Chapter 20: Festival Day

The hour before dawn always held a peculiar stillness, a hush that made even the rustle of paper feel sacred. This morning, the silence of the bindery was gently punctuated by the rhythmic thump of my bone folder and the faint sighs of old timber settling as the river fog pressed close to the windows. Through the thin glass, I could hear the distant cry of a night heron making its final rounds before daylight chased it to roost. The floorboards beneath my feet held yesterday's warmth, a comfort against the cool morning air that crept through the gaps around the windowframes.

I had risen early, earlier even than usual, slipping from beneath the quilts without waking Marcus. The bed had protested softly, springs whispering their complaint, but he'd only turned deeper into his pillow, one arm reaching unconsciously for the space I'd left behind. Codex, blinked once from the foot of the bed and chose sleep over curiosity, her tail tucked neatly around her nose in a perfect circle of contentment.

The stairs had their own language in the pre-dawn quiet—third from the top always groaned, seventh clicked like a tongue against teeth. I knew them all by heart now, could navigate them in complete darkness without making a sound. Downstairs, the shop waited in its familiar shadows, tools exactly where I'd left them, paper stacks casting geometric patterns in the moonlight that still filtered through the front windows.

The kettle had already been set out from the night before, its copper surface dulled with use but still catching what little light found its way into the kitchen. I lit the stove with steady fingers, watching the blue flame bloom to life, and made tea by feel more than thought. The jar lids whispered as I opened them—chamomile from Mrs. Thorne's garden, dried last summer when the flowers were at their peak; a pinch of rosemary from my own small plot out back, its woody scent sharp even in dried form; and a curl of dried orange peel I'd saved from the batch Marcus had brought home last week, a small luxury from the southern traders. The ritual of measuring, of breathing in each scent before adding it to the pot, grounded me in the moment.

I carried the cup into the workshop, grateful for the quiet weight of it, the warmth that seeped through the ceramic and into my palms. The workshop embraced me with its familiar scents—hide glue and beeswax, old paper and new thread, the faint metallic tang of my tools. I set the tea beside my workspace, watching the steam curl up and dissipate into the cool air, and surveyed the work that remained.

Thirty journals complete. Ten to go. Each one a small world unto itself, waiting to be filled with someone else's thoughts, sketches, pressed flowers, or careful accounts. I ran my fingers over the nearest stack, feeling the slight variations in texture—this one with handmade paper that still held the memory of its fibers, that one smooth as water under my touch.

I had not expected Marcus to stir before light, but I heard the gentle creak of floorboards behind me not long after I'd stitched my first signature. The sound was different from the house's natural settling—deliberate, careful, the way he moved when he thought I might be concentrating.

He stepped into the doorway still barefoot, his feet silent on the worn wooden floor. One hand combed through his sleep-mussed hair, the other rubbing at his eyes in that particular way he had, knuckles pressed to the lids as if he could manually adjust to wakefulness. His shirt hung loose, clearly grabbed in haste, one shoulder seam sitting lower than the other. The sight of him, drawn from the comfort of the warm bed by habit or by me, I didn't know which, brought a softness to my chest I didn't have time to dwell on.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, his voice rough with morning, still carrying the weight of dreams.

"Too much left to finish," I said, pausing to flex my aching hands. The joints protested, stiff from yesterday's work and already complaining about today's. "Did I wake you?"

"No." He padded across the room, his footsteps now confident in the familiar space, and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. His lips were warm, lingering just long enough for me to feel the gentle exhale against my hair. "Didn't like the bed without you."

The simple honesty of it made something flutter in my chest. He moved to the kettle, and I heard the soft splash of water, the clink of ceramic as he found his favorite mug—the one with the chip on the handle that fit perfectly under his thumb. He poured himself tea from the still-warm kettle and lingered, quietly watching as I worked.

I was aware of him in the way I'd become aware of many things in the shop—a comfortable presence that didn't demand attention but enriched the space simply by being there. His breathing had evened out, no longer thick with sleep, and occasionally I heard the soft sound of him sipping his tea, the satisfied hum he made when it was exactly the right temperature.

The journals were spread out in rows of progress: those with covers waiting to be pressed, their boards still rough and needing the kiss of heat and pressure to seal them properly; those with boards not yet sanded, edges that would catch fingers if left unfinished; those complete and stacked like offerings, each one a small victory. My fingers moved with quiet precision, the familiar rhythm a comfort in its own way. Thread through needle, needle through paper, pull tight but not too tight—the dance I could do with my eyes closed.

Outside, the sky was the deep grey-blue that came just before sunrise, that particular shade that made the world feel suspended between night and day. The fog curled against the panes like breath on glass, each tendril seeking a way in through the old seal around the frames. I could smell the river in it, that particular mixture of water and green growing things, fish and stone. Riverhaven was still wrapped in sleep, save for the faint sounds of early risers—a door closing somewhere down the lane, the first tentative crow of Mrs. Larkin's rooster, and the occasional clatter of a distant cart, probably Heddin the baker's boy beginning his morning deliveries.

Marcus leaned against the doorframe, his tea cradled in both hands, steam rising to wreath his face in the lamplight. I could see him from the corner of my eye, the way he watched not just me but the work itself, understanding its importance without needing to ask. "You've been pushing hard," he said quietly.

"It has to be ready. If I stop now, I'll second-guess everything." The words came out more honest than I'd intended, revealing the worry that lurked beneath my steady hands.

"I know." He shifted his weight, the floorboard creaking softly under him. He hesitated, then added with gentle humor, "But maybe eat something before you turn translucent."

I gave a soft laugh but didn't argue. He was right, of course. I'd been running on tea and determination for too long. My hands were steadier when I was working, and the ache in my wrists had faded to background noise. It wasn't that I ignored it, just that I'd learned to work through it. The final stretch always required a little more than seemed reasonable.

As if summoned by talk of food, Codex appeared again, slinking down the stairs with the particular silence only cats could manage. She weaved between Marcus's legs, her fur brushing against his bare ankles, before jumping up onto the window ledge to watch the light shift. She blinked slowly, tail flicking once in acknowledgment of the changing day, then settled into a neat loaf shape, paws tucked invisible beneath her.

