Chapter 18: Festival Preparations Begin

Dawn stirred gently at the edge of my window, spilling pale lavender over the quilt draped across my bed. The familiar weight of Codex at my feet had shifted in the night—she now claimed the warm spot I'd left when turning in my sleep. Through the gauzy curtains, I could already see the first light brushing the garden with a soft glow, turning the dew to tiny prisms. The morning air carried that particular late-summer coolness that promised heat later but offered respite now.

I stretched beneath the covers, toes pointing and fingers reaching, feeling the pleasant ache of yesterday's work in my shoulders. The bindery had been busy lately—busier than I'd dared hope when I first arrived. My hands bore the evidence: a permanent callus on my right middle finger from the bone folder, faint stains under my nails that no amount of scrubbing quite removed, the particular ache in my wrists that came from hours of careful stitching.

Rising quietly to avoid disturbing Codex—who opened one accusing eye before promptly ignoring me—I remembered Mrs. Hedgewood's advice from last week's garden conversation: "Gather your herbs while the dew is still friend to the leaves, dear. That's when their essence is strongest, before the sun pulls it all skyward." So with a contented sigh, I slipped from bed, my feet finding the cool floorboards with practiced silence. I wrapped myself in a warm shawl—the one Mother had sent last month, soft grey wool with tiny embroidered flowers at the edges—and descended the narrow wooden stairs to the workshop below.

The stairs knew me now, after months of early morning descents. The third step from the top creaked unless you stepped on the far left, the seventh had a slight dip in the center from decades of use, and the last step was slightly higher than the others—a quirk I'd learned to navigate in the dark. My hand trailed along the smooth banister, worn to silk by countless touches.

By the time I pushed the garden door open, the air carried a cool dampness that made me pull the shawl tighter. A mist hovered low over the garden beds like a soft grey blanket, each plant crowned with beads of dew that caught the early light. The world was hushed, as though waiting for permission to properly begin the day. Even the usual morning birdsong seemed muted, respectful of the peace.

I paused on the threshold, breathing deeply. The garden at dawn was a different creature than at midday—secretive, generous, almost magical. The scents were deeper, richer, as if the plants exhaled their true selves only in these quiet moments. Lantern in hand—an old brass thing I'd found in Henrik's storage, its glass panels clouded but intact—and twine at my side, my boots brushed softly over flagstones still dark with moisture. The stones were cold through the thin soles, grounding me in the moment.

I made my way first to the calendula patch, which had exceeded all expectations this year. The plants stood tall and proud, their orange faces turned east toward the promise of sun. I paused, inhaling deeply. The blossoms, heavy with moisture, exhaled gentle notes of citrus and honey, with something earthier underneath—like sunshine captured in petals. Some still held their faces closed, waiting for warmth, while others had begun to unfurl, eager despite the early hour.

I knelt on the damp ground, not minding the moisture seeping through my skirts, and began selecting the best blooms. My fingers knew the work now—twist, pull, preserve the stem length for hanging. I tied them into neat bundles with practiced movements, the rough twine familiar against my palms. Bright orange petals caught the growing light, seeming to glow from within. I worked quietly, the soft rustle of stems and thread the only sound in the morning hush, creating a meditation of movement and purpose.

As I worked, I noticed the small details that made each plant unique—this one had deeper orange petals with crimson edges, that one bore flowers so pale they were almost yellow. I made mental notes for the ink-making, knowing that each variation would yield slightly different colors. The deepest orange ones I set aside specially, planning to dry them for the premium ink I'd promised to three customers already.

I glanced at the lavender row next. The plants had thrived in their spot against the south wall, protected from the worst of the wind but given plenty of sun. The scent was richer than yesterday's sunlit memory—warm, sweet, clean, with that particular sharpness that cleared the head and steadied the hands. Morning lavender was different from afternoon lavender, I'd learned. Fuller somehow, more complete.

One stem, two stems, ten stems. My fingers brushed each flower head, testing for readiness. The texture told me everything—too soft and they'd mold while drying, too dry and they'd lost their oils already. I recognized that perfect moment when the buds felt firm but not fragile, the scent just aching to be contained. The bees hadn't found them yet, which meant the nectar was still held within, adding sweetness to the final product.

I collected enough for a small mountain of harvest: bundles to hang in the workshop, where they'd perfume the air for weeks; sachets to tuck into the letter-writing kits or offer as a free gift with purchase, while supplies lasted; larger bundles for the linen closet upstairs, where they'd keep the moths at bay; and some to trade with Mrs. Hedgewood for her rose hip preserves. These simple touches had become part of what made the bindery feel special, elevating it from mere shop to something more welcoming.

As the bundles grew, my mind fluttered with possibilities: delicate white muslin sachets, tied with silver thread that caught the light; tiny carved wooden pins shaped like books to fasten woolen blankets; hand-written tags in flowing copperplate that made even simple gifts feel precious. Each sachet would be unique—some with just lavender, others mixed with rose petals or mint, creating different scent profiles for different uses. I grinned at my own enthusiasm. Though the bindery was still finding its footing under my ownership—some weeks barely breaking even, others surprisingly profitable—these small gestures of care felt like a natural extension of the work. Every scented detail, every thoughtful inclusion whispered homely affection, and the garden provided abundantly this season.

I worked until the sun lifted more boldly, painting the mist gold before dissolving it entirely. My fingers had grown cool in the morning air, yet the rhythm of cutting and tying had warmed me from within. A breeze stirred the chartreuse leaves of the woad patch, making them dance like small green flames, and I rose, stretching the stiffness from my knees. My skirts bore damp patches where I'd knelt, and bits of stem clung to the wool, but I didn't mind. This was honest work, the kind that showed on clothes and skin.

