Chapter 3: Opening the Shop

I woke before the sun had crested the rooftops, stirred not by sound or light, but by the weight of my thoughts returning to me all at once. The bed beneath me was unfamiliar, slightly uneven, but firm. The air held a stillness, cool and dry, laced with the subtle scents of wood, dust, and something herbal that lingered from whoever last cleaned this space. I blinked up at the beams above, the ceiling low and gently sloped, the plaster cracked slightly in one corner near the chimney. There was a softness to the morning, the sort of hush that invited contemplation and quiet resolve.

Then the memories of yesterday assembled like pieces fitting into place. I was in Riverhaven. The bindery was mine now. The trunks had arrived, the garden waited just beyond the back door, and the cat, Codex, had declared her presence and her expectations without ceremony. A slow, steady flutter of anticipation began to replace the haze of sleep. Today would not be restful. It would be the first real day of work.

I sat up slowly, stretching my arms and shoulders. Codex, as if on cue, leapt from the foot of the bed and disappeared into the hallway with a soft swish of her tail. I followed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and already turning over the day’s work in my mind. There was far too much to do, and no clear place to begin. The shop needed more than tidying; it needed order, inventory, repair, and perhaps most pressingly, direction. Henrik had left behind something in a state of transition, half-held between habit and surrender, and I was the one who had chosen to step into the gap.

The kitchen welcomed us with the faint grey light of early morning filtering through the curtain above the sink. The air was cool, edged with the scent of river air and the herbs hanging dry near the door. Codex hopped up onto the counter with a practiced leap and turned to face me. She fixed me with a stare that was pointed and unblinking, then issued a sharp, commanding meow that echoed in the quiet. I opened my mouth to offer some sort of excuse but closed it again as she meowed a second time, louder and more insistent. Her tail curled behind her like punctuation.

"Right," I said aloud. "You’re hungry."

She gave another cry, as if to confirm the obvious.

There was no dish on the floor, no food set aside. The one she had eaten from yesterday, the little plate passed over the garden wall by Mrs. Hedgewood, still sat outside near the bench. I hadn’t bought anything else. I hadn’t thought to.

"I didn’t know I had a cat," I told her, not for the first time.

Codex gave me a flat look that suggested the responsibility was mine now, regardless of whether I had agreed to it.

"I’m going," I said, already reaching for my boots. "Just give me a moment."

The shawl I had worn the day before still hung on the hook beside the pantry. I pulled it around my shoulders, tied the coin purse to my belt, and stepped into my boots without bothering to change from the cotton dress I had slept in. It was wrinkled, but serviceable, and I suspected Brida would not care.

Outside, the morning was brisk and still. Mist hung low along the cobbles and rooftops, softening the corners of everything it touched. The river glimmered faintly in the gaps between buildings, and the air smelled of earth, ash, and the faintest hint of something floral riding on the breeze. I passed the baker’s shutters just as they were swinging open, the scent of yeast and rising dough spilling out into the lane. Farther along, someone swept their stoop with short, brisk strokes, and a dog barked once in the distance before falling silent again.

The market was just beginning to stir when I arrived. Several of the stalls were still being set up, but Brida’s butcher stall was already open, her canvas shade half-unfurled. She was arranging cuts of meat on a chilled slab of stone, sleeves rolled to the elbow, her red apron tied with precision. The neat braid she wore was pinned into a crown around her head, not a strand out of place. She looked up as I approached and offered a small nod of recognition.

"Back so soon?" she asked, setting down her knife.

"Unintended oversight," I replied. "It turns out I have a cat."

Brida smiled, her eyes bright with amusement. "Codex? I figured. She’s been eating better than most of us for years."

"I didn’t know she came with the building."

"She was Henrik’s." Brida turned to the back of the stall and reached for something already wrapped. "I put this together yesterday evening just in case you needed it."

I blinked. "You did?"

"She gave you the look, didn’t she? She always does."

Brida handed over the bundle, paper-wrapped, warm to the touch from the fresh cuttings inside. "Mackerel scraps, liver, some soft trimmings. Nothing salted. Henrik used to ask for the same."

I reached for my coin purse, but Brida waved me off with a glance. "Don’t insult me. It’s scraps. And a welcome to Riverhaven."

"Thank you," I said quietly.

She gave a small shrug, already turning back to her work. "Don’t let her con you into seconds."