I reached for the ochre linen journal, one I'd nearly discarded but had salvaged at the last moment. The color had seemed wrong at first, too bold, too much like autumn when everything else spoke of spring and possibility. But something had made me keep working at it. Marcus noticed immediately, his attention drawn by the movement.

"You finished the ochre linen," he said, setting down his mug and moving closer. "That one was your maybe pile last week."

"I found a ribbon that made it work," I said, running my finger along the sage green silk I'd finally paired with it. "The copper ink didn't fight it once I added that bit of green."

He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the tea on his breath, the warm sleep-scent that still clung to him. He lifted the journal gently, with the same care he used for all my work, and opened the cover. His fingers traced the endpapers—a marbled pattern in creams and greens that echoed the ribbon. Inside, I'd written a small note in copper ink: *For autumn thoughts in spring's embrace.* He smiled to himself, a soft upturn of lips that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, then returned it to the top of the finished stack with deliberate care.

"They're perfect," he said. "Every one."

I let the compliment sit, warm and quiet between us. There was no need to reply. He knew the hours that had gone into them. He'd seen the work from sketch to stitch, had been there for the late nights when I'd had to unpick entire signatures because the tension was wrong, had brought me tea when my hands cramped too badly to continue.

We stood in a shared stillness for a few long breaths. The shop held us in its quiet embrace, just the two of us and Codex and the slowly lightening world beyond the windows. He reached over and brushed a curl behind my ear, his fingers lingering for just a moment against my cheek, warm and slightly rough from his work on the docks. Then he glanced toward the narrow clock on the shelf, its brass face catching the lamplight.

"I should head down to the barges," he said, voice reluctant. I could hear it in his tone, the pull between duty and desire to stay. "They'll be loading early today. The Merchant's Bell came in late last night, and they'll want to be off before the festival crowds make the docks impossible."

I nodded, understanding. The river trade didn't stop for festivals. If anything, it intensified, everyone wanting their goods in place for the celebrations. "I'm nearly done. Just these last few to press and check."

He kissed the crown of my head again, this time letting his hand rest on my shoulder, thumb brushing the junction where neck met shoulder. "I'll see you tonight. Try to rest a little, even if it's just closing your eyes for a moment between tasks."

"I will," I promised, though we both knew it was unlikely.

He gathered his things—jacket from the hook by the door, the leather satchel that held his dock papers and the brass seal that marked him as a registered porter. At the door, he paused, looking back. In the growing light, I could see him more clearly—the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his hair stuck up at the back despite his earlier attempts to smooth it.

"The journals really are beautiful, Elspeth. People will see what I see—the care in every stitch."

The front door clicked softly behind him a few minutes later, and the shop's silence returned, somehow deeper for his absence. But it wasn't an empty silence. It was full of promise, of work waiting to be completed, of the day stretching ahead with all its possibility.

I worked steadily for another hour, stopping only to sip tea as it cooled from warming to tepid to cold. The lamp's glow felt gentler now that dawn was slowly bleeding into the sky, mixing gold with the silver-blue of early morning. The final journals came together under my hands—trimming corners with the bone folder until they were sharp enough to draw a clean line, pressing covers with the old iron Henrik had left behind, running my fingers along each spine with a quiet satisfaction.

Each journal told its own story before anyone ever wrote in it. The paper for this one came from the mill two villages over, where they still used the old methods, adding wildflower petals to the slurry so that each page held tiny surprises. The thread for another had been dyed with madder root, giving it a rich red color that would age to the most beautiful rust. Some covers bore faint pressings of flowers gathered from the riverbank during different seasons—spring violets, summer roses, autumn maple leaves, winter holly. Others bore textured paper made from bark pulp I'd purchased from a traveling crafter last spring, or bits of failed experiments I'd salvaged—practice marbling sheets that hadn't quite worked but were too beautiful to waste, overdyed ribbon that had come out deeper than intended, an old seal impression pressed into wax with care and transferred to leather.

I worked these remnants into my practice not for show, but for texture. For memory and use. Each journal would go out into the world carrying these small pieces of my year, my experiments, my failures transformed into something useful and beautiful.

The shop smelled of linen thread and old paper, of the woodsmoke that drifted in whenever someone opened the door, of the lavender polish I used on the display cases. Familiar scents that grounded me, that said *home* more clearly than any words could.

At the far end of the room, my neatly sketched booth layout rested on the display table. I'd drawn it a dozen times, each iteration slightly different—should the journals be arranged by color or size? Should I display them spine-out or covers visible? The current version felt right, balanced. Stands were cleaned and ready, their brass fittings polished until they gleamed. Crates labeled in increasingly hurried script stood like sentinels against the wall—"Field Journals," "Garden Notebooks," "Specialty Bindings," and optimistically, "Extra Stock." My sign—Moonscribes Bindery—had been repainted just last week, the ink-dark lettering still holding a slight sheen that caught the light just so.

As I worked, I found my mind drifting to the auction, that day that seemed both yesterday and a lifetime ago. The building had been one of the last lots of the day, offered after an estate's closing. The auctioneer had looked tired, ready to be done, his voice hoarse from calling bids all afternoon. Most bidders had left already, their ledgers full, their purses empty. I'd stood alone near the back, heart thudding in my chest, palm slick around the handle of my paddle.

I'd prepared for disappointment. Had told myself it was practice for next time, that I was just seeing how these things worked. But then the building came up, and the auctioneer's voice had lifted with surprised interest when he saw my paddle rise. The bid had gone unnoticed by any competitors, the hammer had fallen with a decisive crack, and suddenly the keys were mine. No one had handed this to me. I had chosen it, bought it with every coin I'd saved, and built something inside its quiet walls.

The windows had been grimy then, dust coating them from a few months of standing empty after Henrik's passing. The floors showed the wear of his years here, but nothing worse than what a good sweeping and mopping could fix. That first week was a gentle sort of work—washing windows until the light could properly enter, dusting the furniture Henrik had left behind, going through the apartment upstairs and deciding what to keep. Everything had been left as it was, waiting for someone to bring life back to the space. I'd found treasures in the tidying: a silver button wedged between floorboards, a child's drawing tucked behind a loose wall panel, Henrik's notes scattered throughout like breadcrumbs leading me deeper into the building's history.

