Chapter 15: The Roof Repairs

Several days had passed since Marcus's early morning delivery, and in that span, Riverhaven had slipped into the early rhythm of summer—cool mornings, birdsong rising just after dawn, and the scent of honeysuckle threading through open windows. The repairs had been scheduled, confirmed, and now the day had come. I'd spent the previous evening making lists, checking and rechecking that everything fragile was properly protected.

I rose in the quiet dark, before even the birds had begun their chorus. The floorboards were cool beneath my bare feet, and I moved by memory more than sight, knowing each creak and groan of the old house. The upstairs rooms were wrapped in soft shadow, the hearth cold, the windows blurred with condensation from the cool night air. I could hear the river in the distance, its constant murmur like a lullaby that never quite ended. Codex stirred from her usual place at the foot of the bed, opening one eye to regard me with feline judgment before tucking her nose back under her tail. She clearly felt that any hour before sunrise was uncivilized, and I couldn't entirely disagree.

I dressed in my oldest work dress—the one already marked with glue stains and ink spots that no amount of washing would remove. My hair went up in a practical bun, secured with the bone pins my mother had given me when I'd left home. "For when you need to look respectable while doing unrespectable work," she'd said with a knowing smile.

Barefoot still, I padded to the kitchen, the wooden floors cold but familiar beneath my feet. There, I lit a single oil lamp, turning the wick low to save oil. Its glow painted golden circles on the wood-paneled walls, making the copper pots gleam like small suns. The kitchen still held yesterday's warmth in its stones, a faint comfort against the morning chill.

The kettle went on first—my morning ritual regardless of what the day might bring. While waiting for it to heat, I opened the window above the sink, letting in the fresh air. The garden was barely visible, only a suggestion of green and grey in the low light, but I could smell the rosemary from here, thick and sharp in the damp morning. The mint had grown wild despite my attempts to contain it, and its scent mingled with the rosemary in a way that always made me think of home remedies and hidden gardens. Somewhere beyond, a wren called once, tentative, testing the day, before falling silent again.

I measured out tea leaves—a blend of black tea and dried apple I'd been experimenting with—and set them to steep while I gathered what I'd need for the day. A basket of clean rags for the dust that would inevitably fall. My ledger, to work on accounts if the noise became too much. The wedding book sketches, wrapped carefully in oilcloth.

Downstairs, the bindery waited in silence. I descended with care, each stair creaking its particular note under my weight—a musical scale I'd memorized without meaning to. The third step from the bottom always sang the loudest, and I'd learned to step to its edge to minimize the sound. I liked this time, this hush. It gave me room to think, to prepare myself for the disruption to come. The bindery was cloaked in pale blue shadows, everything still and waiting. My tools lay exactly where I'd left them, my half-finished projects patient on their shelves.

The roof, though solid-looking from the outside, had long betrayed its age in the workshop's corners—water marks spidered down the far wall like ancient maps of forgotten rivers, and the scent of damp lingered after every storm. I'd placed buckets strategically during the last rain, their pink-plink rhythm becoming an odd sort of comfort. Today that would change. No more buckets, no more worry with each gathering cloud.

I lit the lamps one by one, their steady flames reaching into corners where dust and memory gathered. Each lamp had its own personality—the one by the door always needed coaxing, while the workshop lamp flared bright and eager. My apron, freshly laundered and still smelling faintly of lavender water, hung on its peg by the front counter. I tied it around my waist with practiced movements, the strings worn soft from daily use, and surveyed the task ahead.

Every book near the walls needed to be moved. The restored ledgers in their neat red and black bindings, new journals with pristine pages waiting for words, even the half-finished commissions that represented promises yet to be kept. I began by carefully wrapping the more delicate items—oilcloth over the midwife's birth book with its careful records of new life, linen covers for the sailor's logbook currently awaiting rebinding. The logbook still smelled of salt and tar, and handling it always made me think of distant shores. Anything too precious to risk. The wedding guest book, still in its planning stages, I laid flat on the main table, well away from any place where dust or debris might fall during the roof repairs. The pressed roses waited in tissue paper, patient as saints.

I created a mental map as I worked—this stack contains water-sensitive items, that one has books that could handle a bit of dust, these need to stay perfectly flat. Organization was my armor against chaos.

Codex joined me eventually, slinking down the stairs with a disapproving flick of her tail. Each step was placed with deliberate disdain, as if the very idea of being awake at this hour offended her sensibilities. She leapt lightly onto the counter and perched there, watching as I rearranged her domain. Her favorite sunny spot would be disturbed, her regular patrol routes interrupted. I murmured to her now and then, partly to soothe, partly to keep my own thoughts from running too far ahead.

"Yes, I know it's early," I told her as she voiced a questioning chirp. "But would you rather have a wet workshop? I thought not."

She settled into a compact loaf shape, apparently accepting this logic while maintaining her general disapproval of the situation.

The work was slow, meticulous. Each book had to be considered—could it handle being moved? Should it be wrapped? How many layers of protection did it need? I stopped often to inspect corners, to ensure I hadn't missed anything vulnerable. The cookbooks were particularly precious after yesterday's restoration, and I took extra care with them, remembering the tears of joy on that grandmother's face. The western shelves were high and narrow; I fetched the small ladder to reach the top, testing each rung before trusting my weight to it. From that perch, I could see the thin spiderwork of old water damage along the ceiling beams. It had never reached the apartment above, but it was a persistent worry all the same. The wood was darker there, bearing witness to years of small leaks and patient deterioration.

