what they wanted until they saw it.

"Tell me about the wedding," I said, laying out the samples. "Colors, feel, what kind of paper you like. Sometimes the smallest details help me understand what you're envisioning."

The woman, whose name I learned was Lila, spoke with her hands as much as her voice. Her accent held the light cadence of her village, a lyrical undercurrent to every word. She painted a picture with gestures and bright eyes—cream linens, golden accents, maple trees shedding their leaves onto the ceremony aisle. The scent of cider warming in copper pots. Soft music carried on the autumn breeze. Her fiancé, Theo, added quiet notes here and there, grounding the day in practical kindness. He mentioned hand-written vows they'd been working on for months, folding chairs borrowed from the community hall, and his grandmother's lace tablecloth that would grace the feast table.

"My mother is embroidering handkerchiefs for all the guests," Lila added. "Little maple leaves in the corners. And Theo's father is carving wooden tokens as favors—tiny acorns, for luck and new beginnings."

Lila touched the pages I laid out with thoughtful fingers, pausing now and then to look over at Theo, as if drawing courage from his nods. Her hands were delicate but sure, and I noticed faint ink stains on her fingers—a fellow lover of writing, perhaps. As they spoke, I began to sketch. I marked the curve of a rose vine, the elegant loop of their initials intertwined like climbing branches. My pencil moved quickly, trying to capture the feeling they described.

"We want it to feel like something we could keep forever," she said softly, running her finger along the edge of a leather-bound sample. "Like a book that will still be beautiful even when we're gray-haired and telling the story to our grandchildren. Something they might even use for their own weddings someday."

The image stirred something tender in me. I reached for the cream stock I'd reserved for just such a purpose—paper I'd been saving for something special—and paired it with a narrow roll of gold-edged ribbon. She gasped in delight when I suggested the roses be set beneath a transparent vellum cover, visible but protected.

"Oh, and perhaps..." I paused, struck by sudden inspiration, "we could include a few blank pages at the back? For anniversaries. You could add a note each year, building the story as you go."

Their eyes met, and something passed between them—a whole conversation in a glance. "Yes," they said in unison, then laughed at their synchronicity.

As I outlined a possible layout, including floral motifs and spaces for handwritten notes from guests, their enthusiasm bubbled over into laughter. Lila's fingers twined with Theo's on the counter. He suggested including a pocket at the back for letters or keepsakes—"We write to each other whenever we're apart, even if it's just for a day"—and she added that she might tuck a dried petal into each corner, a silent bloom of memory.

The conversation wandered from design to the story of how they met—at the autumn festival three years ago, reaching for the same apple tart at the baker's stall. The baker, amused by their mutual determination, had given them each half and suggested they share a table. Lila had worn a shawl embroidered with leaves, and Theo remembered the color of her laugh—"like honey and starlight," he said, which made her blush prettily. They recounted it in a way that drew me in completely, the kind of story that could be bound in its own little book, full of gentle turns and unspoken hopes.

"And then," Lila continued, "we kept meeting. At the market, at the well, at the village dances. It was like the world kept pushing us together."

"Until I finally got brave enough to ask if she was doing it on purpose," Theo added with a grin.

"I was," she admitted, laughing. "I'd been timing my market visits to match his for weeks."

By the time we settled on the design—a cream-bound volume with gold thread, hand-deckled pages, a rose motif carried throughout, and their initials intertwined on the cover—I had made three pages of notes and filled half a sketchbook. We agreed on a delivery date two months in advance, to allow time for the inks to dry and the covers to be pressed properly. I also made note of their color preferences and the specific shade of pink in the preserved roses, so I could match it as closely as possible.

They stayed a few minutes longer, admiring other bindings on the shelves, running their fingers over the different textures and exclaiming over the colors. I offered them a biscuit each from the tin behind the counter—a habit I'd picked up from Mrs. Hedgewood, who insisted that hospitality made for better business. Theo took his with quiet gratitude; Lila examined hers as though deciding if she'd remember the flavor later.

"These are wonderful," she said after a delicate bite. "Did you make them?"

"My neighbor's recipe," I admitted. "She trades them for bookmarks."

"A fine trade," Theo declared, finishing his in two bites.