Every shelf that held stock now had once held dust and memories. The furniture upstairs—the bed with its brass frame, the wardrobe with carved birds on the doors, the kitchen table with its familiar blue painted legs—all had been Henrik's. Now they were mine, each piece gradually accepting my presence. The garden out back had been overgrown but not neglected, just waiting for someone to coax it back to purpose, and now it grew the herbs I used for my dyes and sachets.

And now here I was, carving space from the final hours before the festival, trusting that the people who wandered past my stall tomorrow would see not only the journals, but the steadiness behind them. The stitching, yes—but also the quiet intention. The hush of morning effort. The love tucked into corners.

A gust of wind moaned against the window, rattling the top latch that I kept meaning to fix but never quite got around to. Codex's ears swiveled toward the sound, but she didn't move otherwise, tail curling tighter around her body. She was my barometer for the hours—still and quiet through the work, she'd remained through every phase of preparation, a sentinel in fur.

The ache in my hands became more insistent, moving from background hum to active complaint. I paused, setting down the last stitched book and rolling my wrists gently. The joints popped softly, a sound that made me wince even as it brought relief. There was pride, yes, but also fatigue. The bone-deep tiredness that came from pouring everything into a single goal. I was ready to be finished.

Codex stretched and yawned from her perch, showing every one of her small sharp teeth, then leapt down to nudge my ankle. Her message was clear: food, or at the very least, a break. She had the particular insistence of a cat who knew routine had been disrupted and was determined to set it right.

"All right," I murmured, gathering the last journal and placing it atop the stack. Forty journals. A small army of possibility. "You win."

I moved slowly toward the stairs, muscles protesting the change from hunched concentration to movement. Codex trotted ahead as if she understood breakfast was finally on the horizon, her tail high and confident. Upstairs, the familiar hush of our small kitchen greeted me. The morning light had grown stronger, streaming through the east window and painting golden stripes across the worn wooden table.

I reheated what was left in the kettle, the water not quite hot enough for proper tea but warm enough to be comforting. From the cupboard, I pulled a heel of bread—yesterday's baking from Miri the baker down the way, the crust still crackling when I pressed it. The cheese was a small luxury, a sharp white variety from the mountain traders that Marcus had brought home last week. I sliced it into tidy portions, arranged everything on a chipped plate that had come with the shop—blue roses around the rim, one of them half-worn away.

I sat at the little table tucked near the upstairs window, letting the early light settle across my shoulders like a shawl. For a moment, I allowed myself to feel the stillness—not the quiet of pressure or expectation, but the kind that soothed. The bread was good, nutty and substantial. The cheese sharp enough to wake up my tongue. Simple pleasures that reminded me I was more than just hands that stitched and pressed.

Through the window, the town began to stretch and stir. A boy ran down the lane with a basket swinging from his arm, probably off to collect eggs or deliver messages. His whistling carried up through the morning air, a tune I recognized from the taverns. A pair of older women paused near the well to exchange a few words and a laugh that rang like bells in the quiet morning. Mrs. Blackwood and Mrs. Thorne, by the look of them, already dressed in their market best. A dog barked, once, sharply—the Hendersons' terrier, always the first to announce the day. The river, ever steady, shimmered silver and blue beneath the lifting mist, boats beginning to move along its surface like water striders.

I could see the festival preparations from here—bunting being strung between buildings, tables being set up along the market street, the bright flash of canvas as vendors erected their stalls. Tomorrow it would be my turn to be part of that colorful tapestry. The thought no longer brought only anxiety. Anticipation had crept in alongside the worry, a fizzing excitement that surprised me.

I returned to the bench one final time. The morning was full now, proper daylight streaming through every window. The stack of finished journals gleamed with quiet readiness. They were not perfect. Some stitches were tighter than others. Here and there, if you knew where to look, you could see where I'd had to adapt, where the materials hadn't quite cooperated and I'd had to find creative solutions. But every ribbon was perfectly cut, every edge tucked with care. They were mine. Honest work. Built from mornings like this, and all the ones before.

The light grew warmer by the minute, shifting from the cool tones of dawn to the golden warmth that promised a beautiful day. Soon I would need to start thinking about wrapping, about counting change and double-checking displays. But for now, I allowed myself to rest my palms flat on the table and close my eyes just for a moment.

I breathed in deeply, smelling the mix of paper and glue, tea and bread, the faint sweetness of the herbs from the garden drifting through the open window. My shop. My work. My life, built stitch by stitch. Nearly there. Nearly ready.

By the time I returned downstairs, the light had shifted from pale grey to the full warmth of morning, and the fog had begun to lift in earnest. It caught along the edges of the river, hanging like steam from a teacup, then vanished into the sky as if it had never been. The transformation always felt like magic, the world revealing itself layer by layer as the mist retreated.

The bell above the shop door jingled just as I reached the bottom step, Codex slipping past my legs to perch again on the windowsill. She had her routines too, and the morning sunshine on that particular spot was not to be missed.

"Good morning," I called out, already recognizing the tall silhouette of Mrs. Pembridge by the door. She had a particular way of standing, spine straight as a ruler, that made her unmistakable even in shadow.

"Elspeth, dear," she said, moving briskly to the counter. Her gloves were immaculate as always, pale lilac today, and she carried with her the pleasant scent of rose water and old books—a combination that always made me think of pressed flowers and careful handwriting. "I came to check in about the family records, but I imagine the festival has you run ragged."

I straightened the stack of slips behind the counter, my hands automatically tidying even as we talked. "It has. I'm so sorry for the delay. I haven't forgotten." I pulled out the careful notes I'd made about her project, showing her my progress. "I've wrapped the fragile center pages in vellum and noted every place where the ink is lifting. The binding is completely loose at the third signature, and there's some insect damage to the back endpapers that will need special attention. I just need time to finish the rebinding properly."

She gave me a long look, her grey eyes shrewd but kind, then smiled. The expression transformed her face, making her look years younger. "Festival comes first, dear. Henrik used to vanish behind curtains this time of year. Said he was sorting paper, but we knew he was dyeing leather in batches and preparing for the festival. The whole street could smell the tannins. Don't fret."

Her kindness flooded me with relief. I'd been carrying the weight of unfinished projects like stones in my pockets. "I've written careful notes to resume after the market ends. I'll be back at it with fresh hands and a clearer head."