Henrik's old inventory lists helped—tucked in a drawer, they showed which books had survived previous repairs and which spots were most vulnerable. His handwriting was cramped but clear: "Move all leather bindings first—they show water damage soonest." I followed his guidance like a conversation with a ghost.

The workshop tools were next. The binding press was heavy, solid oak with iron screws that caught the lamplight. I couldn't move it alone, so I pushed it as far from the work area as possible and draped it in canvas. The wooden press creaked in protest but slid across the floor with enough persuasion. I covered the glue pots—both the regular hide glue and my precious pot of wheat paste—and rolled up the cutting mats with careful hands. They'd been expensive, imported from a workshop in the capital, and I couldn't afford to replace them. Only a few items remained on the table now—my notebook with its coffee-stained cover, a small box of wedding embellishments I'd been collecting, and the pressed rose petals I'd dried just yesterday. They were crisp, their color still strong, and I handled them as gently as spun sugar. One crumbled at my touch, and I saved the fragments in a small envelope—even broken roses could be useful for color tests.

With the bindery secured as best I could make it, I began the slow process of carrying the more delicate materials upstairs. Each trip required careful navigation of the narrow stairs, arms full of wrapped bundles. I placed books in the kitchen, on the bedroom dresser, even in the small closet where I kept my winter clothes. The apartment filled with the refugees of my workshop, transforming my living space into a temporary archive. I set the most precious items—the wedding book materials, the nearly-complete ship's log, the midwife's records—beside the back window where the morning sun would find them later. The light there was always gentle, filtered through the old glass in a way that made everything look softer.

The kettle had boiled and cooled and boiled again by then. I poured a fresh cup of tea—simple chamomile with a hint of mint from the garden—and stood near the window as I drank. The sky was beginning to lighten at the edges, that particular grey that comes before dawn. Birds were stirring, their morning conversations beginning in tentative chirps and calls.

Breakfast was an afterthought: a heel of yesterday's bread spread with soft cheese, eaten in small bites while I leaned against the counter. The bread was from the baker three doors down—Mrs. Morrison, who always saved me the crusty ends because she knew I preferred them. The cheese came from the market, made by a farmer's wife who swore by adding wild herbs to the milk. There would be no time for a proper meal later, and I didn't expect to sit again until evening. Still, I took a moment to watch the sky shift from grey to pearl to the faintest blush of gold, the slow bloom of dawn over Riverhaven's rooftops. It was beautiful, in its quiet way. The town was waking—I could hear a door open somewhere, the distant lowing of a cow being led to milking, the first cart wheels on cobblestones.

The creak of wheels outside brought my focus sharply back. They were early—earlier than expected. I rinsed my cup, wiped my hands on a towel embroidered with forget-me-nots (another gift from my mother), and moved to the front window, peering through the newly cleaned glass. I'd washed all the windows yesterday in a fit of nervous preparation, and now they sparkled in the early light.

A flat cart was trundling up the lane, led by a sturdy draft pony whose breath steamed in the cool air. The cart was loaded with supplies—wooden beams, bundles of shingles, mysterious tools wrapped in leather. Two younger men with rope coils over their shoulders walked alongside, their faces still soft with sleep. Silas walked beside them, his gait brisk and businesslike even at this early hour. He had the look of a man who'd been awake for hours already, probably checking his tools and reviewing his plans over strong coffee.

They were here.

I took a breath and held it, letting the stillness settle in me one last time. The quiet morning was about to end, replaced by hammers and saws and voices. Then I turned and swept the room with my eyes, checking again for any missed vulnerabilities. A last book on a high shelf caught my eye—Henrik's personal journal, which I'd been reading in the evenings. I quickly retrieved it and tucked it with the other precious items.

Satisfied, I untied my apron and hung it over the stair rail where it would stay clean, then walked to the door and stepped outside.

The morning air was sharp with dew and woodsmoke from early kitchen fires. The cobblestones were dark with moisture, and I could smell bread baking somewhere—probably Mrs. Morrison, getting the day's first loaves ready. Silas raised a hand in greeting, and I returned it with a nod, already steeling myself for the noise, the mess, the disruption to come. But beneath that readiness, there was something steadier: a sense of purpose. The bindery was more than my work. It was my home. And today, it would grow stronger.

By the time the first hammer rang out, the sun had just crested the horizon, washing the tops of the buildings in warm gold. The cool damp of the morning hadn't yet lifted, and I stood at the side of the bindery, hands wrapped around a second cup of tea—stronger this time, with extra sugar for the long day ahead—watching the workers begin.

Silas worked with the calm, economical movements of someone who had done this exact job a hundred times. His beard, salt-and-pepper and neatly trimmed, twitched only when he gave orders to the two younger men—both broad-shouldered and quick-footed, with the look of cousins or brothers. They had the same nose, I noticed, and the same way of tilting their heads when listening. They moved like a team well-used to each other, one climbing to the roof's edge while the other handed up bundles of new shingles and wooden supports. Their coordination spoke of years working together, probably learning the trade from Silas himself.

The first tarps went up quickly, secured over the walkways and angled to catch dust and debris. The canvas was old but well-maintained, patched in places with neat stitches that reminded me of my own work with book cloth. I had cleared the path beside the bindery last night, setting the potted herbs against the garden wall in neat rows. The rosemary looked affronted by the relocation, and the basil had already begun to droop dramatically. Now I was grateful for the foresight—wood chips were already drifting down in soft little eddies, catching the morning light like snow.