I inhaled the fresh dawn once more before turning to my next task: the ink plants. Fine rosemary and yarrow still held dewdrops like tiny crystal beads, but I sought the woad and madder—the ancient dye-inks, the deep tones of blue and red that would stain parchment with elegance. These were the plants that connected my craft to centuries of bookmakers before me, their recipes passed down through careful observation and patient experimentation.

In the pale light, the woad leaves glistened like small emerald goblets, each one cupping its portion of dew. The plants had grown enthusiastically this year, perhaps sensing my need. Carefully, I plucked the most verdant ones, choosing leaves without blemish or insect damage, slipping them into a linen-lined basket I'd prepared specially for this purpose. The linen would wick away excess moisture while preserving the leaves' essential qualities.

I thought of the letter-writing sets I'd been planning—hand-made paper folded into accordion-style portfolios, a handcrafted quill cut from goose feathers I'd collected, and a small vial of ink in an embossed box. Each element carefully chosen to create an experience of writing, not just the act itself. I pictured the ink's stain on paper—rich, deepened with midnight and dusk—worth savoring like good wine. These sets had been my slowest seller previously, too precious for everyday use, too expensive for casual purchase. But now, with the tasteful scents of the garden lingering on sachets and tucked into packaging, I believed elegantly crafted words and fragrant parchment would enchant customers on festival day.

The sun rose higher yet, warming my shoulders through the shawl. A few bees had begun to stir, hovering among the basil and thyme behind me, their buzzing adding to the garden's morning symphony. One landed on my sleeve, mistaking the embroidered flowers for real ones, and I held still until it realized its error and flew away. The garden was waking fully now—spiders' webs became visible as the dew caught the light, and a robin landed on the fence post to observe my work with bright, curious eyes.

I moved to the madder root next, a trickier harvest that required more than surface gathering. This patch had been Henrik's pride, according to his journal notes, taking three years to establish properly. The plants looked unassuming above ground—green leaves and small yellow flowers—but below lay treasure. I knelt again, this time using a small trowel to carefully excavate around the plants. The soil was dark and rich here, amended over years with compost and care.

The first root emerged like a secret revealed—gnarled and reddish, thick as my thumb. I brushed soil from it gently, marveling at the color already visible in the root's skin. This would make the deep red ink I'd been perfecting, the color of garnets or good wine. I selected only what I needed, leaving plenty for the plants to continue thriving, and placed them into another basket for later processing. My hands bore the earth's mark now, dark crescents under my nails that would take scrubbing to remove.

I thought of the press waiting inside, the pots that would soon heat by the hearthfire, the alchemy of making ink from plant pigments. Each step required patience and precision—too much heat and the colors muddied, too little and they remained locked in the plant matter. The process felt heroic in its small scale, connecting me to centuries of craftspeople who'd known these secrets.

Before heading in, I paused in the center of the garden, letting my eyes linger on the rows of herbs, the delicate shimmer of dew evaporating in the growing light. The garden had become more than just a source of materials—it was a partner in the work, offering its gifts in exchange for tending. I gathered a few sprigs of lemon balm to dry separately, their citrus scent bright against the morning air, and tucked a stray calendula bloom into my braid where it would perfume my hair throughout the day. The ritual, simple as it was, gave me a sense of quiet pride. Even the smallest gestures had meaning when performed with intention.

By mid-morning, my arms were comfortably warm from the work, my apron stained with pollen and plant juice, and the workshop door called me back. I pushed it open with my hip, hands full of baskets, and carried my two heavy loads inside. The contrast between the bright morning and the softer indoor light made me blink. I set them on the broad wooden worktable beneath the large north window, where Henrik had no doubt performed the same ritual countless times. Sunlight streamed onto the calendula bundles and woad leaves, illuminating motes of dust dancing like tiny spirits blessed by the morning's work.

I stretched again, rolling my shoulders and feeling the pleasant tiredness that came from good labor, and surveyed my haul: tins of twine waiting to bind more bundles; wooden baskets heavy with green and root; lavender bundles already hanging from nails in neat rows like purple waterfalls; calendula bright as embers against the weathered wood; paper sachet packets scattered across the secondary table. The workshop had transformed into an apothecary's dream, every surface holding some treasure from the garden.

I hummed softly—an old song my grandmother used to sing while cooking, something about herbs and hearts and home. The scent was so rich now—an aromatic symphony of citrus, honey, mint, and earth—that I paused for a moment, leaning back against the table, closing my eyes. The mixture was grounding, comforting, like being held by the morning itself. This was why I'd wanted my own bindery, my own space—to create these moments of perfect alignment between work and spirit.

Then, practical needs calling, I unrolled parchment and set out a simple plan on paper: five dozen festival sachets—lavender with petals of calendula and dried lemon balm; three dozen deluxe sachets for scented drawers, larger and more elaborate; eight gift sets combining writing ink and a fragrant bundle; and a dozen special sachets with rose petals from Mrs. Hedgewood's garden, which she'd trade for bookbinding services. I marked supplies: small glass vials I'd need to order from the glassblower, ribbon samplers in autumn colors, silver thread if the budget allowed, handwritten tags on the good cardstock, wax seal stamps with my bindery mark.

While the sun climbed further, casting shorter shadows across the floor, I began with the sachets. The work table had been cleared for this purpose, covered with clean linen to catch any spilled petals. Selecting bundles of lavender, I stripped the buds with gentle care, the motion practiced from years of helping my mother with similar tasks. Each pull released their calming aroma fully into my palms, the oils clinging to my skin. The scent would linger for hours, marking me as someone who worked with beautiful things.