"Good." She began pulling off her gloves, finger by finger, a gesture that meant she was settling in for a proper visit. "I'd also like two more garden journals when time allows. Lined pages this time, and monthly tabs. The ones I bought to track planting by moon phase are working splendidly—I've never had such success with my root vegetables—and I want to continue using that method—just with a little more structure to keep things tidy when my hands are muddy."

I jotted it down in the margin of my queue, making a note about the paper weight she preferred and the particular shade of green she favored for covers. "Noted. I can have those ready the week after the festival."

"Perfect. I'll be back then." She paused at the door, gloves back on, and turned back with a conspiratorial smile. "And Elspeth? I'll be at your booth first thing tomorrow. I have three nieces who need journals, and I won't have them buying from anyone else."

With another nod and a soft click of her heels, she was gone. The door sighed shut behind her, and I was left with the warm glow of her confidence in my work. I turned back to my notes, adding her nieces to my mental tally of potential customers.

By the end of the morning, the queue had grown longer than I could fit on one page, spilling over onto a second sheet that I pinned carefully beside the first. It seemed word had spread that I was taking commissions again after the festival. Each request came with understanding, but also with specifics—this type of binding, that kind of paper, particular colors or sizes or purposes.

Thaddeus stopped by with a small tin tucked under his arm and a familiar concern behind his eyes. He studied me for a moment before speaking, taking in what I knew must be shadows under my eyes and the way I kept flexing my fingers. He set the tin gently on the counter and gave me a thoughtful once-over.

"Not wearing yourself out, I hope? First festival is always the hardest. Like trying to bottle lightning—all that energy, all that preparation, and then it's over in a flash."

"I'm managing," I said, though I knew the weariness in my voice betrayed me. "Mostly."

"This should help," he said, tapping the tin with one gnarled finger. "Peppercorn and clove, with just a whisper of sage. Warming, good for the nerves. Settles the stomach too, if you're the type to forget to eat when you're busy." His knowing look suggested he knew exactly what type I was.

"Thank you," I said, meaning it. I'd learned quickly that Thaddeus never offered anything without thinking it through. His remedies were as carefully crafted as my journals.

He nodded once, satisfied. "Spice labels can wait. I'll check back next moon. Maybe by then you'll have remembered what regular meals are."

As he left, I turned to jot a note in my workbook: *Thaddeus—peppercorn, clove, sage blend. Thank him again. Lovely for festival nerves.* Already my mind was spinning ahead to cold months and what might sell well when fingers were chilled and spirits needed lifting.

A traveling clerk arrived next, dusty from the road and carrying a storm-damaged ledger wrapped carefully in oilcloth. Water stains spread across the leather cover like a map of some unknown country. "If you can fit it in after the festival, I'd be grateful," he said, unwrapping it carefully to show me the extent of the damage. "Word is your bindings hold better than guild ones. Something about the thread you use?"

I examined the ledger carefully, noting where the water had caused the pages to swell and warp. "I can save most of it, though some pages might need to be reinforced. The binding will need to be completely redone."

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"Whatever it takes," he said gratefully. "My whole year's accounts are in there."

Next came a dryad herbalist with a crumbling herbarium that shed pressed flowers every time she moved it. The book was ancient, probably older than the building itself, and smelled of deep forests and forgotten magic. "End of season's fine," she said, brushing bark-dusted hands on her skirts. "Just keep the scent wards intact. They're woven into the original binding, and my grandmother would haunt me if they were lost."

I made careful notes about the ward placement, sketching a quick diagram of the binding structure. "I'll be very careful. Would you prefer to keep the original covers if possible?"

"If you can save them, yes. They're heartwood from her birth tree."

A dwarven mapmaker followed soon after, asking after custom leather wraps for his map cases. "After the market, of course," he said, with a wink that made his braided beard bounce. "Wouldn't dream of interrupting festival prep. But mine keep getting wet, and I heard you do a treatment that keeps the water out?"

"Beeswax and pine resin," I confirmed. "It's a delicate process that needs clear weather, but once it's properly sealed, you could drop it in the river and the contents would stay dry."

"Perfect! I'll bring the measurements after the festival."

No one had been upset about the wait. More than one had offered me treats from their baskets—honey buns from Miri the baker, dried fruit from the orchard keeper, soothing teas from three different herbalists. And always the refrain: festival comes first. They knew what it meant to prepare, to pour time and effort into a fleeting event. Riverhaven ran on shared understanding and generosity of time.

Still, the list weighed heavily in my hand as I copied over the queue in neat, precise lettering. I used Henrik's system, a set of colored tabs and small stars to indicate urgency, fragility, and specialty work. Red stars for items that couldn't wait long after the festival, blue for those that could take their time, green for anything involving plant materials that might degrade. It helped keep my thoughts clear, but it also made the volume of work starkly apparent.

Henrik had once written in the margins of a shop ledger: In spring, plant. In summer, tend. In fall, present. In winter, repair. I had thought it poetic the first time I read it, a pretty metaphor for the turning year. Now I understood it more truly. Some seasons were not for restoration at all, but for showing what had grown. But when the last name was added and the page felt complete, I stared at it for a long time. There was simply too much for one pair of hands, no matter how willing.

Liorabel arrived just after midday, the usual skip in her step replaced with something more tentative. She peered around the door first, as if checking the mood of the room before committing to entry.

"You're not cross, are you? I helped at the dairy stand before I came. They were swamped, and Lenna looked ready to cry. Something about the cream delivery being late and too many orders for festival butter."

"Not at all," I said, motioning her in. "Lenna likely needed you more than I did this morning. But I do have something to talk to you about."

She blinked up at me, brushing windblown curls behind one ear. Her cheeks were pink from hurrying, and she smelled faintly of fresh milk and hay. "What kind of something? The kind where I'm in trouble, or the kind where something good happens?"

I handed her the updated queue. "Take a look."

She whistled low, the sound echoing in the quiet shop. Her eyes widened as she took in the full two pages, the color-coded stars, the careful notations. "That's... that's a lot. Like, really a lot."

"It is. And I can't manage it all alone. Not if I want to keep the shelves stocked and meet commission timelines. Not if I want to do the work properly, the way it deserves." I paused, watching her face carefully. "So after the festival, I want to begin your formal training. Not just shelf dusting or garden sorting. Real apprenticeship."