When they finally stepped outside, the bell over the door gave another cheerful chime, and I stood in the hush that followed. The pressed roses still lingered faintly on the counter, their scent a whisper of something just beginning. The morning sun had climbed higher, casting new patterns through the window, and I realized I'd spent nearly an hour with them without noticing the time pass.

I tucked the samples gently into a folio with my notes, labeling it with their names in neat script: "L & T - Autumn Wedding Guest Book - Roses & Gold." Codex stirred in the sun-warmed patch by the window, blinking once at me before returning to her nap. She'd remained perfectly still throughout the consultation, as if understanding the importance of the moment.

I poured the rest of the tea into a smaller cup—it had gone cold, but I didn't mind—and carried it back to the worktable, my thoughts still wrapped in the softness of their visit. There was something lovely about beginnings, about the way two people could imagine a whole life together and want to capture a piece of that in paper and ink. I marked the project at the top of the week's list, circling it twice. This would be a joy to make.

By the time the sun had stretched halfway across the front stoop and Codex had migrated to the windowsill—her second favorite spot, where she could watch both the shop interior and the street—I had finished the last of my morning tea and turned to the bindery behind the counter. There, the long worktable stood waiting—cleared of scraps for once, its surface bathed in gentle light. The workshop always felt different after a consultation like that, as if the joy of the visitors had left traces in the air. The quiet after the visit from Lila and Theo left a sort of sweetness in the air, as though their joy had taken up temporary residence among the stacked paper and polished bone folders.

I gathered my ledgers and pencils and eased into the high stool by the window, the one with the cushion I'd stitched last winter from scraps of binding cloth. The patches of deep blue and burgundy had faded slightly in the sun, but the cushion was perfectly molded to my shape now. With a fresh page turned, I began to write. My pencil moved slowly at first, then more confidently as I settled into the familiar rhythm of supply planning. It was a quiet pleasure, this kind of work—shaping the needs of the week into neat lists, each stroke another step in keeping the shop humming.

The cream paper I'd promised for the wedding book would require a restock from the Mill. I jotted down the specifications: fine linen stock, soft texture, and even cut, pale enough to take gold ink without blotting. I added a note about weight—it needed to be substantial enough to feel important but not so thick that the book became unwieldy. Gold leaf was next. I still had a sliver tucked into my press tin, but it would not be enough for the cover design I had sketched that morning. I noted two sheets, gilded edge to edge, and a new burnishing cloth—my current one was wearing thin from use.

Thread, beeswax, glue—those joined the list in quick succession. For the wedding book, I'd need silk thread in cream and gold, fine enough to be nearly invisible against the pages. I paused to inspect the last of my waxed linen cord, holding it up to the light to check for fraying. It had served me well through half a dozen commissions, but it was time to refresh.

Beyond that, I added a few regulars: sharpened awls, fine needles, fresh bone folders. My tools wore down slowly, softened by the care I gave them, but I preferred to have replacements at hand long before I was in need. There was nothing worse than being in the middle of delicate work and having a tool fail.

I also made a separate list for special items: rose-scented oil to add the faintest fragrance to the pages (Lila would love that detail), a selection of small pressed flowers from the garden to practice the vellum overlay technique, and new corner protectors for the pressing boards.

Marcus would be by tomorrow to pick up the order. I imagined him brushing off his boots just outside, asking if I had changed anything last minute. He often teased that I wrote my lists as if they were prose—full sentences, polite phrasing, and the occasional margin note reminding him to bring a basket if the Mill's wrapping was loose. Last week, he'd laughed aloud at my note requesting "paper suitable for catching autumn light"—but he'd known exactly what I meant and had brought samples that were perfect.

I folded the Mill list and tucked it into an envelope, his name written neatly on the front in the particular blue ink I'd started using for all our business correspondence. Then I turned to the second page.

The herbs in the garden had begun to wake in earnest. The calendula gleamed gold in the morning light, and the mint had already stretched long fingers toward the path, threatening to overtake the thyme if I didn't trim it back soon. Ink season was nearly upon me. I would need lavender oil for preservation, alcohol for extraction, and a new batch of small glass vials, preferably with cork stoppers. The last order had arrived with several hairline fractures, and I wasn't willing to risk seepage—especially not with the expensive ingredients I'd be using.