Each handful of lavender became a fluffy centre for a muslin square I had pre-cut the evening before. The muslin was good quality, tight-woven enough to hold the contents but loose enough to let scent escape. I added calendula petals for color—tiny suns scattered among purple stars—slipped in dried lemon balm for its subtle citrus note and mint leaf for freshness, then tied each sachet with fine silver twine. The knots had to be just right—tight enough to hold but pretty enough to serve as decoration. I arranged them in a shallow wooden tray lined with soft linen, where they looked like tiny wrapped gifts waiting to brighten someone's day.

Twice I paused to refill my tea—a mild chamomile with a hint of lavender from my own garden. The steam curled warmly around my face as I lifted the cup, and I let it steep while reviewing my supply notes. The familiar ritual of tea-making punctuated the work, giving my hands a rest and my mind a moment to wander. I stood for a moment, tea in hand, watching dust motes circle in the light shafting through the high windows. They swirled gently, as if the bindery itself breathed, inhaling the morning's harvest and exhaling contentment.

As the sachets dried, releasing their mingled scents into the workshop air, I turned to the ink plants. First, I spread a clean linen cloth on the secondary work surface—ink-making was messy work, and I'd learned to protect my surfaces. I chopped woad leaves coarsely with a sharp knife, just enough to bruise the cell walls and release their essence, then piled them into a shallow earthenware bowl I'd bought specially for this purpose. The madder root required different treatment—I crushed it into fine chips using a small mortar and pestle, the grinding motion rhythmic and meditative. The scent—earthy and slightly astringent—settled into the corners of the room, adding its note to the day's symphony.

I watched sunlight shift across the floor, marking time in golden increments, illuminating pollen flecks in the air like tiny stars. The garden had followed me inside, transformed and ready for its next incarnation. I pictured someone opening one of my kits weeks from now, perhaps in another town entirely, letting the ink glide from quill to page while the scent lingered gently. They might pause, breathe deeply, and wonder about the garden where these colors were born.

By late morning, the workshop brimmed with promise and purpose. I had filled a dozen small sachets and prepared materials for dozens more. Each one bore a tiny tag I'd started creating, stamped with a floral design—calendula blossoms entwined with lavender sprigs—and the bindery's name in small, clear letters. The stamp had been a splurge, commissioned from the metalworker three streets over, but seeing it pressed into paper gave me a thrill of ownership each time.

Then I packed a basket with samples: a few sachets in different scent combinations, a vial of ink showing the deep blue I'd achieved with the woad, dried calendula for demonstration, and my leather-bound ledger with its growing list of festival preparations. The basket also held a fresh notebook—one of my own making, with marbled endpapers and a soft leather cover—for taking orders. Just as I reached the door, already imagining the day's possibilities, a soft knock drew my attention.

Marcus arrived with his usual quiet ease, though I noticed he'd taken care with his appearance—clean shirt, freshly shaved, hair still damp from washing. I opened the door and let him in, automatically brushing a curl behind my ear. The early sun caught on his collar, glinting briefly off the polished wooden buttons of his coat. He smelled faintly of river wind and cloves, with the underlying scent of the tar soap all the river workers used. Something about the combination steadied me more than the tea had.

He carried a folded scrap of paper marked with neat notes—columns of figures, totals, itemized supplies. His handwriting had become familiar to me over the weeks, precise and slightly slanted. "Morning," he said, his smile warm. "Thought I'd catch you before the day proper started."

"I think this might be the largest supply order I've ever made," I said, gesturing to the long table where I'd spread out my lists and calculations. The papers covered half the surface, weighted down with smooth river stones to keep them from drifting.

"Looks like a shop ready for a proper festival," he replied, stepping fully into the room. His presence seemed to fill the space differently than customers did—comfortable, belonging. He glanced around, eyes settling briefly on the sachets drying in their linen-lined tray, the bundles of herbs hanging from the beams, the general air of productive chaos, then returned to my list. "You've got enough demand to match this?"

"I think so," I said, though my voice wavered with the uncertainty that had been plaguing me. "Between the fair, the sachets, the kits, and commissions… yes. But the outlay makes my stomach knot." I pressed a hand to my middle, where anxiety had taken up residence.

"You're not just making pretty things, Elspeth," he said, folding his arms and leaning a hip against the table. The gesture was so casually intimate, so comfortable, that it made my heart flutter. "You're building a reputation. And this kind of preparation shows. People remember quality."

I pressed my lips together, uncertain how to respond. I'd built plans before—smaller ones, narrower in scope—but this was something different. This was trust in future self, in unseen customers, in the town's embrace of what I offered. It felt bold. And a little foolish. And necessary.

"Bulk discount possible here," Marcus said, tapping the paper where I'd listed sheets of handmade cotton rag paper. His finger was ink-stained too, I noticed. "If you're clever, you can ride someone else's shipment for half the price. The miller's sending a large order to the capital next week—you could piggyback on that."

"You sound like someone who's done this before."

"Only a few dozen times," he shrugged, but his eyes were warm with humor. "I know the paper mill's schedule better than I know my own birthday. If you're ready by tomorrow, I can drop the order when I ferry north."

Warmth stirred in my chest, spreading like spilled honey. "What would I do without you?"

"Go bankrupt, probably," he teased, nudging my knee with his. "Or at least pay twice as much for shipping."

We pulled our stools together beside the worktable, the seats creaking softly as we settled. He rolled up his sleeves—forearms sun-browned and strong from years on the river, marked with small scars from rope burns and cargo work—and I unfurled the full order. The paper crackled as I smoothed it flat. I read off quantities, he recalculated costs, his pencil moving quickly across the margins. Occasionally he'd pause, tap the pencil against his lips, then suggest an alternative that would save money without sacrificing quality.

We debated goatskin versus calfskin for the premium journal covers, the benefits of dyed thread versus waxed for different uses. He was surprisingly opinionated about texture, running his fingers across my samples with careful attention. "The dyed linen's better for grip," he said, brushing a fingertip over the sample. "Especially if people are writing while traveling. Coaches jolt something terrible, and you need thread that won't slip."