Her eyes lit up like candles in a dark room. "You mean with the tools and the paper weights and the fold-y bits?"

I smiled at her description. "Yes. With the fold-y bits. We'll start with signatures, learn to punch and stitch without tearing. Then paper types, matching ink, even basic repairs. You've already got a good eye. We'll sharpen it."

Liorabel threw her arms around my waist before I could react, squeezing tight enough to drive the breath from my lungs. "Thank you thank you thank you. I won't let you down. I swear it. I'll practice every day and I won't complain about the boring parts and I'll even keep my workspace tidy!"

"I know you won't." I hugged her back, feeling the trembling excitement in her small frame. This was what the work meant—not just the finished books, but passing on the knowledge, watching it take root in eager hands.

She pulled back and looked toward the display shelf, already bouncing on her toes again. "Can I still help with festival setup too? I've got ideas for the sign. What if we hung little pressed flowers from the corners? Or maybe ribbons that match the journal colors?"

"Only if you finish your stitching practice first."

She gave a mock groan, but her grin was wide enough to split her face. "Fine. But I'm going to be the best apprentice ever. You'll see. In a year, people will be asking for journals specifically bound by me!"

The bindery was full to the edges with promise. The future was a queue of tasks, yes, but also of potential. Restoration would wait. But growth would not.

On the shop floor, I cleared space near the front window and began practicing my festival layout. The afternoon sunlight streamed gently through the glass, illuminating dust motes and warming the polished wooden counters. Each surface had been cleaned that morning until it gleamed, ready to show off the journals to their best advantage. Crates were carefully unpacked, cloths pressed and smoothed with the old iron until not a wrinkle remained, and the display boards arranged in their tentative positions. It felt almost ceremonial, arranging each journal type with deliberate care.

"Can I help?" Liorabel asked from the doorway, her earlier excitement tempered into something more focused.

"Absolutely," I said, relieved to have another pair of eyes. "Come tell me what you think."

Liorabel stepped closer, her eyes bright as she surveyed the initial layout. She moved slowly, taking in every detail, and I could see her mind working behind those keen eyes. "I like the Riverhaven journals in the middle. They stand out the most. And they're what visitors will want—something to remember the festival by."

"That's exactly what I thought," I agreed, adjusting a small stack slightly to better catch the light. "But I'm not sure about the balance. Does it feel right?"

She tilted her head thoughtfully, the gesture so like Codex that I had to smile. Then she reached out carefully to swap two journals—one in deep emerald leather that seemed to hold all the green of summer, the other with a softly textured bark cover that whispered of deep forests. "Like this? It feels more balanced now. The colors talk to each other better."

I stepped back, appreciating the subtle shift. She was right—the arrangement now had a conversation happening between the pieces, each journal complementing its neighbors rather than competing. "Perfect. You've got an eye for this."

She flushed slightly, clearly pleased with the compliment. We worked steadily together, grouping journals by color, texture, and size. Field journals in soft leathers were arranged neatly to the left—practical pieces meant for pockets and daily use. The Riverhaven-themed journals took the center stage, each one featuring some element of the town—the river's curve picked out in silver thread, the bridge sketched in careful lines, pressed flowers from the common gardens. More elaborately bound pieces with intricate ribbon closures and metallic accents filled the right-hand side, showpieces that would draw the eye and the hand.

As the stacks took shape, I stood back several times, narrowing my eyes to assess the visual appeal. The trick was to create levels, to give the eye places to rest and places to explore. "Maybe we need something to draw attention at the far end?" I suggested.

Liorabel quickly nodded, her curls bouncing as she hurried to fetch a small decorative stand from the shelf. "What about this? It would raise them up a bit. Make people look twice."

"Exactly," I said, placing a delicate journal bound in pale lavender cloth with silver threading onto the stand. The height difference was subtle but effective. "Just enough to draw attention without overwhelming."

We repeated this process several more times, adjusting small details and shifting placements until the arrangement finally felt cohesive and inviting. Each change was small, but together they transformed the display from a simple array of goods to something that told a story—of craft, of care, of the quiet magic that lived in everyday objects made with love.

"It's beautiful," Liorabel said softly, her voice tinged with awe.

"I couldn't have done it without you," I told her honestly. "You have excellent instincts."

She smiled shyly, ducking her head. "It was fun. Can we label them now?"

"Of course," I said, handing her a stack of neat, blank labels. "Let's finish this properly."

We spent another half-hour carefully labeling each stack and recording inventory notes in my ledger. Liorabel's handwriting was still a bit uneven, but she took such care with each label that I didn't have the heart to correct her. When the last journal was tagged and the final crate was sealed, I stretched my aching back and glanced around the now tidy shop floor.

The bell jingled above the door, startling both of us. We'd been so absorbed in our work that the outside world had faded away. Voices carried warmly through the shop, familiar voices that made my heart leap.

"Elspeth!"

My head snapped up, eyes widening. Standing just inside the doorway were my mother and father, Gareth holding a heavy-looking travel bag, and Maisie nearly bouncing in excitement.

"What—how?" I stammered, completely caught off guard. They weren't supposed to arrive until tomorrow, if at all. I'd told them about the festival in my letters, but travel was expensive and time away from the farm was hard to manage.

"We thought we'd surprise you," my father said warmly, stepping forward. His travel cloak was dusty from the road, and I could see the tiredness around his eyes, but his smile was bright. "Your first festival seemed too important to miss."

My mother moved swiftly forward, wrapping me tightly in her arms. She smelled of home—lavender from her garden, the particular soap she'd used all my life, and underneath it all, that indefinable scent that meant safety and love. "Oh, darling. Look at everything you've done."

I hugged her back fiercely, emotions suddenly overwhelming me. The careful control I'd maintained all week crumbled in the circle of her arms. "I can't believe you're all here."

Gareth dropped his bag with an exaggerated sigh. "Three days in a coach. My backside may never recover. But we figured you might need some extra hands. Or at least some friendly faces in the crowd tomorrow."

"Or we could just stay out of the way," Maisie chimed in cheerfully, already eyeing the journal display with interest. "Oh, Elspeth, these are gorgeous! Is this what you've been making all this time?"

I laughed, wiping my eyes quickly. The tears had come from nowhere, ambushing me with their intensity. "Everything's mostly ready, actually. But let me show you around."