Silas caught my eye and offered a short, respectful nod. "We'll keep it tidy as we can, Miss Whitfield. But she'll groan a bit before she's sound again."

"I expect nothing less," I replied, lips tugging into a smile. "A little groaning never hurt anyone. Let me know if you need anything—water, tools, an extra pair of hands."

"Just keep that cat of yours inside," one of the younger men said with a grin. "Don't want her investigating while we're working."

With that, I stepped back inside and closed the door firmly behind me.

The noise came quickly—scraping as old shingles were pried loose, hammering as supports were tested, the rhythmic clunk of tools against old wood. Every tap echoed through the ceiling beams, traveling down into the bones of the house. The building seemed to conduct sound like a musical instrument, each strike resonating through wood and plaster. Dust stirred even in places I thought I had sealed, tiny motes dancing in the lamplight like spirits disturbed from sleep. I moved through the shop, brushing fresh dust from the display counter and shifting a few last items to more secure corners.

The sound filled every space, clattering down the stairwell, rattling through the cupboards. Even Codex took refuge on the highest bookshelf she could find, her ears flat against her head, tail wrapped tight around her body. She gave me a look that clearly said this was entirely my fault. I worked in short bursts between the worst of the noise, then paused to listen, as though understanding the pattern of their work might help me settle into my own.

Customers were few this early, and I had half-hoped for a completely quiet day. I'd put a sign in the window: "Roof Repairs Today - Shop Open but Noisy!" But not long after the work began, the bell above the door jingled delicately, barely audible over the construction sounds. I turned from wiping the front windows—a futile task, as dust was already settling again—already rehearsing my apology.

A familiar face peeked in—it was Tomas, the elderly apothecary who often came for paper packets and journal refills. His white hair was neatly combed despite the early hour, and he carried his usual walking stick with the carved fox head.

"Just need a quick one," he said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the hammering. "Won't take but a moment."

"Afraid the bindery's closed today," I said gently, gesturing upward as a particularly loud bang shook the ceiling. "Roof repairs. But if you know what you need, I can fetch it for you—no need to step inside where it's dusty."

He glanced up at the ceiling as if surprised to find it still overhead, then grinned, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Just a simple lined journal, if you've got one. Mine's finally full. Forty years of formulas and observations—might be time for a new volume."

"Of course," I said, already stepping toward the shelf near the door where I kept the everyday volumes. I selected one with a sturdy spine and clean, cream-colored pages, running my hand over the cover to ensure no dust had settled. "Same size as your usual?"

"Perfect. You know me well."

He handed me a few coins with practiced ease. "Thanks, Elspeth. You saved me the walk to the next village. These old bones appreciate it."

"Always happy to help," I said, pocketing the payment and giving him a small wave as he departed with the journal tucked under his arm. "Stay dry—looks like rain later."

"My knees already told me that," he called back cheerfully.

He departed with a wave, and the shop was quiet again save for the thunder overhead.

The morning continued with a rhythm of its own—periods of intense hammering followed by quiet discussions I could hear but not quite make out. Occasionally, Silas's voice would rise in instruction: "Mind that beam!" or "Check it twice before you nail it!" The younger men responded with good humor, their laughter carrying down through the ceiling.

A little before midday, I heard the familiar creak of the garden gate. Codex, perched on her usual windowsill post despite the noise, turned her head but didn't rise. She'd apparently decided that vigilance was more important than hiding.

Mrs. Hedgewood's voice called from just beyond the door. "Don't mind me, dear! Brought something for the workers."

I opened the door to find her carrying a large covered jug in one hand and a bundle of cloth-wrapped cups in the other. She'd changed into her second-best dress, the blue one with tiny flowers embroidered at the collar, and her cheeks were pink from the kitchen heat.

"Lemonade," she said with a wink. "Not spiked, though I was tempted. They're still on the roof, after all. Can't have them getting too relaxed up there."

"That's kind of you," I said, stepping aside so she could pass through. "I'm sure they'll appreciate it. The sun's getting strong."

She set the bundle on the work table and glanced around the rearranged shop, her gaze taking in the covered furniture and the distinct lack of paper on the walls. Her expression was approving, the look of someone who'd been through house repairs before.

"You've done a good job clearing it. Must've taken all morning."

"Started before dawn," I said, smiling. "I wanted everything out of harm's way. Learned from Henrik's notes—he mentioned the last roof repair didn't go quite as smoothly."

"Smart girl. That was fifteen years ago, and I still remember the mess. Poor Henrik had to re-bind a dozen books."

She left the lemonade with a note for Silas—"Tell him it's chilled with mint from my garden, and I'll know if he shares too little. I counted those cups!"—and then, with a nod of approval and a pat on my shoulder, she departed as breezily as she'd come.

Not long after, I heard the ladder creak and the shuffle of boots descending. The front door opened partway, and Silas poked his head inside. Sawdust decorated his beard like premature snow. "Time for a break," he said. "Figured we'd take it in the shade. That sun's getting fierce."

I stepped back to let them pass, watching as the three men came down dusty and sun-warmed from their labor. Their cheeks were flushed from the midday heat, and shirts clung damp at the collarbones. They moved with the careful steps of men whose muscles were already feeling the work.

"Help yourselves," I said, gesturing to the waiting jug and cups. "Mrs. Hedgewood's finest."