"That's the splurge," I said, pointing to the gold leaf I'd circled three times. "But if I want the writing kits to stand out, I need something that looks special even before the box is opened. First impressions matter at a festival."

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he studied my face, taking in what I suspected were shadows under my eyes from late nights planning, the ink stain on my jaw I'd missed while washing. Then he nodded once, decisive. "Then it's worth it. You'll sell through it. I've seen how people look at your work—like they're seeing magic."

Something about the certainty in his voice loosened a knot behind my ribs. I looked down at the list again, and it felt less like a mountain and more like a bridge. A way across from where I was to where I wanted to be.

"Help me mark it, then," I said. "Let's separate the festival order from the ongoing stock. Maybe seeing it in two lists will make it feel more reasonable."

Our shoulders brushed as we bent over the parchment. His writing joined mine in the margins—smaller, neater, but somehow complimentary. We worked in companionable focus, occasionally debating a point or clarifying a number. Our fingers brushed once, twice, and on the third time, he caught my hand and held it, just for a moment. The touch was warm, grounding, a promise of steady support.

"This ink smear's your fault," I murmured, lifting my other hand from a smudged column where his elbow had nudged me.

He grinned. "I'll make it up to you."

"Will you?" I asked, glancing sideways. The morning light caught in his eyes, turning them the color of the river at dawn.

Instead of answering with words, I leaned over and kissed him. Just the corner of his mouth, brief but deliberate. He tasted faintly of mint tea and morning.

He blinked, surprised, then smiled—a slow, warm expression that transformed his whole face. "Well then," he said softly. "That's one way to seal a business arrangement."

We kept working, but the air between us had changed, charged with new possibility. We stole kisses between tallies—quick touches of lips that left us both grinning like fools. When the final total lay before us, circled in black ink with notes in both our hands surrounding it, I exhaled long and slow. It was large. But not impossible. Not with careful planning and good sales.

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Marcus traced the edge of the parchment with one finger, then looked at me again. "You've built something real here. People notice. They talk about the bookbinder who adds flowers to her packages, who knows everyone's name, who treats each book like it matters. They'll come back."

"I hope so," I said. Then after a pause, quieter, "Sometimes I still feel like I'm pretending. Like it all might vanish the moment I look away."

He reached for my hand again, this time interlacing our fingers. His palm was callused but gentle. "Then I'll remind you. As often as it takes. This is real. You're real. What we're building—" He paused, color rising in his cheeks. "What you're building is solid as stone."

I squeezed his fingers and felt the quiet surge of gratitude rise through my chest. Not just for his help with the orders, but for seeing me clearly, for believing in what I was trying to create.

"I'll help dry the ink plants before I go north," he added, rising slowly and stretching one shoulder. The movement made his shirt pull tight across his back, and I found myself distracted by the play of muscle beneath fabric. "Plenty of time before I need to head out. The barge isn't loaded yet."

"Thank you," I said. "It's still frightening. All of this."

"Of course it is," he said, matter-of-fact. "But you're doing it anyway. That's what matters. Fear's just another color in the palette—use it right, and it makes the bright parts brighter."

He touched my cheek briefly, his thumb brushing across the ink stain I'd missed, then let his fingers fall away. The touch lingered like an echo. "And if you need anything else, you know where to find me."

I nodded, smiling faintly. "Just follow the scent of calendula and tea."

"And now ink," he added, gesturing to his own hands, which bore matching stains from our work.

As he left, the door clicked softly behind him. I stood in the doorway for a long moment, hand resting lightly on the frame, heart still fluttering softly in my chest like a page turned by breeze. The calendula bloom in my braid stirred as the wind came through the open window, bringing with it the sounds of the town waking fully—cart wheels, voices calling greetings, the distant clang of the blacksmith beginning his day.

The work wasn't done. But something inside me had shifted—steadier now, as if the morning had sewn its calm into my seams. I had plans, I had help, and I had hope. It was enough to begin.

The scent of lavender still clung to my sleeves when the front bell chimed just after noon. The workshop had barely quieted from Marcus's visit, my mind still half-wrapped in figures and folded parchment, when a middle-aged woman stepped inside, cradling a velvet-wrapped volume like something sacred. She moved carefully, as if the book might shatter with rough handling.

"Excuse me," she said softly. Her voice carried the careful modulation of someone who'd learned to speak quietly. "I was told you might help with this."

I dried my hands on a cloth—they still bore traces of plant juice and ink—and motioned her toward the consultation table. It was a piece I'd added recently, positioned where the light was best and supplied with magnifying glasses and soft cloths for examination. She set the book down with reverence and peeled back the velvet covering with trembling fingers.

The spine had split nearly in two, the break jagged like a wound. Pages frayed at the edges, some corners softened into fuzz from years of touching. The leather cover, once probably black, had faded to charcoal and bore water stains like clouds across its surface.

"It belonged to my grandfather," she said, her voice thick with meaning. "He sailed the southern coast for forty years, kept his charts and accounts in here. Every port, every cargo, every storm." She touched the cover gently. "He died last winter, and this is all I have of his hand."

I ran a careful finger along the margin, feeling the paper's texture, testing its strength. Salt had feathered the ink in places, creating small starbursts of blue-black across the pages. In one place, there was a faint outline of a pressed leaf—perhaps picked up in some distant port and forgotten. "I can reinforce the binding," I said, already seeing the work in my mind. "And clean the worst of the wear without losing its character. Your grandfather's book will be whole again, but it will still be his."