I also added notes for the garden itself: twine for training the climbing roses I'd planted along the back wall, a new watering can (the current one had developed a leak that dripped directly onto my shoes), and marigold seeds to replace the ones I had pressed last year. The pressed marigolds had been popular additions to my letter-writing sets, and I was nearly out. I found myself smiling as I wrote that last line. The garden, like the shop, had become a quiet sort of partner in my days.

Codex stretched from her sunny perch and gave a small chirp before hopping down to investigate the crinkling sound of paper. She padded across the floor with deliberate steps, pausing to examine a fallen pencil before settling again on the edge of the window bench. Her tail wrapped neatly around her paws, and she fixed me with an expectant look.

"Nothing exciting," I told her. "Just lists."

She blinked slowly, apparently satisfied, and returned to watching dust motes dance in the sunbeam.

I reviewed the lists twice, making small corrections—adjusting quantities, adding a note about packaging to remind Marcus to ask for layered wrapping in case of damp weather. The clouds over the river had been heavy the past few days, and I didn't want moisture curling the corners of the wedding paper. I also added a postscript asking him to check if the Mill had any end rolls they were selling cheaply—sometimes there were remnants perfect for practice work or small projects.

There was something deeply satisfying in seeing it all laid out, like laying stones for a path. Each item had a purpose, each choice a reflection of care not only for the work I did but for those who would receive it. I liked that. I liked being part of the quiet machinery that helped people mark their days with something lasting.

When I finally set my pencil down, the sun had shifted to the far side of the shop and the light had turned soft and golden. The morning's productivity settled around me like a comfortable shawl. I tied the two lists together with a bit of thread and left them in the wooden tray by the door Marcus usually knocked on first.

Then, stretching the stiffness from my spine—too many hours hunched over small work—I returned to the bindery and laid out a fresh piece of cream paper—the last of the old stock. Just enough to begin the mock-up of the wedding book. I ran my fingers over the page, imagining where the vines would curl and the initials would rest, and felt again the calm pleasure of knowing what was needed and where to begin.

By late afternoon, with the sun slipping behind the eaves and casting long shadows over the cobblestones, I slipped a shawl around my shoulders, took up my basket, and made for the market. The air was cooler now, touched by the promise of evening, and scented with woodsmoke from early hearth fires. It was my favorite time to go—when the bustle had settled into a soft murmur and the most eager shoppers had already gone home to their kitchens.

The walk to market was short but pleasant. I passed the baker's, where the last loaves of the day were being wrapped in cloth, and the chandler's shop, where beeswax candles hung in neat rows like pale stalactites. Mrs. Hedgewood was in her front garden, deadheading roses, and she waved when she saw me.

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"Market day?" she called.

"Just picking up a few things," I replied. "Your roses are looking beautiful."

"Come by tomorrow and I'll cut you some for the shop," she offered. "The pink ones would look lovely on your counter."

The familiar rhythm of the village met me at the square: creaking cart wheels, the soft clink of coins, and the occasional call of a vendor still hoping to sell the last of their wares. The afternoon light slanted warmly over the stalls, catching on jars of honey that glowed like captured sunlight and pyramids of carrots still dusted with earth, and lending a golden hue to the canvas awnings that fluttered above.

"The bookbinder! Afternoon, Elspeth!" came a cheerful shout as I stepped between the first row of stalls. It was the cheese seller, a round woman with perpetually flour-dusted hands despite selling dairy, not bread. I smiled in return, lifting a hand in greeting. These calls no longer startled me as they once had. Now, they felt like gentle threads woven into the fabric of the day.

I moved efficiently from stall to stall, ticking items off my mental list. A bunch of leeks, their white bases still damp with morning dew. A handful of new potatoes, small and firm, perfect for roasting. A small round of cheese wrapped in waxed cloth—the sharp kind Codex pretended not to like but always begged for. The vegetable seller tossed an extra onion into my basket with a wink, and I thanked her with a soft laugh.

"For your soup," she said. "You're too thin. All you young people are."