They followed eagerly, eyes wide with curiosity. I took them behind the counter first, showing them the careful organization system, the queue of commissions, the tools all clean and ready. Gareth ran his fingers appreciatively over my neatly organized tools, picking up the bone folder and testing its weight.

"Quality tools," he said quietly, the approval in his voice making me stand a little straighter. "You've really settled in."

My mother admired the vellum sheets I'd been preparing, lightly tracing the edge with a gentle fingertip. "This is beautiful work, Elspeth."

"Wait until you see the garden," I said, leading them out back. The afternoon sun had warmed the herbs, and the air was full of their fragrance. They murmured in delight at the tidy rows, the small bench where I often sat sketching designs, the carefully tended plants that provided materials for my work. Maisie pointed excitedly to the calendula blossoms, already envisioning dyes and inks.

"You could expand this," my father said thoughtfully, measuring the space with his eyes. "Another few rows wouldn't be hard to manage. Maybe some madder root for deeper reds? I see you've already got woad going strong."

"I've thought about it," I admitted. "The madder would be useful. But one thing at a time."

"Upstairs next?" I suggested, feeling a swell of pride. They nodded enthusiastically, and we climbed the narrow stairs into my cozy apartment. The afternoon light made everything glow, showing off the small space at its best. Gareth whistled appreciatively at the neatly stacked bookshelves—I'd finally organized them by subject and size. My mother admired the small fireplace and the rag rug I'd bought from Mrs. Weller down the street, its bright colors warming the room.

"You've truly made it yours," my father said softly, squeezing my shoulder gently. His hand was warm and familiar, callused from farm work but gentle in its touch.

"I have," I said, feeling the truth of it deeply. This wasn't just a place I stayed—it was home now, in all the ways that mattered.

Back downstairs, my family lingered near the door, clearly reluctant to leave but sensing my need for rest. They'd booked rooms at the Riverside Inn, they told me, not wanting to impose on my small space.

"So," my mother said with a knowing smile, "this Marcus you've mentioned so frequently in your letters..."

I felt heat rush to my cheeks. "What about him?"

"Oh, nothing," Maisie said innocently, though her grin was anything but. "Just that his name comes up an awful lot. 'Marcus helped me move the display cases.' 'Marcus brought me dinner when I was working late.' 'Marcus thinks the new journal design is lovely.'"

"I don't sound like that," I protested weakly.

"You do," Gareth said, crossing his arms with brotherly authority. "So when do we get to meet this paragon?"

"I... he's... we're not..." I stammered, caught completely off guard.

My father took pity on me. "Leave your sister be. Though we would like to meet him eventually, if he's important to you."

"He is," I admitted quietly. "Important, I mean."

"Then we'll look forward to it," my mother said gently, though I could see the curiosity burning in her eyes. "Perhaps tomorrow at the festival?"

"Perhaps," I managed.

They let the subject drop, though I caught them exchanging knowing looks. Liorabel, who had been hovering by the workshop door throughout the family visit, chose that moment to slip forward.

"I should go," she said quickly, already moving toward the door. "You'll want time with your family." As she passed, she deftly flipped the shop sign to 'Closed' and gave me a meaningful look. "So you can have some privacy."

"Thank you," I mouthed silently, grateful for her thoughtfulness.

After a few more minutes of conversation about their journey and plans for tomorrow, my family took their leave.

"You're sure you don't need us tonight?" my mother asked gently, smoothing a hand over my hair the way she had when I was small.

"Everything's ready," I assured her, feeling calmer and more confident than I had in days. Their presence had reminded me that I wasn't alone in this, that I had people who believed in me. "But I expect you at my booth first thing tomorrow."

"We wouldn't miss it," Gareth promised, grinning. "I've been telling everyone on the coach about my bookbinder sister. You'll probably have a line of customers before you even open."

Maisie hugged me fiercely one last time. "I'm so proud of you," she whispered in my ear. "This is amazing."

Codex purred contentedly from her perch as if approving their visit. As the bell chimed behind them, signaling their departure, I sank into a nearby chair, exhausted but deeply content. The shop felt different now, warmer somehow, as if their love had left an echo in the air.

"Tomorrow," I whispered softly to myself. "Tomorrow will be wonderful."

Evening draped softly across Riverhaven, a gentle quiet settling over streets that only hours before had bustled with final festival preparations. I could hear the last of the vendors calling to each other, the sound of canvas being secured, the occasional laugh carrying on the cooling air. The shop was still now, emptied of its afternoon warmth but filled instead with the rich, comforting aromas drifting from the upstairs kitchen.

Marcus had insisted on cooking tonight, arriving home with a market basket full of ingredients and a determined set to his jaw. "You've done enough," he'd said firmly when I'd protested. "Let me take care of you for once." I'd been too tired to argue, and now, listening to the rhythmic chop of his knife against the cutting board, the occasional hiss and pop from the stove, I was grateful for his insistence. The sounds formed a steady heartbeat of domesticity, grounding me in the present moment.

I stood in the workshop, running my hands gently over the last-minute items I was packing. It was a final review, a quiet ritual of reassurance before the rush of tomorrow morning. My fingers traced lightly over each small stack, each bundle, mentally ticking off every item, absorbing their readiness.

The wrapping tissues had been sorted meticulously earlier in the week—neat stacks of cream and pale blue, bundled and tied with narrow ribbons for easy handling. The cream ones were plain but elegant, while the blue bore a tiny printed pattern of moons and stars that I'd commissioned from a printer two towns over. Beside them sat the dried herb sachets, their gentle fragrance rising as my fingertips brushed the linen bags. Lavender from my garden and calendula from the riverside, mixed with just a touch of rosemary for clarity. The combination had taken weeks to perfect, testing different ratios until the scent was exactly right—calming without being overwhelming, fresh without being sharp. These would be small gifts, tiny tokens to thank customers for stopping by. I shifted the sachets slightly, evenly spacing them in their little wicker basket, each tiny adjustment another quiet promise to myself that all was ready.

My gaze traveled along the table, cataloging each element. Sample papers were fanned out like a hand of cards—some smooth as silk, others with texture that caught the light, one special sheet embedded with real flower petals that showed through like stained glass when held up to the sun. These would let customers feel the quality before committing to a purchase, understanding that each journal was more than just blank pages.