She nodded quickly, almost relieved, blinking back what might have been tears. I took down her name—Mrs. Adelaide Thornwright—and contact details in my ledger, penciling her into a quiet week after the festival. My hand was steady as I wrote, though her emotion had touched something in me.

"Two weeks after festival end," I promised. "I'll send word when it's ready."

She lingered a moment longer, trailing a finger across one of the display books, a simple journal with a ship tooled into the cover. "He would have liked your work," she said with misty eyes before stepping out into the bright lane.

No sooner had she left than the bell rang again, as if the books themselves were calling their injured brethren home. A younger man entered, spectacles askew and a tattered poetry anthology under one arm. Ink stains marked his cuffs, and his hair looked like he'd been running his hands through it—a fellow writer, I recognized the signs.

"Just a rebind," he said sheepishly, though the way he held the book suggested it was anything but 'just' to him. "But I want it to look… well, like something worth keeping. Something that honors what's inside."

"Poetry deserves good binding," I agreed, accepting the volume. The pages were foxed with age, and someone had made notes in the margins—different hands, different inks, a conversation across time. "After the festival, dear?" I asked with a warm smile. "I've got an opening the week of the harvest moon. Would that do?"

He nodded, cheeks coloring. "It was my mum's," he added, the words tumbling out. "She used to read it aloud every Sunday when I was small. Did all the voices, even though it was poetry. Made Byron sound like a pirate and Wordsworth like the village priest."

There was such fondness in his tone that I found myself smiling wider. "Then we'll treat it with the care it deserves," I said, making a careful note in the ledger. "Would you like the same color binding? Or shall we give it something new?"

"The same," he said quickly. "Green leather, if you can. She said it matched the hills where she grew up."

He lingered by the ink display, examining the bottles with interest, selecting a midnight blue after holding it to the light. "For when it comes home," he explained, and I jotted a reminder to restock the shelf by week's end.

I barely had time to cap my pen when a trio of siblings bustled in with energy that filled the quiet shop. They looked to be stair-steps in age, the eldest perhaps thirty and the youngest barely twenty, all sharing the same russet hair and quick smiles. Between them they carried a beloved, battered family cookbook wrapped in what looked like a kitchen towel.

"It split in half," the eldest said without preamble, setting it on the counter with a thump that made me wince. "Right between 'solstice shortbread' and 'uncle's pickled trout.'"

They all laughed, the sound bubbling through the sun-warmed shop like a kettle coming to boil. The youngest added, "We were arguing about the pickled trout recipe—whether it called for dill or fennel—and got a bit enthusiastic with the page turning."

"Mama always said that book would outlive us all," the middle sibling added. "Guess we proved her wrong."

I took the book in both hands, feeling its weight—not just physical, but the weight of years and meals and gathering. I pressed the spine closed with my palms, testing the damage. It was severe but not irreparable. "We'll get it whole again," I said. "Might take a week or two after the festival, but it'll be stronger than ever. Strong enough for your grandchildren to argue over recipes."

They spent another ten minutes browsing stationery and gift tags, poking gentle fun at one another as they debated ribbon colors and whether their aunt would prefer plum or rose-petal pink for her birthday card. The youngest held up a sachet of lavender, inhaling deeply.

"Oh, that's lovely," she said. "Did you grow this?"

"This morning," I confirmed. "Still had the dew on it."

When they left with a small collection of papers and sachets, a gentle quiet fell over the space again. But not for long—the afternoon had decided to be busy, and I was grateful for it.

Each consultation felt like a soft unfolding of stories. In between the repairs, I rang up smaller purchases: a pair of stationery sets for letters home, a tin of sealing wax in deep burgundy, a ream of parchment for someone's personal project. One regular—Mr. Chen from the tea shop—waved off my apology for the slow pace as I wrapped his purchase.

"You're busy, Elspeth! That's a good sign. The town needs a good bookbinder, someone who cares." He paused, then added with a wink, "Besides, gives me time to smell those sachets. Might need to order some for the shop."

I thanked him with a smile and slipped a sprig of dried mint into his bag, just a little something extra. The gesture earned me a deeper bow and a promise to stop by again soon with a new tea blend for me to try.

The afternoon passed in that pleasant whirlwind of commerce and craft. The air remained warm, heavy with garden scent and sun-soaked wood. The combination of herbs and paper and leather created a perfume unique to the bindery, one that customers often commented on. I refilled my tea twice more, each time choosing a different blend—first a bracing black to combat the afternoon drowsiness, then a gentle green to ease me toward evening.

On a quiet stretch between customers, I snipped loose threads from a finished binding and rearranged a tray of wax seal stamps so they caught the light just so. The small improvements, the tiny perfectings, gave me satisfaction out of proportion to their importance.

Wedding season inquiries had begun to pour in as well, summer turning toward autumn weddings. I had two new commissions for guestbooks—one requesting pressed flower insets from the bride's garden, one asking for a painted family crest that would require collaboration with the local artist. A tentative booking came for six autumn vow journals, each slightly different but clearly belonging to a set. A pair of women, clearly in love by the way they kept catching each other's eyes, stopped by to consult on a shared anniversary gift, laughing softly as they sketched out an idea for a memory book with tiny pockets for handwritten notes.

"We write each other notes," one explained, blushing. "Have done for years. Just little things—'bought your favorite cheese' or 'you looked beautiful this morning.' We want to keep them somewhere special."

"I can make interior pockets throughout," I suggested, warming to the idea. "Soft fabric, so the papers won't catch. Perhaps organized by year?"

They exchanged another of those looks, entire conversations in a glance, then nodded together.

By the time I paused to stretch, rolling my shoulders and hearing the satisfying pop of joints realigning, the ledger's margin bore scrawled initials and penciled dates all the way into late September. My hand was beginning to cramp from writing, but it was a good ache. I moved between tasks as if guided by gentle tides: wrapping purchases in brown paper, labeling items with neat tags, answering questions about care and storage, all in a soft blur of paper and intention.