I returned the smile and tucked the parcel carefully into the crook of my arm, then made my way back through the waking village. The mist was beginning to lift, and golden light pooled in the low places between houses. By the time I reached the bindery’s garden gate, the sunlight had reached the top of the apple tree. Codex was already waiting at the threshold. She chirped once, turned on her heels, and led me toward the back.

The dish from yesterday sat in the same place near the garden bench. I knelt beside it, unwrapped the parcel, and portioned out the scraps. Codex sat patiently at first, then stepped forward with a soft purr, eating delicately but without hesitation.

I stayed there for a while, breathing in the scent of thyme and mint rising as the sunlight warmed the soil. The rosemary had survived the winter better than expected, its needle-like leaves sharp and fragrant when I brushed them with the back of my hand. Everything was overgrown, but not wild. The garden felt like something that had been loved and then left. A place waiting for a steady hand.

Only after Codex was satisfied did I turn to my own breakfast. The dark bread I’d brought up from the shop yesterday was still good, especially when warmed. I sliced a thick heel and laid it in a pan to toast gently, then rummaged in the pantry for the soft white cheese I’d spotted earlier and retrieved one of the apples from the basket on the stair. It was a simple breakfast, but something about the assembly of it, the measured movements, the quiet clicks of crockery, felt grounding.

While the bread crisped, I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, adjusting the enchanted knob until the faint blue glow lit beneath. The enchantment produced a steady warmth, just enough to heat water without risk of overboil. It was a small luxury compared to my parents’ wood-burning range, and a practical one.

When the kettle began its gentle whistle, I poured the hot water over a spoonful of dried mint and fennel in my mug, the sharp scent blooming upward. I plated my breakfast, toast, cheese, apple slices, and sat at the kitchen bench by the garden door. Codex, now replete, resumed her place on the windowsill, curling herself into a neat ball with her tail over her nose.

I ate slowly, letting my thoughts wander. The light slanted warmly across the kitchen floor, catching in the small specks of flour and dust I’d missed the day before. The garden beyond the door rustled gently with a breeze, the plum tree’s leaves flickering like pages being turned.

By the time I drained the last of my tea, my shoulders had begun to ease. I rinsed my plate and left it to dry beside the others, wiping the counter with practiced care. Codex gave me a blink from the windowsill but didn’t move as I passed, her approval wordless but evident.

I climbed the stairs, the air cooler in the stairwell. I paused just outside the bedroom, glancing inside, bed still made, my satchel on the chair. Instead, I turned into the sitting room, my steps slowing as I entered. Light spilled through the high windows, casting golden rectangles across the rug. The scent of old wood and lavender sachets hung faintly in the air. I had yet to unpack much here,only the essentials,but the space was slowly taking shape. A shawl over the armchair. A folded blanket on the settee. A worn tin of sewing notions tucked into a drawer, just in case. My eyes landed on a book I hadn’t seen the day before.

It sat slightly off-center on the side table, half-covered by a folded piece of brown paper. I stepped closer and eased it free, the leather binding familiar even before I turned it over in my hands. The spine was dark green with a faded copper clasp, and the front bore a handwritten label in Henrik’s neat, slanted script: Spring Orders.

My breath caught, just for a moment. Not from surprise, but recognition. This wasn’t one of the shop’s display ledgers or a sample binding. This was Henrik’s working copy. I sat down slowly in the armchair, the book heavy in my lap, and opened to the first page. Inside, the entries were methodical. A series of names, dates, and binding notes stretched down each page. Some had checkmarks beside them; others were circled or starred. Mrs. Pembridge appeared near the top, green journals, lined, ribbon binding, underlined twice, with no delivery date. A second entry noted her preferred paper weight for inserts, dated for early spring. Further down, I found a marriage record book, marked with a single check and the note: delivered in person, ceremony pleasant, lilacs in bloom. A small smile touched my lips at that.

Near the bottom of the list, a circled entry drew my eye: three traveler’s logs, archivist’s request, map pockets, neutral bindings. There was no date, no delivery note. Just a tight ring of ink and a small blot where the quill must have lingered. I closed the book gently and rested my hand on its cover.

Two orders. Those, I decided, were the ones that mattered now. The green journals for Mrs. Pembridge, and the traveler’s logs for the town archivist,still unknown to me, but clearly expecting something. I could follow through. I could make it right.