They settled near the side garden, in a patch of dappled shade where the rosemary and marjoram grew thick. The herbs released their scent as the men brushed past, filling the air with savory perfume. Silas poured with practiced care, handing cups down the line. The younger men—Tom and Will, I learned—sprawled on the grass with the loose-limbed exhaustion of hard workers at rest.

"Tell Mrs. Hedgewood it's as good as always," Silas said after the first long sip. "Mint's just the right strength. Not too sweet, neither."

The younger men chuckled, pulling bread and cheese from their satchels. One offered a piece to Codex, who had ventured out to investigate. She sniffed it with great ceremony and turned her nose with disdain, much to their amusement.

"She's particular," I explained. "Only eats fish on Wednesdays."

"Is it Wednesday?" Tom asked, looking genuinely concerned.

"Tuesday," his brother corrected. "No wonder she's offended."

I lingered a moment longer, glad to see them resting, gladder still to hear Silas add, "Joists are solid, better than expected. Wood's aged well. We'll have the trouble spots sealed before evening. Your books will stay dry for another generation, Miss."

It was the reassurance I hadn't known I needed. The house was in good hands. My grandfather had been a carpenter, and I recognized the pride in Silas's voice—the satisfaction of finding good bones beneath old skin.

After another round of lemonade and a stretch in the grass, they clambered back up the ladder, tools in hand, their voices fading into the steady rhythm of work resumed. Tom started a working song—something about rivers and boats that I didn't quite catch—and soon all three voices joined in the chorus.

The rest of the day unfolded in pulses. The hammering would ease for a while, replaced by the murmur of voices or the creak of shifting beams, then start again with renewed fervor. I tried once to sketch in my notebook, thinking to capture the garden scene for my next letter home, but the jarring rhythms made neat lines impossible. My roses looked more like cabbages, and I gave up with a laugh. Instead, I focused on light tasks—sorting gold leaf by size, preparing spine fabrics for future projects, labeling ink jars with my newest batches. Anything repetitive and grounding.

Between tasks, I found myself thinking about the building's history. How many roofs had it worn? How many repairs? Henrik's journal mentioned his predecessor, a woman named Catherine who'd bound books here for forty years. Before her, the building had been a milliner's shop. All those years of making beautiful things, of careful hands creating items meant to last. The tradition continued, even through the disruption of hammers and saws.

I found myself making tea again around midday—my third pot, but who was counting? I sipped it slowly while watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight. They moved like tiny dancers, swirling and settling in patterns that seemed almost deliberate. The garden beyond the kitchen window beckoned—a quiet place, sheltered from the worst of the commotion. I could see the apple tree swaying gently, its leaves catching the light.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

The wedding book's design began to firm in my mind. A soft ivory cover, maybe, with a raised motif of entwined initials. No, wait—perhaps a warm cream instead, with the faintest touch of pink to echo the roses. The roses would need to be flattened further before pressing, but their color was true. I set aside a scrap of paper and began testing gold patterns in the margins, tiny flourishes that might frame the pressed flowers.

More than once, I paused just to listen—to the birds beyond the noise, somehow still singing despite the disruption. To the distant chatter of the workers on the roof, their easy camaraderie evident even from below. Silas's voice was a steady presence, offering guidance and mild chastisement in equal measure. "Tom, that's not straight." "Will, check that join again." He reminded me of someone's favorite uncle—gruff but fair, demanding good work but quick to praise it when it appeared.

By mid-afternoon, the dust had begun to settle into everything, despite the care we'd taken. It had a life of its own, creeping into corners I'd thought secure, filming surfaces I'd just cleaned. I wiped the front counter again and again, but it always returned. The light from the windows, however, was rich and golden, and I found myself yearning for air. The garden would be quieter. Perhaps even workable.

Before heading out, I fetched a damp cloth and wiped down the petals I'd selected for the wedding book. Each one was laid carefully into a fresh press, their soft fragrance rising like a sigh from the pages. The scent of roses always made me think of celebrations, of joy preserved. I paused to breathe it in before gathering my tools into a shallow wooden tray—my notebook, a ruler worn smooth from use, two small brushes with handles I'd wrapped in thread for better grip, and a pot of fine gold leaf that caught the light like captured sunshine.

Outside, the afternoon air was warm and scented with thyme. The temperature had risen while I'd been inside, and the garden fairly hummed with insect life. Bees worked the lavender with focused dedication, their droning a counterpoint to the construction noise. I set up at the garden table beneath the shade of the apple tree, laying out my materials with care. The table was one of Marcus's repairs—he'd reinforced the legs last month when I'd mentioned it wobbling. Now it stood steady and true.

Codex, clearly unimpressed by the earlier chaos, had found her way outside through the cat door. She curled herself on the stone wall and watched me with lidded eyes, the picture of feline superiority. Occasionally, her tail would twitch at some sound from the roof, but she maintained her dignified pose.

I began with the roses. Using tweezers and a bone folder, I adjusted their placement on a test sheet, noting how the shapes curled against the paper grain. Each petal had its own character—one curled more than the others, another had a tiny tear that somehow made it more beautiful. Gold accents followed—just a trace along the edge of one petal, a gleam at the stem's base. I worked slowly, carefully, letting the process ground me in the now. This was what I loved most about bookbinding—the way it demanded complete presence, total focus on the tiny details that would come together to create something larger.

The noises from the roof seemed distant out here, buffered by the garden's walls and the rustle of leaves. A few neighbors passed by, nodding with interest. Mrs. Morrison paused with her market basket to admire the roses. "For the Willowshade wedding?" she asked, and I nodded. "Lucky couple. That'll be something to treasure."