At the table's edge, my receipt book stood open and waiting, the fresh pages smooth and ready for crisp inked lines. I'd ruled them myself last night, staying up late to make sure each line was perfectly straight. My pen, cleaned and refilled earlier with fresh ink mixed with a tiny amount of iron gall for permanence, rested patiently beside it. Next to these, the little carved wooden box holding change for the till was lined up, coins arranged neatly in careful stacks. I ran my fingers over them, feeling the cool metal, the weight of copper and silver. Twenty silver crescents, forty copper wheels, and a handful of smaller coins for making change. It felt strangely comforting, this methodical sorting of coins, their solidity grounding me in a quiet, reassuring reality.

A folded page lay near the coins, holding my neatly scripted price list. I'd agonized over the prices for days, comparing them to what I'd seen at other festivals, factoring in materials and time, trying to find the balance between valuing my work and being accessible. I'd committed it entirely to memory, repeating the numbers silently throughout the day as if reciting a beloved poem. Field journals: five silver crescents. Specialty bindings: eight to twelve depending on complexity. Riverhaven commemorative journals: seven silver crescents. The repetition steadied my nerves, each number a simple certainty anchoring the swirl of thoughts about tomorrow's unknowns.

Beside that, letter writing kits lay stacked neatly in their wooden tray. I'd assembled these just this week, a last-minute addition when I realized people might want complete sets. Some were plain and practical—basic paper, a simple pen, a small pot of black ink, and blotting paper all wrapped in brown paper and string. Others were elegantly styled, bound in rich fabric and decorated with embossed flowers or subtle patterns pressed into the paper. These contained special paper in cream and pale rose, two colors of ink, a better pen with a silver nib, sealing wax, and even a small brass seal with a generic but pretty pattern. These, too, I adjusted slightly, ensuring their careful arrangement would catch the eye just right.

Small cards with care instructions were stacked beside the till, each one hand-lettered with advice on keeping journals in good condition. *Store away from direct sunlight. Allow ink to dry fully before closing. A light coating of beeswax can protect leather covers.* Simple things, but I wanted each journal to last, to become a trusted companion for its owner.

I took a breath, slow and deep, filling my lungs with the scent of herbs and paper, wood polish and ink. Everything felt quietly reassuring, ready in a way that I rarely allowed myself to fully acknowledge. I had done all I could, and now I simply needed to trust in the steady work of my own hands.

"Dinner's nearly ready," Marcus called from above, the warmth of his voice drifting down through the floorboards like a blessing.

"Just finishing up," I called back, carefully stacking the sachets one last time, making sure the ribbons all faced the same direction.

Codex brushed gently against my ankle, her tail looping around my calf in a deliberate caress. She'd been my constant companion through all the preparation, watching from her various perches as I worked, occasionally offering a supportive purr or a gentle head bump when I seemed particularly stressed. I bent to stroke her soft head, murmuring quiet nonsense words of affection as she purred contentedly, eyes slowly blinking in lazy satisfaction.

"Ready for tomorrow?" I asked her quietly, knowing the question was truly for me.

She yawned in response, showing pink tongue and white teeth, then nudged insistently at my leg, clearly more interested in dinner than festival preparations. Her priorities were admirably straightforward.

"All right," I said softly, straightening with a final glance at the carefully arranged items. Each one represented hours of work, careful thought, and hope. "Let's go upstairs."

The kitchen was filled with steam and warmth, golden lamplight spilling over every surface and casting gentle shadows across the walls. The windows had fogged slightly from the cooking, creating a cozy sense of separation from the world outside. Marcus stood by the stove, sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing forearms marked with the small scars and calluses of dock work. His expression was focused yet relaxed, the particular look he got when cooking—completely absorbed but enjoying the process.

"What are you making?" I asked, moving to stand beside him, drawn by both the delicious smell and his presence.

"A simple stew," he said, eyes flickering warmly toward me. "Nothing fancy. Root vegetables from the market, some herbs from yours, a bit of lamb from the butcher. Thought you might need something hearty."

"Perfect," I sighed, leaning my head briefly against his shoulder. The solid warmth of him was as comforting as the food. He tilted his head to rest against mine, and we stood like that for a moment, quiet and steady, breathing in sync.

"Everything downstairs ready?" he asked softly, gently stirring the pot again with a wooden spoon worn smooth from use.

"As ready as it can be," I replied, stepping away reluctantly to set two bowls onto the small wooden table. The pottery was mismatched—one bowl was deep blue with a chip on the rim, the other cream with painted flowers worn thin from years of use. But they were ours, chosen together at the market, each one with its own small story. "Oh, I almost forgot to tell you—my family arrived unexpectedly this afternoon. They're here for the festival."

Marcus's eyebrows lifted in surprise and delight, the spoon pausing mid-stir. "Really? That's wonderful. I'll probably see them wandering about tomorrow then."

"I'm sure you will," I said, smiling warmly as I set out spoons and filled two cups with water from the pitcher. "They're excited to see everything. Though I suspect my mother is already planning to reorganize my entire shop. She had that look in her eye."

"The one that means loving interference?" Marcus asked with a knowing grin.

"Exactly that one."

We settled at the table as he ladled the stew into our bowls. The first spoonful was perfect—rich broth, tender vegetables, the lamb falling apart at the touch of the spoon. The herbs from my garden added a fresh note that brightened the whole dish. We ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, the stew warming me from the inside out, each bite grounding me more firmly in the simple pleasure of nourishment and rest.

"Your family," Marcus said eventually, setting down his spoon. "I'll meet them properly tomorrow, won't I?"

Something in his tone made me look up. There was a nervousness there I rarely heard, a slight uncertainty in his usually confident voice. "Of course. They're eager to meet you. I've told them..." I paused, realizing. "Well, I've mentioned you in my letters."

"Mentioned," he repeated, a slight smile playing at his lips. "And what exactly did these mentions say?"

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "That you're... that you help at the shop sometimes. That you're kind. That you're..." I gestured vaguely, unable to find the right words for what we were to each other.

"A friend?" he supplied, but there was something deeper in his eyes, a question within the question.

"More than that," I said softly. "You know that."