Setting the ledger on the side table once more, I exhaled slowly. The dust and disorder of the shop, the waiting tools in the workshop, none of it felt so overwhelming now. There was a path forward. A shape to the work. It was more than I’d had the day before. Downstairs, Codex mewed again, probably hoping for another treat. I smiled faintly and stood. The day had only just begun.

The wards woven into the stone and beams of the bindery shimmered faintly as I crossed the threshold, like a breath held and released again. Whatever enchantments Henrik had laid over the room, they had endured—quiet, sturdy spells that kept moisture and rot at bay, prevented moths from nesting, and shielded the contents from the creeping hands of time. I could feel the magic humming faintly in the soles of my feet, like the echo of a lullaby. I was grateful for it. Without those wards, everything might have warped or mildewed in the months since he'd passed. Instead, though dust veiled the surfaces and grime streaked the windowpanes, the room’s contents had endured.

Sunlight pierced the grime in golden slants, tracing luminous bars across the long worktables and illuminating a thousand dancing motes of dust. The room was silent save for the soft creak of the floor beneath my boots and the faint ticking of something enchantment-wound in the far corner. As I stepped farther in, I breathed in the layered scent of ink, leather, and wood glue. It smelled like memory. Like apprenticeship. Like coming home to the work.

Tools lined the walls in careful arrangements: bone folders of varying widths, curved and flat; awls with worn handles; edge gilders, presses, shears. I recognized nearly every shape, though I couldn’t be sure which had belonged to Henrik and which had been added earlier, or perhaps by someone else entirely. Some were older still, tucked into the high shelving where cobwebs threaded the corners. One drawer hung open slightly, revealing neat rolls of bookcloth stacked like pastry logs.

The main workbench ran nearly the length of the wall and bore signs of use: knife marks, polish stains, traces of gold dust in the crevices. Someone had once worked here with quiet precision. I could see it in the rhythm of placement—the cutting mat aligned just so, the thread reels tucked into a low shelf, the paper weights carved from river stone. I trailed my fingers across the surface, then began to open each drawer and cupboard, taking stock.

I had brought my own kit, of course. My burnishing stone wrapped in linen, my bone folder from first year, the narrow-handled brush with badger bristles I preferred for corner gluing. I’d packed them carefully in one of the smaller trunks. But Henrik’s tools were better than I expected—not relics, but finely kept instruments that only needed cleaning and a bit of oiling. I would need to decide which to keep for myself and which to set aside for an apprentice someday. That thought made me pause, a slow warmth blooming in my chest. A future with room to teach.

I laid out the tools I’d brought onto the central table. My corner cutter, still sharp. A tin of beeswax infused with rosemary and sage for sealing enchanted bindings. My vials of special ink—charcoal gray for permanence, crimson for memory enchantments, gold leaf for decorative scripts. Each vial nestled into its padded slot, still intact after the barge ride. I checked the seals one by one, pleased to find them unbroken.

Beside those, I added my thread shears, a pair of slim tweezers, and my favorite stitching needle—a long, slightly curved one with a blue ribbon tied to its eye. That one had stitched a hundred bindings in school. I smiled faintly at the sight of it.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

I dusted off one of Henrik’s old cabinets and began sorting tools by type and purpose. Most of the essentials were here: punches for threading, clamps for gluing, spine rulers, pressing boards. I found a few older-style nipping presses in the corner, still oiled, the cast iron smooth under a layer of dust. I turned the crank of one gently, checking for any resistance. The movement was stiff, but not damaged. I made a note to clean and re-oil it properly.

A wide drawer beneath the main bench held lettering stamps—an entire array of plates and type blocks in common and decorative scripts. I knelt and began comparing Henrik’s to the ones I had brought from home. Mine were organized in a roll of canvas: alphabets in High Common, River Trade script, and three decorative typefaces I’d practiced in the Academy’s advanced classes. I unrolled them on the bench and slowly cross-referenced.

Henrik had his own array—some duplicates, some I had never seen before. A curious wedge serif typeface stood out, along with a flowing elven script that looked painstakingly carved. I set aside the duplicates for future teaching use and carefully matched the rest with my own. It felt like weaving two sets of knowledge together: his and mine.

I took a jar of mineral oil and began tending to the presses—oiling the screws, adjusting the tension in the rollers, dusting out the tracks. The platen press near the rear wall groaned slightly at first but soon moved with ease under my hands. I tested the inking plates, finding remnants of dried pigment still clinging to one corner. With a cloth and careful pressure, I worked it free.