One young boy lingered at the fence, peering over with bright curiosity. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and grass stains marked his knees. I recognized him—Jamie, the cooper's son.

"What're you doing?" he asked.

"Preparing flowers for a special book," I explained, inviting him in to watch. "See how flat they are? I pressed them between heavy boards for days."

He asked question after question—about the gold, the glue, how the petals stayed so flat, why some were darker than others. Each query came rapid-fire, barely waiting for the answer before the next emerged. I answered each one, smiling at his wonder.

"You want to see how pages fit together?" I asked, showing him a stack of nested signatures I'd brought out to check.

He leaned closer, eyes wide. "It's like a secret. Like how a book is born."

"That's exactly what it is," I agreed. "Each section nests inside the others, and then they're sewn together at the spine."

"Could I make a book?" he asked suddenly.

"Of course. Start with folding papers and stitching them. I'll show you sometime if your parents agree."

His mother called for him a few minutes later, voice carrying over the garden wall. He dashed off with a wave, but turned back at the gate. "I'm going to make a book about beetles!" he announced, then disappeared.

I returned to my work, but his words stayed with me. Like how a book is born. Yes. That was it exactly. Birth and rebirth, creation and restoration—all part of the same gentle art.

As the shadows lengthened and the light turned amber, I felt the quiet rhythm of the day settle around me. The roof would be finished soon. Already, the hammering had taken on a different quality—less demolition, more construction. But for now, there was gold to press and stories to begin.

The sun hung low by the time the hammering slowed and finally ceased. For a few long breaths, I heard only the hush of the wind stirring the garden leaves and the faint creak of a ladder being shifted. Then came Silas's voice, clear and satisfied.

"Finished! All done and tight as a drum!"

I stood from the garden table, brushing gold dust from my fingers—it clung to everything, tiny sparkles that would probably appear for days—and gathering my tools into their tray. Codex leapt lightly from the wall and padded after me as I stepped inside. The house was quieter, almost reverent in its stillness after the day's clamor. Dust still floated in the sunbeams, catching the last warm light of the afternoon, but already the air felt changed—lighter, more secure. There was a solidity to the silence now, as if the house itself had exhaled in relief.

Silas and his two helpers stood in the doorway, their faces flushed with sun and effort. Their boots bore fresh scuffs, their shirts stuck damp to their backs, but their expressions were satisfied. Tom had a smudge of tar across his cheek, and Will's hair stood up in spikes where he'd pushed it back with dusty hands.

"Should last twenty years, easy," Silas said, accepting the damp cloth I offered to wipe his hands. "Maybe thirty if you're lucky. We reinforced the whole ridge and replaced every shingle in the worst section. Sealed the seams good, too. Even a spring storm won't bother it. Used the new tar mixture—costs more, but it's worth it."

I stepped past him to peer up the stairwell. No plaster dust rained down. No damp smell lingered in the air. The ceiling looked solid, unmarked by water stains. I moved through each room slowly, checking corners and ceiling beams. Everything was intact. Dry. The workshop smelled of fresh wood and tar instead of mildew.

"It's perfect," I said softly when I returned to the door. "Thank you. Truly."

"Just doing our job," he replied, but his eyes crinkled with quiet pride. "Though I'll say, it's nice working on a building that's been well-loved. The bones were good."

I handed him the agreed-upon payment, sealed in a small leather pouch with a pressed wax seal—the moon and book of my shop's mark. He tucked it into his satchel without even glancing inside. "Fair and square," he said. "And if anything shifts in the first hard rain, you send for me straightaway. I'll come running."

"I will."

The younger men had already begun collecting the tools and folding up tarps. Their movements were slower now, the energy of the morning replaced by the satisfied exhaustion of work well done. I offered water and what remained of the lemonade, and they took it gratefully. Tom drained his cup in one long swallow, then sighed contentedly.

Marcus, I noticed with a flutter of pleasure, had arrived somewhere in the last hour—his coat hung by the back door, and he emerged from around the garden wall carrying the last of the tools. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and sawdust decorated his hair.

"Thought I'd help get things back in order," he said with a smile, brushing sawdust from his sleeves. "Heard the hammering stop and figured you might need an extra pair of hands."

"I'd appreciate that," I replied, trying not to show how pleased I was by his thoughtfulness.

Inside, we began restoring the shop to its natural shape. Marcus moved with the ease of someone who had helped me more than once, lifting the larger crates and tucking furniture back into place. He knew without asking where things belonged—the heavy press in its corner, the supply cabinet against the eastern wall. I followed behind, uncovering display tables, brushing the remaining grit from shelves, re-sorting ribbons and spine cloths. We worked in comfortable silence, occasionally exchanging small comments—about a book that had shifted on its shelf, about how the dust had crept even under the protective cloths, about the way the evening light looked different without water stains on the ceiling.

"Found one of your pressed flowers," he said, holding up a violet that had escaped its envelope. "Casualty of war?"

"Battle survivor," I corrected, taking it gently. "It'll still make good ink."

When we returned the box of gold leaf to its drawer and straightened the binding tools, the space finally felt whole again. The bindery was not pristine, not untouched, but it bore the signs of care and renewal. The same, I thought, could be said for me.

Marcus turned as I finished laying the last roll of leather along its rack. "Feels like a fresh start in here."

I met his gaze and nodded. "It does. Like the building can properly breathe again."