At the herb table near the fountain, Mr. Delwyn was sorting seed packets into wooden drawers. His hands were stained with soil, and his shirt bore the gentle wear of honest work. A pair of spectacles perched precariously on his nose, and he pushed them up repeatedly as he worked.

"Your marigolds are the envy of my eastern plot," he said by way of greeting, not looking up until I set a slim, cloth-wrapped parcel on his table.

"And your journal is ready," I said. "Waterproof pages, tally table in the back, and reinforced corners, just like you asked. I also added a small pocket in the front cover for seed packets."

He took the parcel gently, unwrapping it with care, and turned the field journal over in his hands. His fingers traced the reinforced corners, tested the binding's flexibility. "This will do nicely," he said, a pleased glint in his eye. "You've got a gift, Elspeth. That's no small thing. My last journal lasted fifteen years, but it finally gave up after I dropped it in the compost one too many times."

"Thank you again for the seeds," I replied, brushing a few stray petals from the edge of the table.

He nodded and passed me a small paper envelope. "Fresh calendula. Just in case. And here—" he added another packet, "—try these. Cornflowers. They make the most extraordinary blue ink."

Farther down the row, I paused at a fruit stall and let myself be tempted by the first strawberries of the season. They were small and sweet-smelling, blushed red and still warm from the sun. The vendor, knowing my weakness, held up a particularly perfect specimen.

"Taste," she insisted.

The berry burst with flavor—true strawberry, nothing like the watery ones that sometimes made their way upriver. I chose a modest handful and wrapped them carefully in cloth, already imagining how I might use them in a tart or simply eat them one by one while watching the garden settle into twilight.

As I moved through the market, picking up thread from the dry goods stall and a bar of soft lavender soap for the workshop sink, a cheerful voice called out from the bread stall just ahead.

"Elspeth! Tell Marcus to save us a seat next time! We want to see if he blushes when you bring him a roll."

I turned to see a group of market wives gathered near the bread stall, all grinning with the particular expression of people who'd been gossiping pleasantly. Another chimed in with a grin, "Or better yet, bring him flowers—let's see who turns red first!"

A ripple of laughter followed, warm and inviting, and I turned with a small shake of my head, smile tugging at my lips despite the warmth rising in my cheeks.

"We've all seen you at the tavern," someone added with a wink. "Tuesday evenings, corner table, talking about paper weights and river schedules like they're poetry. Don't think you can sneak in and out without half the market noticing."

"He brought her letters last week," another added knowingly. "Stayed an extra half-hour. Mrs. Potter saw through her window."

"If you're going to keep company with our most eligible barge captain, you'll need to get used to being the talk of the square," the bread seller teased, sliding an extra bun into my basket. "Though between you and me, it's about time someone caught his eye properly. He's been making moon-eyes at you since you arrived."

I could only laugh, caught off guard by their easy affection and surprising observations. "You're all terrible," I said gently, clutching the basket tighter as I made my way on. "Don't you have better things to gossip about?"

"Not really," one called after me cheerfully. "It's been a slow season for scandal!"

The teasing was light-hearted and full of goodwill, and instead of leaving me flustered, it left behind a bloom of warmth I carried with me as I turned toward home. It stirred a mix of embarrassment and something softer I didn't want to name just yet—but there was comfort in being known, in being part of the village's gentle interest in each other's lives.

The path home was quiet, the basket growing heavier with each careful step. The evening birds had begun their chorus, and somewhere a door opened, releasing the scent of baking bread and the sound of children's laughter. As I passed the garden gate, I paused to tuck the seed envelope into the pocket of my apron and breathe in the scent of growing things—mint, calendula, and early tomato vines just starting to climb. The garden looked different in the evening light, more mysterious, full of possibilities.

Inside, the house was cool and still. I set the basket down on the kitchen table and unpacked my finds with slow satisfaction. Each item found its place—vegetables in the cool box, cheese wrapped and stored, strawberries set aside for later. Codex watched from her perch on the windowsill, her tail curling like punctuation. I set a single strawberry beside her, which she sniffed but ignored, as expected. It was our ritual—I offered, she declined, we both felt we'd done our part.