I exhaled slowly, brushing back a loose strand of hair that had escaped my braid despite the calendula's attempted guardianship. Despite the crowd, the interruptions, the ink-stained fingers and slight headache from focusing on small text, I hadn't lost a single detail. My systems were holding. The color-coded slips still nestled beside their corresponding books, pressed and pending labels shuffled in careful rows. The cash box balanced. The inventory notes were current.

It was working. This wild dream of running a bindery, of making beautiful things for people to treasure, was actually working.

Outside, the golden light had begun to soften toward amber. Late afternoon painted everything with warmth, making even ordinary things look precious. I leaned my weight briefly on the counter, fingers splayed over the cool wood worn smooth by years of similar poses. The window beside me reflected a softened image: flushed cheeks from the warm day, hair fraying gently from its braid despite my morning's careful pinning, a dusting of calendula petals still clinging to the hem of my apron like sunshine caught in fabric.

I bent to straighten the stack of custom order forms, making sure each had its carbon copy properly aligned. Nearby, a soft breeze stirred the ribbons in the window display, setting them dancing. I paused to retie one that had slipped loose, my hands automatically neatening the edges. The rhythm of it—this simple tidying—helped me settle again, preparing for whatever the last hours might bring.

The bell rang again, its cheerful chime now as familiar as my own heartbeat. I straightened, reaching for another order tag, steady and ready.

"Welcome," I said with a smile, voice warmed by the rhythm of the day.

A woman stepped inside, her cheeks pink from the sun, a small box wrapped in oilcloth tucked under one arm. She moved carefully, suggesting the box held something fragile. She looked around slowly, drinking in the workshop's scents—the dried herbs hanging from the beams, old leather on the shelves, and the faint sweetness of paper warmed by sunlight streaming through the windows.

"Just browsing," she said gently, her eyes landing on the tray of lavender sachets with interest. "Though these are lovely. The whole shop smells like a garden."

"That's the idea," I said, pleased. "Please, take your time."

I gave her space to explore, moving back behind the counter to finish some tasks. While she examined items near the window—picking up journals, testing the weight of papers, sniffing sachets with obvious delight—I jotted a few notes in the ledger. Loose ends from the earlier consultations still tugged at my thoughts. Mrs. Thornwright's grandfather's logbook would need special attention to the salt damage. The poetry volume wanted gentle handling of those marginal notes. The cookbook required reinforced binding to survive more enthusiastic recipe arguments.

I reorganized a stack of writing kits, adding fresh ribbon to one that had come undone and checking that each contained all its promised elements: paper, envelopes, a small pot of ink, sealing wax, and now a sachet of lavender. The addition of scent had been spontaneous, but customers seemed to love it.

As the woman left with a quiet thank-you and a sachet cradled like something precious, I finally had a few heartbeats of true stillness. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows at that particular angle that turned everything golden and soft. Even the dust motes looked like tiny celebrants in the light.

The workshop held that late-afternoon hush that always followed a busy stretch, the kind of silence that wasn't empty so much as settled, like a house exhaling after good company. I poured another cup of tea—I'd lost count of how many I'd had today—and let it steep too long while I stood at the window, watching the street. A cat stalked along the opposite wall, tail high. Someone was singing in the distance, their voice carrying on the breeze. The ordinary magic of a summer afternoon in Riverhaven.

I drank the over-steeped tea anyway, grimacing slightly at the bitterness but appreciating the warmth. It settled in my belly like courage. Then, energized by the success of the day so far, I turned toward the tall cupboard at the back.

It was time to begin the journals.

I'd been putting it off, partly from busyness and partly from the weight of expectation. These journals would represent the bindery at the festival. They needed to be perfect—or as close to perfect as my hands could make them. I began with the simple ones—plain, sturdy, travel-ready volumes that I sold year-round. These were the bread and butter of my work: dependable, versatile, and always in quiet demand.

I pulled out stacks of cream paper already cut to standard size, running my hands over the surface to check for flaws. The paper was good quality, with just enough tooth to hold ink well. On the worktable, cleared of the morning's herb preparation, I began the meditative process. Fold. Stack. Align. Fold again. My fingers moved with the ease of long practice, finding the grain of the paper automatically. The rhythm soothed me, each crease and cut a small assertion of order against the chaos of festival preparation.

I worked in sets of ten, then twenty, building neat piles of signatures ready for sewing. My fingertips grew warm from the pressure of the bone folder, shoulders settling into the familiar ache of repetitive movement. This was the part of bookbinding that was pure craft—no creativity needed, just skill and patience and consistency. When I had a good stack of signatures, I threaded my needle with waxed linen—the good thread Marcus had noted, perfect for travel journals—and began sewing.

The needle whispered through the paper with soft resistance. Cut, fold, sew, repeat. The pattern was hypnotic, allowing my mind to wander while my hands continued their work. I thought about the festival, about the fountain placement Mrs. Pembridge had secured for me. I imagined my booth with its displayed journals, the sachets perfuming the air, customers stopping to run their fingers over the covers.

A soft rustle of thread through paper, the occasional creak of my stool, and the distant hum of a sparrow outside kept me company. The sparrow had been visiting regularly, perching on the windowsill to watch me work. I'd started leaving crumbs for it, though Codex disapproved. Between batches, I stood to stretch, rolling my wrists and hearing the joints pop satisfyingly. My neck was stiff, so I rolled it slowly, feeling the tension release. I paused to refill my teacup—a different blend this time, something floral and light—and nibbled on a slice of oatcake I'd tucked into a tin near the hearth. The cake was slightly stale but still good, sweetened with honey from Mrs. Hedgewood's hives.