He stepped closer then, his presence steadying. A bit of sawdust fell from his hair, and I reached up to brush it away without thinking. "You handled the chaos well. Some might have shut the doors entirely, gone to stay with neighbors."

"And missed watching the whole village pitch in? Never," I said with a small smile. "Besides, where would Codex have hidden? She's very particular about her hiding spots."

We stood together in the lingering quiet, dust settling gently around us, golden in the fading light. Somewhere outside, Silas's voice rang out in laughter—probably Tom or Will had said something clever. The scent of marjoram drifted through the open window, mixed with the sharp smell of new tar and fresh wood. The roof was whole. The house was sound. And in this moment, the world felt entirely in place.

The scent of warm stone and fresh wood lingered in the air as the final clatter of tools gave way to laughter in the garden. The workers had moved from the ladders and shingles to the grass, settling near the apple tree where the light turned golden and long. Someone—probably Will—had started telling a story that required dramatic hand gestures.

Mrs. Hedgewood was the first to arrive, arms full of a woven basket that clinked with bottles. She'd changed into her best everyday dress and added a fresh apron. "Cider," she announced, barely through the garden gate. "And the good kind. From last year's pressing. Silas deserves it after keeping us all dry."

Silas, sitting on an overturned crate with his hat tipped back, chuckled. "You spoil us, Hedgie. Though I won't say no to good cider."

"Nonsense. Dry books are worth celebrating. Wet books are a tragedy I won't have on my conscience."

Word must have spread quickly, as it often did in Riverhaven. The invisible network of gossip and goodwill that connected every household had activated. Within the hour, others drifted in. Mrs. Pembridge brought a dish of cheese scones still warm beneath a towel, carrying them like precious cargo. The seamstress from two doors down—Miss Carey, who rarely socialized—arrived with a pot of quince jam and a loaf of nut bread. "From my tree," she said shyly about the jam. Even the shy baker's boy appeared, balancing a tray of little apple tarts and blushing furiously when praised. His master must have sent him, but the tarts were clearly his work—each one decorated with a tiny pastry leaf.

The garden, still showing the wear of a busy day, had taken on a festival air. Benches and stools appeared as if summoned by magic, gathered from neighboring porches and tucked beneath the apple tree's spreading branches. Someone had strung a few lanterns from the lower branches, though they weren't lit yet. Codex made her rounds as if inspecting guests, accepting gentle pets and the occasional treat, then curled contentedly beside Marcus's foot. She had the air of a hostess satisfied with her party.

I moved among them, still in my work dress and dusty apron, smiling as I accepted compliments on the repairs, the garden, the scent of calendula and rosemary wafting from the border beds. Mr. Blackwood, the chandler, admired the new shingles with professional interest. "Good wood," he pronounced. "That'll last."

It all felt easy, unforced. A celebration not just of a fixed roof, but of belonging. This was what I'd missed in Highspire—this easy flow of neighbors becoming friends, of shared work becoming shared joy.

Silas raised a bottle midway through the gathering. "To dry books and solid beams!"

"To Elspeth!" Mrs. Hedgewood added, and the cheer that followed made my cheeks flush. "For bringing the bindery back to life!"

"To Henrik's memory," someone else called, and we all raised our cups to that.

I caught Marcus's eye across the group. He was leaning comfortably against the fence, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a half-empty cup of cider in hand. The evening light caught in his hair, turning it bronze. He tipped his cup slightly toward me in a silent toast, and something warm bloomed in my chest. I found myself stepping toward him without quite deciding to.

"You're becoming quite the village favorite," he murmured as I neared. "Though I can't say I'm surprised."

"I think they're just glad I didn't let the bindery cave in," I replied, accepting the cup he offered me.

He laughed softly. "Still. It suits you. Being at the center of things."

"I'm hardly at the center," I protested. "I spend most of my time alone with books and a cat."

"And yet here we all are, in your garden, celebrating your roof." His eyes crinkled with amusement. "Face it, Elspeth. You're stuck with us."

We stood there a moment, the hum of conversation wrapping around us like a shawl. Someone began retelling a tale of the last roof Silas had repaired, involving a goat that had somehow gotten onto the roof, a misfired ladder, and a week of sheepish glances from the carpenter. The story grew with each telling, and even Silas was laughing by the end.

"You didn't grow up here, did you?" I asked quietly, watching the gathering. I'd been curious about his history, the way he seemed both part of the village and separate from it.

Marcus shook his head. "Came in with my uncle when I was twelve. My parents died in a fever outbreak upriver. Uncle took me in, taught me the river trade, stayed. Riverhaven's the only place that ever felt like... something worth staying for."

His voice was matter-of-fact, but I heard the old grief beneath it, weathered smooth like river stones.

"I'm sorry," I said softly. "About your parents."

He glanced at me, something shifting in his expression. "It was a long time ago. But thank you." A pause. "Uncle did right by me. Taught me everything—reading the river, managing cargo, dealing with merchants. Even taught me to read properly, which wasn't common for river folk then."

I nodded. "I think I understand that now. The staying part, I mean."

He glanced down, then back at me, his expression softening. "And you? Still glad you stayed?"

I thought of the quiet hush of the workshop, the rose petals pressed between pages, the laughter that now danced among the shadows of my garden. Of neighbors who brought lemonade and cider, of children who wanted to learn about books being born.

"Yes," I said. "I'm glad."

A pause. The air between us felt charged, full of possibility. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with a touch that lingered. His fingers were warm, slightly rough from work. "Good."

The cider warmed my throat as I took a sip, the sweetness balancing the weight in my chest that came with wanting something—someone—not to leave.