In one cubbyhole I discovered a bundle of metal rulers, their edges engraved with both standard and magical measurements. I tested each for warp and laid them flat against the table. Satisfied, I aligned them neatly in the drawer beside my own drafting set.

I took out my treated parchment sheets and laid them flat to breathe, weighing the corners with small stones. They smelled of citrus and dried herbs—my own blend for longevity. While they aired, I inspected a set of enchanted needles I’d brought from home. Each was tipped with a faintly glowing rune and used for stitching spells directly into bindings. I would need to store those separately, away from mundane tools.

As midday approached, I gathered the jars of wax polish and worked them into the wooden tool handles, benches, and edges of the worktable. The scent of linseed, beeswax, and a touch of lavender filled the room. I moved slowly, methodically. This wasn’t about finishing quickly. It was about claiming the space with intention.

Henrik’s notebooks were tucked away in a small cubby above the workbench. I paged through one briefly—notations on humidity spells, diagrams for adjustable press beds, musings on cover embossment timings. His script was tight and even, annotated in the margins with personal shorthand I couldn’t yet decode. Still, it felt companionable, like reading over the shoulder of a patient teacher.

By the time the sun reached its zenith, the room had transformed. The windows still needed washing, and there were piles left to sort, but the bones of the workshop had been unearthed and honored. I stood back and looked at the space—my tools intermingled with Henrik’s, the presses gleaming, the paper stock refreshed and waiting. It wasn’t just a studio anymore. It was mine. The wards pulsed once more as I crossed the room to close the door behind me, a slow pulse of magic settling like a heartbeat.

By the time the sun had passed its peak and the warmth of early afternoon filled the air, I tied on my apron and turned my attention to the main shop. Dust shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the windows, which were streaked from months of neglect. It was quiet, and for now, the quiet felt like a gift. No customers yet, no interruptions—just the steady rhythm of setting things to rights.

I started at the front door, sweeping the entry rug and shaking it out onto the stoop. The bristles of the broom caught on tiny pebbles and stray bits of leaf that had clung to boots coming and going. Then I moved inward, sweeping the floor in careful lines, nudging dust bunnies and paper scraps into a pile near the base of the counter.

Behind the counter, I discovered a narrow table tucked against the wall. It wasn’t large, but it was clearly well-used. A strip of leather served as a work blotter, darkened with ink stains and smooth from years of use. A metal straightedge rested along one edge, beside a stub of chalk and a cup of dried nib pens, their tips blackened with remnants of ink. This was where Henrik must have handled the small, quick tasks—repairs, customer notes, maybe the day’s tallies. A faint indentation marked the place where an elbow must have rested often.

There was a chalkboard hung just behind the counter, smudged and faded. I stepped closer and squinted to read it. Prices were written in neat columns: basic rebinding, monogramming, custom commissions. Some were fair, others oddly low. I’d need to revise them, eventually, but I liked that he’d left them visible. It gave the place a sense of transparency, of trust.

Shelves along the front walls bore dozens of journals and blank books. Some were leather-bound, others covered in dyed linen or rough-weave cotton. They were arranged by size and type, each with a small handwritten tag. Many of the tags had curled or faded, and I found myself removing them one by one, dusting the covers and setting aside anything with warped corners or foxing along the edges. I made a mental note to check which ones were still good enough to sell and which would need rebinding or repairs.

The dust clung to everything. It coated the shelves, drifted in corners, and left a chalky film over the front counter. I wiped each surface down with a damp cloth, rinsing and wringing it out between each shelf. My shoulders ached with the repetitive motion, but it was a good ache—the kind that came from effort, from doing something tangible.

I paused briefly to open the windows. The hinges groaned, but the breeze that drifted in was cool and fresh, tinged with the scent of river water and distant chimney smoke. It stirred the air, sending dust motes swirling like tiny dancers in the light.

I moved behind the counter again, this time lifting a stack of unused invoice pads and setting them aside. I found a drawer of wax seals—some plain, others carved with symbols I didn’t recognize. A few had ribbon ties still attached. There was also a lidded jar of ink-stained rags and an old tin of polishing wax that smelled faintly of lemon and turpentine.