Through the open window, life continued its pleasant rhythm. A neighbor's laundry flapped on the line like colorful flags, snapping in the breeze. Somewhere down the lane, children's laughter rang out as they chased hoops with sticks, their voices bright above the steady rhythm of distant hammering from the cooper's yard. A dog barked, was hushed, barked again. The sounds of life, of community, of home.

I lost myself in the process, my mind drifting gently like a boat on calm water. I thought of the merchants who would tuck these journals into weatherworn satchels, scribbling notes between stops. I imagined travelers recording ferry schedules or market prices in my careful binding, apprentices sketching herb diagrams from their master's dictation. Each journal would become part of someone's story, holding their thoughts and plans and memories.

By the time the sunlight had shifted fully to the west-facing windows, painting long rectangles of gold across the floor, the worktable held two neat rows of completed journals, their spines flush and clean. The sight filled me with quiet satisfaction. I stood and stretched again, this time more thoroughly, reaching toward the ceiling and feeling my spine lengthen. The scent of drying lavender and calendula drifted from the bundles overhead, mixing with leather and paper and the faint smokiness from the hearth.

Now came the specialty journals—the ones with character and flourish that would catch eyes and invite touching. I brought out the bundle of decorative map covers I'd finished the week before. Each one bore a hand-drawn section of Riverhaven or the riverlands beyond, traced from charts and embellished with tiny details. I'd spent evenings adding miniature trees, tiny buildings, decorative compass roses.

The first map featured the central river bend, with its three bridges drawn in careful detail. I'd added small boats on the water and birds in the sky. I paired it with pale blue endpapers that echoed the water's color and a silver ribbon tie that would flutter in the festival breeze. The second showed the town square from a bird's eye view, small stalls marked with tiny etched signs that corresponded to real shops. That one received a deep green interior like summer leaves and gold thread for binding that caught the light.

Each combination took time and consideration. I arranged the covers in groups first, spreading them across the table like cards in a fortune-teller's hand. Some seemed to naturally pair with certain materials—the harbor map wanted navy endpapers, the garden district map called for rose. Then I matched paper weights, thread colors, ribbon styles, and embellishments, letting mood and aesthetics guide me. I wrote small notes on parchment scraps to remind myself which materials paired best, tucking them inside each cover.

While I worked, I occasionally glanced at the window to track the light. The sun was my clock here, more reliable than any timepiece. A robin had joined the sparrow on the windowsill—unusual, as they rarely shared space peacefully. Both watched me as if my work was the most interesting thing in their small worlds. I hummed absently to myself, something tuneless and quiet, just to fill the hush with more than the whisper of thread and paper.

As the sun dipped lower, sending slanted beams across the workshop, the decorative journals caught the light beautifully. The linen covers seemed to glow, thread glinted like precious metal, and the maps took on depth and dimension. I sewed more slowly now, more deliberately than I had with the plain ones. These books needed to feel as special as they looked. Each stitch was placed with intention, each knot hidden carefully.

Stitch by stitch, crease by crease, they came together like small architectural wonders. I let myself daydream about their futures: someone choosing the river bend journal at the festival, running their fingers over the map, recognizing their favorite ferry stop or swimming hole. A lover selecting the journal with the garden path sketched faintly in one corner, planning to fill its pages with poetry or pressed flowers. A merchant picking the market square map, using it to record business dealings with a smile at the tiny sketch of their own stall.

Evening crept in by degrees, the golden light deepening to amber, then bronze. I lit a lantern and placed it on the far corner of the worktable where it wouldn't cast shadows on my work. Its warm glow pooled over the journals like honey, making everything look even more precious. The shadows softened the room's edges, and the scent of warm linen, dried herbs, and leather wrapped gently around me like a familiar embrace.

I made tea again—how many cups was that today? This time rosehip with lemon peel, tart enough to keep me alert for the final push. I brought the cup to the bench while I trimmed loose threads with tiny scissors and checked spine alignment with a critical eye. My apron bore the evidence of the day's work: dust from paper and thread, pollen stains from the morning's garden work, tiny spots of tea where I'd been careless with my cup. My hands showed their own record—ink under the nails, a small cut from paper's edge, the reddened spot where the needle had pricked me.

A light drizzle began outside, so gentle it was more mist than rain, pattering softly against the windowpane. The sound was soothing, like nature's applause for the day's work. I paused to watch it for a moment, savoring the sight of droplets chasing each other down the glass, racing to some unknowable finish line. The air that drifted in carried the green smell of wet earth and growing things.

The completed stack grew taller with each finished journal. I arranged the specialty journals beside the plain ones, then stepped back to admire them. Together, they looked like a small chorus—each unique voice contributing to a harmonious whole. Twenty plain journals, steady and reliable. Fifteen decorated ones, each a small work of art. Not enough to fill my festival booth alone, but a good start. I brushed my hand across their tops, feeling the faint texture of thread knots beneath the soft paper, the slight variation in height that marked handmade goods.

Outside, the sounds of evening were beginning—a cart rolling down the lane with the particular squeak that meant Old Henrik (not the bookbinder, the other Henrik) was heading home from market. A gull called somewhere near the river, probably arguing over the day's catch. A door slammed, followed by a mother's voice calling children inside. I closed the window partway, letting in only the cool end-of-day air that would help the journals settle overnight.

I hadn't finished everything on my ambitious list. But I had made good progress. More than that, I had created beauty—tangible and quiet, ready to find its place in someone else's story. Each journal was a small promise, a blank slate waiting for words and sketches and dreams.