Across the garden, someone pulled out a fiddle. It was Tom, surprisingly, who I wouldn't have guessed was musical. Notes rose into the early evening, lilting and merry. The tune was familiar—"River's Daughter," a song every child in the valley knew. Neighbors clapped along, some swaying where they sat. Mrs. Hedgewood grabbed Silas's hand and tugged him to his feet, laughing as he protested half-heartedly before joining the steps of a simple dance. His heavy boots were surprisingly graceful on the grass.

"He was quite the dancer in his youth," Mrs. Hedgewood called out. "Won my heart with a reel at the harvest festival!"

"That was forty years and two knees ago," Silas protested, but he was smiling.

Marcus offered his hand, not with a flourish, but with a quiet openness that was somehow more meaningful.

"Only if you want to," he said. "I'm not much of a dancer."

"Neither am I," I admitted, but I took his hand anyway.

We didn't dance so much as sway, finding our own rhythm at the edge of the makeshift dance floor. His hand was warm in mine, steady and sure. He held me lightly, as if I were something precious but not fragile, and I let myself rest in that closeness. I could smell the sawdust still clinging to him, mixed with soap and something uniquely his. His thumb brushed slow circles against my palm, and I wondered if he could feel my pulse racing.

Around us, the village celebrated, but the world had narrowed to the warmth between us, the gentle sway that needed no real steps. When the music slowed, neither of us stepped away. We stayed there, hands still joined, until someone passed with fresh cups and the spell broke with gentle laughter.

"Thirsty work, dancing," Will said with a knowing grin, pressing cups into our hands.

Twilight crept in, soft and lavender-blue. The lanterns were lit, one by one, casting golden pools across the garden. Fireflies began their evening dance, adding their cold light to the warm glow of the lanterns. The party began to wind down naturally, guests trickling off with leftovers tucked into cloth wraps and promises to stop by soon.

"You must come for tea," Mrs. Pembridge said, pressing my hand. "And bring that young man of yours."

I didn't correct her assumption, just smiled and promised to visit.

Marcus remained beside me as we tidied the last of the dishes and refolded linens. We worked without hurry, the silence between us as comfortable as speech. Our hands brushed as we both reached for the same cup, and neither of us pulled away quickly.

When we reached the gate, the garden empty but for us and the fireflies, he paused. "You'll write to your family, let them know the roof's sound?"

I smiled. "Tomorrow morning. With a picture, maybe. Of the apple tree in bloom. Though I might have to explain all the lanterns."

He nodded, then stepped closer, his voice lower. "And will you tell them... you're not just staying for the books?"

The question hung between us, weighted with meaning. I met his gaze, steady and sure. "They already suspect. My brother's last letter asked if I'd met anyone. Mother's been hinting about grandchildren since I turned twenty."

He grinned. "Smart family. What gave it away?"

"Probably the way I mentioned you in every letter," I admitted, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "Marcus brought supplies. Marcus fixed the table. Marcus knows about paper weights."

"Paper weights are important," he said seriously, but his eyes danced with humor.

And with the hush of night around us, the scent of cider and marjoram still lingering in the air, he leaned down and kissed me again.

It was quieter than before, slower, threaded through with all the day's small kindnesses and shared labor. His hands cupped my face gently, and I could taste cider on his lips, sweet and familiar. When we parted, the gate stood open behind him, but neither of us moved to separate.

"Stay for tea?" I asked softly. "I mean, if you want to. It's been a long day."

He smiled. "I'd like that."

We went inside together, and I lit the kitchen lamp while he settled at the table. The domestic simplicity of it—making tea while he sat in my kitchen—made my heart squeeze with hope for more evenings like this.

"Goodnight, Elspeth," he said much later, after tea and quiet conversation about everything and nothing.

"Goodnight, Marcus."

I watched until he disappeared into the twilight, then closed the gate with care. The house stood quiet, roof solid and windows aglow. The bindery would wait until morning. Tonight, I had built something that wasn't just strong—it was real.

The house was quiet again, still steeped in the scent of cider and late spring blossoms. I moved through the hallway with a kind of tired contentment, climbing the narrow staircase to the kitchen above the shop. Each step felt earned after the long day. Codex padded softly behind me, her tail swaying as if even she sensed the shift in the evening air, the new stillness that felt different from this morning's expectant quiet.

The kitchen greeted me like an old friend. The window was cracked just enough to let in the cool night breeze, carrying with it the green smell of the garden and the faint sweetness of apple blossoms. Muffled voices drifted from the town—people making their way home from their own evening gatherings. The lamp on the table cast a steady, golden glow, and I added a second on the mantle, filling the room with warm light. I lit them with the long match I kept for the purpose, the sulfur smell briefly sharp before fading.

It was done. The roof was whole. The bindery was safe. But more than that, something in me felt steadier, too. Like a root had taken hold deep down where I hadn't thought to plant it. The day had shown me something about belonging—not just being accepted, but being woven into the fabric of a place.

I poured the last of the cider into a clean cup, added a bit of water to temper its strength, and carried it to the table. The liquid caught the lamplight like liquid amber. Sitting felt luxurious after the long day. My feet ached pleasantly, and I slipped off my shoes, wiggling my toes against the cool floor. Codex jumped up to her favored windowsill perch, settling with elaborate care into her evening position. She began grooming, apparently deciding that the day's disruptions required extra attention to her coat.