The light had softened further by the time I returned to the workshop, and I took a few quiet moments to note the day's errands in my ledger. Income from Mr. Delwyn's journal, expenses for market goods, a note about the wedding book deposit Lila and Theo had left. As I wrote, I let myself smile, just a little. I had faced the market, bartered for thread and fruit, delivered a finished commission, weathered village gossip, and taken on what promised to be one of my most beautiful projects yet. And now, home.

The strawberries would keep until morning, but the quiet joy of the afternoon would not. I sat with it a while longer before turning to the next task.

Later that afternoon, after I had unpacked my market basket in the upstairs kitchen and carefully sorted the vegetables into their crocks and bowls, I jotted down my purchases in the ledger at the corner desk, then tidied the front display shelves before returning to the bindery. The comforting scent of paper, leather, and dried lavender greeted me as I stepped inside. The space was quiet except for the rustle of pages and the occasional creak of the floorboards as I moved between the worktable and the supply shelf. It was the kind of quiet meant for restoration.

The latest commission waiting on my table was a recipe book, its spine bowed and fragile from years of use. The cover bore faded embossing, the lettering nearly rubbed away—I could just make out "Family Recipes" in what had once been gold. I opened it carefully, mindful of every stitch, and began to assess the damage. The pages told their own story: blotches from oil and gravy, crinkled edges where steam had risen from pots, tiny heart symbols scrawled beside certain dishes. One in particular—"Mother's favorite"—had appeared beside several entries, and I found myself smiling at the affection embedded in ink and butter stains.

Someone had added notes through the years in different hands—"Too much salt," "Perfect as written," "Add Father's honey." A whole family's conversation across time, held in marginal notes.

With my apron tied and the afternoon sun pooling across the floor, I began the gentle work of separating signatures, brushing debris from each folio with a soft brush made from squirrel hair. I made note of the necessary repairs—a new spine, resewing several gatherings, fresh endpapers. My hands moved steadily, the muscle memory of the work a quiet comfort.

The doorbell chimed a short while later, a small interruption in the silence. I dusted off my hands and stepped into the front shop where a traveler stood just inside, a pack slung over one shoulder and dust clinging to his boots. He had the weathered look of someone who'd spent more nights under stars than roofs.

"Are you the bookbinder?" he asked, his voice carrying a slight accent I couldn't place.

"I am. What can I help you with?"

He reached into his pack and brought out a plain notebook, the kind sold in markets across the region. The cover was water-stained and the binding loose. "I've worn this one out and need something sturdier. Nothing fancy—just something that holds up to the road. Rain, mostly. Sometimes snow."

I nodded and stepped behind the counter, retrieving a few sample journals from the shelf. "Linen thread, stitched through the spine. Reinforced cover. Would you prefer lined or blank pages?"

"Blank," he said immediately. "I draw maps."

That caught my interest. "Maps?"

He smiled for the first time. "Small ones. Places I've been, roads that aren't on the official ones. Good camping spots, fresh water, dangerous crossings. Started as notes for myself, but other travelers started asking for copies."

"I have something that might work perfectly," I said, remembering a journal I'd made with Henrik's waterproofing treatment. "Let me show you."

He looked through them carefully and chose one with a simple dark blue cover. After he paid and thanked me, he paused at the door. "It smells good in here," he said with a grin. "Like the scriptorium in the monastery where I learned letters, but warmer somehow."

I returned to my worktable and to the recipe book. I continued lifting each page with care, removing old glue with a heated palette knife and smoothing folds. The personal touches in the margins charmed me—measurements adjusted, celebratory notes beside holiday meals, and the occasional gentle correction, likely from someone trying to preserve a grandmother's method. One page was devoted entirely to remedies—"For stomach upset," "For winter cough," "For broken hearts" (this last one was a tea recipe involving roses and honey).

By the time the light had shifted to a softer gold, painting long rectangles across the workshop floor, I had finished the cleaning and was halfway through resewing the book's spine. The needle pulled through the paper with a satisfying sound, steady and rhythmic. I found myself humming a little, content in the quiet.

Beside the table, a second commission waited: a ship's log, its cover warped from salt exposure and the outer pages stiff with brine. I had not yet begun work on it, but I glanced over the damage as I reached for more thread. Most of it was salvageable, though the edges would remain slightly brittle. The log smelled of the sea, and when I opened it carefully, grains of sand fell onto my workbench—tiny travelers from some distant shore.