I was in the middle of sweeping the floor again when a firm knock at the front door startled me. The broom slipped from my hand and thudded softly against the shelf as I jumped, heart thudding like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

Of course someone might come by. This was a shop, after all. But I had forgotten. Forgotten that I was no longer a visitor here. That I was now the person people might seek out.

I dusted my hands on my apron and walked to the door, still holding the broom. The bell hadn’t been hung yet, and the little round pane in the top of the door was too cloudy to see through. I unlocked the bolt and cracked the door open.

A tall elven woman stood on the stoop, holding a tin in gloved hands. Her silver hair was pinned in a twist at the nape of her neck, her posture straight as a gatepost, and her pale green cloak clasped neatly at her collar. She looked like someone used to being welcomed, not turned away.

"Not open yet!" I blurted before I could stop myself. My cheeks went hot.

The woman smiled kindly, her eyes crinkling. "So I see. But no harm done. I thought I might check in. Henrik and I had a monthly arrangement, and habits—well, they are difficult to let go of."

She stepped through the doorway without waiting for invitation, but it didn’t feel rude. More like a returning regular who already knew where everything should be. I stepped aside, still flustered.

"I’m Mrs. Pembridge," she said, her gaze sweeping over the shelves, the dusted counter, the broom in my hand. Her expression was kind, thoughtful. "I used to come by for a set of green journals each month. Lined pages, soft cover, ribbon binding. Henrik always had them ready. No rush now, of course. I just wanted to say hello."

"I saw your name in the ledger," I said, trying to sound composed. "I’m still getting settled, but I’ll have them done. The order’s clear."

"Good. I do appreciate consistency." She held out the tin. "Ginger cookies. With honey and cracked pepper. My sister’s recipe. For strength. You’ll need it."

I accepted the tin with both hands. It was surprisingly heavy, the metal cool beneath my fingers.

"Thank you," I said, more touched than I expected to be.

She nodded once, a gesture full of quiet approval. "You’ll do well here. Dust never defeated anyone with a broom in hand."

Then she turned and let herself out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

I stood a moment longer, holding the tin. Then I set it gently on the counter, picked up the broom again, and got back to work.

The early evening sun slanted through the newly cleaned windows as I finished sweeping, then dusted the counter and straightened the row of notebooks at the front display. I found a clean scrap of parchment and rewrote the price list from the chalkboard, then tacked it to the frame with a bit of beeswax. It wasn’t final, but it was a start.

I ended the day by wiping down the glass display case and setting out a few of the nicer journals, careful to space them evenly. Then I swept the last of the dust into the bin, stacked my rags by the back door for washing, and sat on the stool behind the counter.

The shop was still quiet, still rough around the edges, but it felt more like mine. And for the first time since arriving, I let myself imagine what it would look like when everything was in place—shelves stocked, windows clear, the bell above the door ringing as someone stepped inside.

It was still just a beginning. But it was a beginning I could believe in.

Only as I sat there, with the sun warming the wood beneath my hands, did I realize I had never stopped for lunch. My stomach gave a quiet protest, and I laughed softly to myself. Tomorrow, I promised. Tomorrow, I’ll eat properly.

By the time I finished tidying the shop for the day, the sky had begun to shift into the dusky hues of early evening. I headed toward the garden door at the back, intending to step outside and call for Codex. As I reached for the handle, a shimmer caught my eye—a faint outline glowed in the wood near the bottom. With a quiet flicker, a small cat-sized portal revealed itself, and Codex stepped neatly through it, her collar glinting as it passed the threshold. I blinked, surprised. Of course. A charmed door attuned to her collar. That was how she’d been coming and going so easily.

Codex padded forward with an air of smug satisfaction and paused at the base of the stairs, glancing back as if to ensure I was following. She then ascended with silent confidence, tail curled like a question mark. I followed more slowly, my feet heavier after the long day. As we reached the landing, I caught sight of another small shimmer in the door to the apartment—a second charmed portal, this one nestled just beside the frame. Clearly, it allowed her to enter even when the door was shut. I couldn't help but smile. Henrik must have adored her. These little enchantments weren’t simple conveniences. They were acts of quiet affection, built into the woodwork itself.

"I didn’t forget," I told her, crossing to the cool box and retrieving the parcel from Brida. There was still enough left for several meals. I portioned out the remainder of the offcuts into her bowl on the floor beside the kitchen counters. She began to eat, tail swishing with satisfaction.