My eyes drifted to the blank sheet of parchment waiting beside the inkwell and pen. My writing supplies lived permanently on this corner of the table now—ink, pen, blotter, sealing wax. I reached for the paper almost without thinking. Time for another letter. The pen felt familiar in my hand, its weight a comfort.

Dearest Family,

The roof is finally repaired. I paused, considering how to convey the day's fullness. It took from dawn to dusk, and the dust got into every corner no matter how tightly I wrapped things, but the shop is dry and safe now. The crew was kind, and thorough. They worked hard, singing sometimes, and the neighbors came out to help in every way they could. Mrs. Hedgewood brought lemonade. The baker's boy brought tarts. I'm learning that Riverhaven takes care of its own, and somehow, I've become one of them.

I paused, chewing gently on the end of the pen. It was a bad habit, but one I couldn't seem to break when thinking.

There was more to say, of course. About Marcus. About the way my heart had settled into something sure when he'd kissed me. About possibilities that stretched beyond tomorrow.

And Marcus? I wrote, deciding to be brave with the truth. He's been here often. He brought the supplies, helped with the lifting, even helped return everything to its place once the workers were done. But it's not just that. He's been... present. Steady. Thoughtful in ways I didn't expect, in ways that seem to fit into the quiet spaces I keep around me.

I smiled, remembering his thumb tracing circles on my palm as we danced.

I think you'd like him. He doesn't mind that I'm quiet. He doesn't fill the silence with noise. He lets me be, and somehow that makes me want to talk to him more. I didn't know how much I missed being seen—really seen—until he looked at me. We danced tonight, if you can call swaying in place dancing. It was perfect.

I set the pen down and looked out the window. The stars were beginning to appear, silver pins in a velvet sky. From here, I could see the gentle curve of the river and the darkened roof of the shop below. Solid. Sound. Safe. The apple tree swayed slightly in the breeze, its new lanterns dark but still hanging like promises of future gatherings.

Do I want an apprentice? I asked the question silently, then again aloud, as if hearing it in my own voice might bring clarity. "Do I?"

Lysenne's name had nestled itself somewhere quiet in my thoughts since Mrs. Pembridge brought it up. The girl was clever, I'd been told. Detail-oriented. Curious. Good with plants, which would help with the dye garden. Could I teach someone else what I'd learned in solitude? Did I want to? Henrik never took on an apprentice. His ways were fixed, his patterns unbending. But I could do things differently. I already was.

The answer came quietly, like dawn breaking. Yes. I wanted to teach someone. To pass on not just techniques but the joy of creation, the satisfaction of restoration. To have someone to share the quiet morning hours, to exclaim with over a particularly fine paper, to problem-solve when a binding wouldn't cooperate.

And more than that—what did I want for the future? Not tomorrow. Not next month. But years from now, when the bindery was a place people remembered, not just passed by.

I wanted a family. That quiet truth settled in like a well-worn chair. Not just any family, but one built here, in this place, with these people. I wanted laughter in these rooms, and hands that helped, and a garden full of chaos and calendula. I wanted the comfort of someone whose presence made everything a little more possible. I wanted Marcus.

The admission didn't surprise me. It had been building like a book—page by page, signature by signature, until suddenly it was whole and real and undeniable. I liked Marcus. More than liked him. I liked how he looked at me when I explained the difference between laid and wove paper, as if my knowledge was fascinating rather than tedious. I liked that he asked questions, then listened for the answers. I liked that he teased, but never cruelly. And I liked, perhaps most of all, that he liked me as I was. Quiet. Introverted. More ink than conversation some days.

I picked up the pen again.

I think I want to stay. Not just for the shop. For everything it brings. For the possibility of building something that's more than just a business. I don't know what Marcus wants beyond this, not yet, but I know how I feel when he's near. Safe. Seen. Hopeful. And that's enough for now. Mrs. Pembridge has suggested I take on an apprentice—her great-niece. I think I'm going to say yes. It's time to think beyond just surviving to thriving. To building something that will last longer than me. I miss you all. I'll visit when I can—perhaps after the wedding season calms. Until then, know that I'm well. More than well. I'm happy.

With love,

Elspeth

P.S. - Tell Father the new roof is sound enough to weather any storm. I think he'll appreciate that. Tell Mother I'm eating properly and yes, I'm keeping warm at night. Tell Gareth his teasing letters make me smile, even when he's insufferable. And Maisie—tell her there's a young boy here who wants to make books about beetles. She'd approve.

I let the ink dry before folding the letter gently and setting it aside. Tomorrow I'd wrap it with care and walk it to the post myself, maybe stop for bread on the way back. Then I stood, rinsed my cup, refilled Codex's dish with fresh water, and moved through the small rituals that made this house a home—banking the fire, checking the latches, adjusting the curtains just so.

Each gesture felt weighted with meaning tonight. This was my life now. These were my routines. And somewhere out there in the darkness, Marcus was probably going through his own evening rituals, maybe thinking of me.

When I finally climbed into bed, the blankets cool and crisp from the breeze, I felt the kind of tired that comes with good work and honest progress. My muscles ached from moving books and furniture. My hands were slightly stiff from the day's careful work with gold leaf. But my heart was light.

Outside, the apple tree rustled. A night bird called, sweet and clear. Inside, the quiet stretched out around me like a blessing. And in the space between waking and sleep, I dreamed of pressed flowers, shared laughter, and the steady build of a life fully my own. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—meeting Lysenne, perhaps, or starting the wedding book in earnest. But tonight, everything was exactly as it should be.