Balancing commissions like these had become second nature now—restoration and rebinding, alongside the more creative projects like the wedding book. Each had its own pace, its own kind of satisfaction. The recipe book was about preserving family memory. The ship's log was about maintaining records that might one day guide someone safely home. The wedding book was about hope for the future. All of them, in their way, were about connection.

The bell did not ring again that day, and the afternoon light gradually faded, casting golden shadows across the floor. I continued stitching until my hands ached just a little—that pleasant tiredness that came from good work—then closed the recipe book gently and set it beneath a weighted board for pressing. Outside, the village carried on in soft tones—distant laughter, a cart rumbling past, birds gathering along the eaves for their evening chorus. In the stillness of the bindery, I sat for a while longer, just listening. It was a good day's work. And tomorrow, there would be more pages waiting.

The kitchen felt cooler by the time I made my way upstairs. The sun had long since dipped behind the taller rooftops, and a hush had settled over the village. I could hear the river in the distance, its constant murmur a backdrop to everything in Riverhaven. I lit the lamp above the stove, its soft glow catching in the glass jars lining the shelf, casting gentle shadows across the tiled wall. The scent of warm stone and mint drifted in through the window, mingling with the faint lavender that lingered on my sleeves from the bindery.

Codex trailed behind me, her tail flicking as she leapt onto her favorite perch atop the cabinet. From there, she could survey the entire kitchen like a small, benevolent queen. She arranged herself with the practiced dignity of someone preparing for an evening of silent supervision.

I spread Henrik's notes across the scrubbed wooden table, their edges slightly curled from years of use. I'd been studying them in the evenings, learning his techniques one by one. The script was careful and small, with little flourishes at the ends of letters, as if ink itself had been coaxed into elegance. His calendula recipe occupied the center page, underlined twice with notes in the margins about temperature and timing. I smoothed the sheet with my palm, feeling a little thrill of anticipation. This was something I had put off long enough.

From the sideboard, I brought over a shallow basket of calendula petals I'd harvested two days before. They had dried beautifully in the warm air of the workshop, their color a deep gold with hints of orange, as if sunlight had been caught and folded into silk. I pinched one between my fingers and watched the way it crumbled softly, fragrant and delicate. The scent was green and slightly honeyed, with an undertone of something earthy.

Henrik's first step was infusion. I filled a clean glass jar halfway with petals and poured warmed alcohol over them, careful not to let it reach a boil. The temperature mattered—too hot and the color would muddy, too cool and the extraction would be weak. The scent bloomed at once—sharp and herbal, but bright, with a sweetness that felt familiar even though I couldn't place it. It reminded me of summer afternoons in my mother's garden, of flowers picked at just the right moment.

I set the jar on the windowsill where it would stay warm and began preparing the second stage: the pigment draw. This part was more delicate, involving slow stirring and timed rest periods. Henrik had been specific about the rhythm—stir clockwise for thirty counts, rest for ten minutes, repeat. I brought over my small mortar and pestle, the one I'd purchased from a traveling merchant who claimed it had been carved from a single piece of jade. Whether that was true or not, it worked beautifully, grinding the rest of the dried petals with a few crystals of gum arabic until they began to take on a dense, golden hue.

Codex let out a soft, judgmental chirp when I knocked a pinch of powder onto the table.

"Yes, I know," I murmured, wiping it up with a damp cloth. "Messy work. But beautiful things often are."

She blinked slowly, apparently accepting this wisdom.

With the powdered petals steeping in their own small jar, I turned to the binder base. I melted beeswax gently in a double boiler, watching as it transformed from solid to liquid gold. The kitchen filled with the warm, sweet scent of wax. I added a whisper of lavender oil to cut the sharper scents—just three drops, as Henrik had noted. Too much would overpower the calendula's natural fragrance. The mixture shimmered faintly, catching the light like liquid amber. I poured it into a small clay dish to cool, then cleaned my tools and stretched my arms, letting the rhythm of the process settle into my limbs.