While she was occupied, I turned my attention to my own meal. My stomach had been complaining since I’d realized I missed lunch, and now that I was back upstairs, the fatigue of the day settled deep in my shoulders. I was too tired for anything complicated. I pulled a pork chop from the butcher’s parcel, seasoned it with a pinch of salt, and fried it in the skillet until the edges turned crisp and golden. While it cooked, I sliced a few carrots and cut a thick piece of buttered bread to go alongside. It was simple fare, but warm and filling—exactly what I needed after a long day. I ate at the kitchen table, letting the quiet of the apartment ease the lingering tension in my shoulders. When I’d finished, I rinsed the plate and made myself a cup of mint tea, the scent sharp and soothing. Cup in hand, I stepped outside once more, drawn by the soft hush of twilight settling over the garden.

I carried my tea carefully downstairs, stepping out through the back door and into the garden. The evening air was cool and fragrant with rosemary. I made my way to the old bench nestled beneath the apple tree and settled there, cradling the warm mug in my hands. The bench was worn smooth by years of use, and the scent of the rosemary bush at my elbow was sharp and clean in the fading light. Codex joined me, hopping up beside me and curling into a ball with surprising efficiency for a creature who had just eaten her weight in fish scraps.

The garden was quiet except for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of village life. Somewhere, a kettle whistled. A window creaked open. The scent of baking and roasted onions drifted from a nearby kitchen, followed by the savory smell of garlic and thyme. Across the hedge, I saw Mrs. Hedgewood watering her pots, a straw sunhat still perched on her head even as the light faded. She looked up, caught sight of me on the bench, and set her watering can aside with a soft clink.

"How’s it going over there? Settling in all right?"

I nodded and sipped my tea. "It’s a lot, but I made good progress today. I’ve cleaned half the main room, sorted through tools, and started reviewing the order ledger. Shouldn’t be long before I can open properly."

Mrs. Hedgewood smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "That’s good to hear. Henrik let things slide in those last months, but he always meant well. It’s nice to see the place coming back to life."

"It already feels like home," I admitted. "Tired as I am."

"That’s how you know it’s worth it," she said, giving a final nod before picking up her watering can. "Highspire wasn’t built in a day, dear."

"Neither was the bindery," I replied, smiling back.

She waved in approval, then turned back to her watering.

I leaned back on the bench and closed my eyes for a moment. The cool air kissed my skin, and the wooden slats of the bench pressed gently into my spine. Today had been full. Not just of labor, but of momentum. I had scrubbed the floors, aired the shop, uncovered forgotten tools and space. Half the main room was now clean, and the beginnings of order had begun to take shape.

I thought of the ledger upstairs—the one marked Spring Orders. I had read through most of it during a pause in the cleaning, noting the entries. Three standing orders stood out clearly, including Mrs. Pembridge’s journals. I’d confirmed the details, and the rest would wait until tomorrow.

Dinner finished, I gathered up my dishes and rinsed them in the little basin just inside the kitchen. The rhythm of the work was already becoming familiar: wash, wipe, dry, stack. There was comfort in repetition, in creating something tidy out of the day’s edges.

Later, I lit a candle and sat at the small desk by the window, retrieving my writing kit from the satchel I’d carried from Highspire. The familiar scent of ink and wax filled the air. I selected a sheet of cream paper and dipped my pen.

Dear Family,

I’m writing from my new desk, upstairs in the apartment. It’s more work than expected, but I love it already. The shop is dusty but full of promise. There’s a cat—her name is Codex, apparently—and she has very strong opinions. The bindery itself is sound, and the garden is overgrown but thriving. Today I cleaned half the main room, met one of Henrik’s old customers (who brought me cookies), and confirmed there were two standing orders still outstanding in the ledger—the archivist’s request and Mrs. Pembridge’s journals. There’s something steadying about all of it, like finding a rhythm that was always waiting for me to step into.

I hope you’re all well. I’ll write again soon, and more properly. For now, I need sleep.

Love,

Elspeth

I folded the letter and set it aside to post at the market in the morning.

Codex had returned to her spot on the windowsill, her tail flicking lightly as if dreaming. I blew out the candle and made my way to bed, the ache in my muscles no longer sharp but pleasantly dull. Tomorrow, the real work would begin. But tonight, I let myself rest, knowing that the first day had ended with more hope than doubt.