He reached across the table, covering my hand gently with his own, thumb stroking softly over my knuckles. "I do know. But do they? What will they think when they see us together tomorrow?"

I turned my hand palm up, interlacing our fingers. "My mother is very observant. She'll know the moment she sees us. And my father... well, he's protective, but fair. Gareth will probably try to interrogate you about your intentions." I tried for a light tone, but I could feel the seriousness underneath.

Marcus squeezed my hand gently. "And what should I tell him about my intentions?"

My heart stuttered. We'd been dancing around this for weeks now, both of us knowing but neither quite saying. "The truth, I suppose."

"Which is?"

I met his eyes, seeing the vulnerability there, the hope. "That we're courting. Aren't we?"

His face broke into a smile that transformed his whole expression. "I certainly hope so. I'd hate to think I've been making all these dinners just for the cooking practice."

I laughed, tension breaking. "So we're agreed then? Officially?"

"Officially," he confirmed, bringing my hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. "Though I have to warn you, I have no idea how to properly court a bookbinder. Should I bring you special papers? Rare inks?"

"Just yourself," I said, meaning it. "That's more than enough."

We returned to our stew, but the air between us had shifted, charged with new possibility. After a few more bites, Marcus spoke again.

"What if they don't approve? Your family, I mean. I'm just a dock worker. You're a business owner, an artisan. You could do better."

I set down my spoon firmly. "Stop that. You're not 'just' anything. You're Marcus, who brings me tea when I work too late and reads to me when my eyes are too tired to focus. Who helped me move every piece of furniture in this place and never complained once. Who sees my work as important even when I doubt it myself."

He was quiet for a moment. "You really told them all that in your letters?"

"Well," I admitted, "perhaps not in quite so much detail. But Maisie figured it out weeks ago just from how often I mentioned you. She's been sending very knowing postscripts in her letters."

"And you didn't correct her?"

"Why would I? She wasn't wrong."

He laughed, the sound warm in the small kitchen. "Your sister sounds formidable."

"She is. Fair warning: she'll probably have our entire future planned out within five minutes of meeting you. Names for children and everything."

"Children," he repeated, and I realized what I'd said. Heat flooded my face.

"I didn't mean... that is, we haven't..."

"Elspeth." His voice was gentle, amused. "Breathe. We have time for all of that. Tomorrow, let's just focus on surviving your first festival and your family's visit."

I nodded, grateful for his steadiness. "You're right. One overwhelming thing at a time."

"Though," he added with a grin, "if your sister has name suggestions, I'm curious to hear them."

I threw my napkin at him, laughing. "You're impossible."

"Impossibly charming, you mean."

"That too," I conceded.

We finished dinner, conversation flowing easier now that we'd cleared the air. Marcus told me about his day at the docks, the last-minute shipments for festival vendors, the barely controlled chaos as everyone tried to get their goods unloaded at once. I shared my encounter with Mrs. Pembridge, my growing queue of commissions, Liorabel's excitement about her apprenticeship.

"She'll be good," Marcus said thoughtfully. "She has the patience for it, and the eye. Plus she already knows half your customers from her delivery rounds."

"That's what I thought. And I need the help, especially if..." I paused, not wanting to jinx tomorrow by speaking hopes aloud.

"If the festival goes well and brings in more work," he finished for me. "Which it will. Have you seen your journals? People would be fools not to buy them."

After dinner, we cleared the table together, movements easy and familiar as we'd done this dance many times before. I washed while he dried, our hips bumping occasionally in the small space, each touch a small reminder of our new understanding. The kitchen was left quiet and orderly, a peaceful backdrop to the busy day that awaited.

Later, as I moved quietly through my evening preparations—washing my face with the last of the warm water, brushing my hair slowly to work out the tangles from the day, checking one last time that everything was ready—Marcus waited patiently. He was already settled beneath the quilts when I finally slid in beside him, the bed dipping slightly under my weight.

His arm wrapped protectively around my waist, drawing me back against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and sure, through the thin fabric of our nightclothes.

"Nervous?" he asked softly, his breath warm against my ear.

"Yes," I admitted. "But also... ready. Does that make sense?"

"Perfect sense." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "You've worked so hard for this. Tomorrow, everyone else gets to see what I already know—that you're brilliant."

"Marcus?"

“Mm?"

"What should I tell my parents? About us, I mean. If they ask directly."

He was quiet for a moment, and I could feel him thinking, choosing his words. "Tell them the truth. That we're courting. That I'm serious about you. That I want to do this properly, with their blessing if they'll give it."

"And if they want to know more? My father can be... thorough in his questions."

Marcus chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Then I'll answer. I've nothing to hide. Except maybe that disaster of a fish stew I made last month."

"That was truly awful," I agreed, smiling in the darkness.

"But you ate it anyway."

"Well, you made it for me. That made it bearable."

His arm tightened around me. "Tell them that, then. That we take care of each other. That this—us—it's good. It's right."

"It is," I whispered.

"And Elspeth? Don't worry too much. Parents want their children happy. When they see you tomorrow, see what you've built here, see us together... they'll understand."

"How are you so calm about this?"

"Because," he said simply, "I know what I want. You. This life we're building. Whatever comes with that—protective fathers, knowing sisters, festival disasters—I can handle it."

"Even my mother trying to rearrange your entire life?"

"Even that. Though I draw the line at her reorganizing my dock locker. There's a system."

I laughed softly. "No one can find anything in there but you."

"Exactly. It's organized chaos."

We lay in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the old building settle around us, the distant sound of late revelers making their way home, Codex's soft purr from her spot at the foot of the bed.

"Marcus?" I said eventually.

"Still here."

"Thank you. For dinner. For understanding. For..." I struggled to find words big enough. "Everything."

"Always," he murmured, already half-asleep.

"Tomorrow will be wonderful," I whispered, echoing his earlier words.

"Of course it will," he mumbled. "You'll be there."

And finally, surrounded by warmth and certainty and the quiet breathing of the man who saw all of me and chose to stay, I allowed myself to believe it. Tomorrow would come with all its challenges and possibilities. But tonight, in this moment, everything was exactly as it should be.

The last thing I heard before sleep took me was Marcus's voice, soft and sure in the darkness: "Love you, Elspeth. Whatever tomorrow brings, we'll handle it together."

And with those words wrapped around me like another blanket, I slept.