The infusion would take time—at least an hour for the first extraction. While it rested, I opened the windows a little more to let the night air in. The breeze carried the scent of the river and cooling stone, mixing with the warm smells of my ink-making. I sliced a few strawberries from the market into a bowl, admiring their perfect ripeness. They were small but intensely flavored, nothing like the large, watery ones that sometimes appeared in the shops. I added a drizzle of honey from my neighbor's hives and a sprinkle of crushed mint from the garden, then took my dish to the table beside the hearth.

Codex followed and curled at my feet, purring softly. Her warmth against my ankles was comforting, familiar. We'd developed our routines, she and I—she knew that ink-making nights meant I'd be up late, moving between stove and table, and she positioned herself accordingly.

Outside, the village had grown quiet, save for the occasional call of a night bird or the creak of shutters being drawn. Someone played a flute in the distance, a wandering melody that rose and fell like breathing. The steady flicker of the oil lamp gave the room a golden softness, the kind of light that made you want to linger, to move slowly and savor each small moment.

When the timer chimed—a small brass bell I'd found in Henrik's things—I returned to the windowsill and uncapped the infusion. The alcohol had drawn out the calendula's color beautifully, turning from clear to deep gold. I strained the liquid through a fine cloth into a clean vial, watching as the gold seeped slowly, staining the fabric in ripples. It smelled brighter now, concentrated, like something just on the edge of blooming.

I combined the filtered infusion with the pigment binder, whisking slowly with a bone-handled stirrer that had belonged to Henrik's mentor before him. The tool had weight to it, history. The mixture began to change, taking on a velvety texture that caught the light differently than either component alone. When I dipped the tip of my brush into the mixture and spread it across a piece of scrap paper, I held my breath.

The color was warm, rich, alive. It seemed to glow from within, as if the paper itself had been touched by sunset. But it wasn't perfect. Henrik's notes described a golden ink with just the faintest translucence, a quality mine hadn't quite captured. The color was perhaps too bold, too solid. I adjusted the ratios, adding a touch more alcohol to thin it, and tried again, making careful notes of each change. This batch was better—more delicate, with that quality of light Henrik had described.

By the third attempt, I could feel the pull of sleep beginning to soften the edges of my concentration. My shoulders ached from hunching over the work, and my eyes felt gritty. Still, I tested the ink again, this time writing a small passage from one of my favorite poems:

"In gardens where the golden flowers grow,

Where summer's light sets petals all aglow..."

The lines curved easily beneath my hand, and the golden ink held steady, drying into something soft and true. It wasn't quite Henrik's formula—not yet—but it was mine, and it was beautiful.

I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Not perfect—but very, very close. Close enough to use for special projects, close enough to know I was on the right path.

I labeled the jar carefully with the date and batch number, tied the parchment notes into a neat roll, and cleaned my tools with the care of someone finishing a small ritual. Each implement was washed, dried, and returned to its place. The kitchen felt warm and peaceful, filled with the lingering scents of beeswax and calendula, the kind of peace that followed effort and creation.

Codex stirred, stretched luxuriously, and leapt down to follow me as I turned off the lamp. Her movements were liquid in the dim light, and she paused at the kitchen doorway to look back at me, as if to say, "Coming?"

I left the window open just a crack, to let the night air keep the last of the infusion cool. Tomorrow I would test the ink again in daylight, see how it looked on different papers, how it behaved with various nibs. But tonight, I was content with what I'd made.

I rinsed my hands in the basin, letting the scent of calendula and beeswax linger a moment longer before patting them dry on the linen hanging by the stove. My fingers were stained slightly golden at the tips—a badge of honor, I decided. The kitchen had grown dim except for the soft glow of the coals in the hearth. I banked them carefully, set out the kettle for morning, tucked my notes away in the drawer I'd designated for ink recipes, and padded quietly into the sleeping nook off the main room.

The sheets were cool against my arms as I slipped into bed, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the kitchen. Codex curled at my feet like a final punctuation to the day's quiet work, her purring a gentle vibration through the blankets. Through the open window, I could hear the river moving in its ancient rhythm, carrying boats and dreams and stories ever onward.

Tomorrow, I would try again, refining the formula, perhaps experimenting with the cornflower seeds Mr. Delwyn had given me. But tonight, the ink was golden and the quiet deep, and I was exactly where I belonged.