I gathered my tools with the careful attention of a craftsperson ending their day. Each item had its place—needles in their case, thread wound neat, scissors cleaned of any residue and oiled lightly at the hinge. I wiped down the bench with a soft cloth, removing any traces of adhesive or thread. The bone folder went into its slot, the awls into their roll. Finally, I set out materials for tomorrow: a new bundle of thread, fresh paper stacked and ready, the specialty covers that still needed binding.

Then I dimmed the lantern until it cast only the faintest glow, set the tea mug in the washbasin to deal with in the morning, and turned once more to look at the journals. They sat in their neat rows like soldiers, or perhaps more like children dressed for a special occasion—proud and ready and slightly nervous about what came next.

For now, that was enough.

Evening settled around the bindery like a favorite shawl—soft, familiar, and edged in quiet comfort. The workshop still held the warmth of the day's labor, though the air through the cracked window was cooling toward night.

I climbed the stairs slowly, each step a small percussion in the quiet house. My legs were tired from standing, my back ached from bending over the work table, but it was the good kind of tired that came from productive labor. Each step creaked with comforting predictability—the fourth sang highest, the ninth lowest. Upstairs, the small flat above the shop welcomed me with its usual hush, broken only by the sound of the drizzle tapping gently at the windows. The rain had picked up slightly, no longer mist but not yet a proper shower.

I lit two beeswax candles and placed them on the windowsill, their flames flickering golden in the dimming light. The candles were a luxury, but the soft light and sweet scent they provided made the evening feel special. Their glow reflected in the rain-spotted glass, creating tiny stars.

My supper was simple but satisfying: bread from this morning's baking, spread thick with soft cheese from the market, a few olives that tasted of summer sun, and a sliced apple from the basket by the door. The apple was perfectly ripe, its flesh crisp and juice sweet. I ate slowly at the small table by the hearth, listening to the rain's rhythm and the occasional distant rumble that suggested a storm might be building over the river. The day's work had sharpened my appetite, and even simple food tasted wonderful.

The scent of the bindery lingered faintly in my clothes—lavender from the morning's harvest, leather and paper from the afternoon's work, ink from the ledger-keeping—and it mingled with the herbal tea I brewed once more. This time chamomile and lemon balm, herbs for settling and sleep. Steam rose from the cup like incense, carrying calm.

The room felt warmer than it was, full of the soft exhaustion that follows good work. The furniture seemed to embrace me—the chair perfectly shaped to my form, the table exactly the right height. I pulled out the little cloth-bound notebook I used for personal notes—not the formal ledger downstairs, not the inventory log, just thoughts. Its cover was worn soft from handling, and the pages were half-filled with my cramped handwriting.

The pen glided easily across paper as I wrote, my hand finding its rhythm. I recorded the day's impressions in no particular order: the success of the morning harvest, the way the woad leaves had looked like emerald goblets, the steady stream of restoration commissions that suggested the town's trust in my work.

Marcus had made everything feel more manageable. His confidence hadn't been bluster or false optimism. It had settled into my bones like a reassuring weight, anchoring me to the possible. I smiled as I wrote his name, just once, then added a small heart beside it—childish, perhaps, but true. Our growing closeness was becoming something I could no longer pretend was just friendship or business partnership.

I jotted a few more lines: the success of the consultations (five new restoration jobs!), the delight of a customer discovering the sachets, the subtle pride I'd felt seeing the completed journals lined up like promises. Each small victory deserved recognition. Then I made a new list for tomorrow: finish the specialty journals, start on the bookplates, check the drying herbs, begin the woad ink if time allowed. Always more to do, but tonight the list felt like anticipation rather than burden.

I paused after a few paragraphs and let the pen rest, watching the candlelight catch the wet ink and make it gleam. The rain had steadied into a proper shower now, drumming pleasantly on the roof. Somewhere in the distance, a ferry bell clanged once, marking the last crossing of the day.

Then I moved to the armchair by the hearth. The fire had died to embers, but warmth still radiated from the stones. I tucked my feet beneath me, shawl around my shoulders, tea cradled in both hands. The chair knew my shape, embracing me like an old friend. The rain had softened now to a whisper, and through it I could hear the town settling for the night—a door closing, a cat yowling briefly before being hushed, the creak of shutters being latched.

I closed my eyes and let my mind drift over the day like fingers over fabric, feeling its texture. The scent of tea and beeswax, the low glow of embers, the softness of wool at my shoulders—all of it blended into one gentle exhale of contentment. There were so many things still to do, festival preparations that would consume the coming weeks, but they no longer loomed like mountains. They waited like unopened gifts, each one a chance to create something beautiful.

The journals downstairs were ready to find their homes. The sachets would scent dozens of drawers and papers. The inks would flow from quills to capture thoughts not yet formed. My work would travel beyond these walls, beyond this town, carrying a little piece of the bindery's magic with it.

Outside, the world was washed clean by rain. Inside, I let the stillness deepen until only the candle flames moved, dancing their ancient dance.

Tomorrow would bring more work. More ribbon to cut, more thread to wax, ink to strain through fine cloth, boxes to label with careful hands, and commissions to sort by deadline. The festival crept closer with each day, bringing its own pressures and possibilities. But tonight, I had earned my rest through honest labor and careful craft.

I whispered a quiet goodnight to the room—to the tools waiting downstairs, to the journals lined up like expectant children, to the herbs drying in their bundles, to the building itself that sheltered my dreams. The words were barely sound, more breath than voice, but they felt necessary.

And when I finally slipped beneath the quilt, my hair still carrying the faint scent of lavender and calendula, I fell asleep with the smile of someone who had made something beautiful with their own hands and trusted that it would find its way into the world. In my dreams, I bound books made of flower petals and starlight, each one unique, each one perfect, each one a small act of love made tangible.

The rain sang me deeper into sleep, and the last conscious thought I had was of gratitude—for this day, for this work, for this life I was building one careful stitch at a time.