Chapter 5: The First Week's End

I woke to the sound of rain against the windowpanes. At first, it filtered into my dreams—soft and distant, like a kettle simmering on the hob. But then a sharper patter joined the rhythm, distinct and persistent. I opened my eyes to grey light and a haze of mist beyond the glass. Rain had swept in overnight, and not just a drizzle either—this was a full, steady downpour, the kind that blurred rooftops and softened corners and painted the sky in unbroken slate.

I sat up slowly, listening. The bindery below creaked faintly, responding to the shift in weight and moisture. A gust of wind rattled the shutters, and somewhere overhead, the roof gave a muffled groan. Rain had always been a welcome sound back in Highspire—distant, manageable, something that stayed politely outside the stone walls. But this morning, in a building I hadn’t yet explored from rafter to foundation, it brought with it a new edge: uncertainty.

I dressed quickly, twisting my hair into a knot and tugging on a soft cardigan, then padded barefoot down the stairs. The air in the shop was cool and damp, with a faint scent of moss and ink that hadn’t been there the day before. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss. The display table was dry. The windows were fogged but unbreached. But then, as I moved toward the back shelving—just past the green-bound manuals—I saw it.

A slow, steady drip. One drop, then another. A dull, dark circle spreading on the floorboards. Worse, a shallow puddle had already begun to form beneath the bottom shelf—exactly where I’d neatly reorganized a stack of linen-bound volumes only two days ago. Panic seized me. I rushed forward and knelt, fingers fumbling to pull the books free. The bottom row was damp to the spine. Not soaked, not yet—but water had already crept up the covers in uneven stains. I pressed my hand to the shelf itself. The wood was slick with moisture, beads of water clinging along the edge. I gathered the books into my arms and carried them to the front counter, setting them gently down and splaying them open in careful fans to dry.

I hadn’t known. I hadn’t known that this corner leaked. That there was a reason Henrik had left that shelf half-empty. Of course there was. It had been deliberate, not forgotten. And now I’d risked a half-dozen perfectly sound books because I’d thought I was being tidy. A lump rose in my throat, sudden and sharp. I turned back to the leak itself, now dripping in slow, rhythmic taps from the ceiling beam. The sound was maddening in the stillness. There was no time to dwell on mistakes—I needed to contain it.

Shoes forgotten, I darted out into the rain, crossing the back garden in hurried strides. The path was slick with wet petals from the apple tree, and water had begun to pool near the shed door. I yanked it open and scrambled inside, the scent of damp herbs and earth closing around me. Buckets—there. Three of them, stacked beside a bundle of broom handles. I grabbed the largest, a weathered blue one, and sprinted back inside, my cardigan clinging to my arms, soaked to the elbows. The bucket landed with a satisfying thunk beneath the drip. The next drop landed squarely inside, a hollow echo. I exhaled—then stood still, dripping. Codex, watching from the windowsill, blinked at me with what might have been judgment. Or amusement. It was hard to tell with her.

“I know,” I said under my breath. “I’m learning.”

I peeled off the cardigan and hung it by the stove, then fetched a towel to blot the worst of the water from the floor. As I worked, I tried to push past the sharpness of the mistake and focus instead on what came next. How to prevent this from happening again. The thought sent me straight to Henrik’s ledger. Still open from the night before, its pages had curled faintly in the damp air, but the ink was untouched. I flipped through several sections, scanning for anything related to building maintenance or weather notes. It didn’t take long. Just after a page on parchment weights and delivery routes, I found it:

*Southwest corner weeps in heavy rain. Will need to get fixed before autumn.*

Beneath that, in different ink—older, but firmer:

*Patch scheduled with Corwin Barleyroot. Reliable. Call if not complete before autumn rains.*

I leaned back on my heels, the breath catching slightly in my chest. Corwin Barleyroot. A name, a solution, a safety net that had been in place all along. Henrik had planned to fix it. Of course he had. He’d known this place better than anyone. The note wasn’t negligence—it was part of a system. One he hadn’t lived long enough to complete. The ache in my chest shifted, softening into something else. Something closer to gratitude. I set the journal down gently and fetched a fresh sheet of paper from the desk. This needed a proper list. Not just notes in passing, but a real place to gather the tasks that mattered.

**SHOP PRIORITIES — Rainy Day Edition**

* Dry and air out damaged books * Track weatherproofing needs * Contact Corwin Barleyroot re: southwest roof patch * Inspect rest of ceiling beams (use ladder?) * Avoid placing books on lower back shelf

I placed the list on the workbench where I’d see it, weighing down the corner with a smooth river stone from the windowsill. The blue bucket let out another echoing drip. Outside, the rain showed no signs of stopping. But inside, the water was contained, the damage minimal, and the lesson learned. I had a name, a plan, and a growing understanding of the place I’d inherited. Codex leapt down from the sill, tail flicking, and padded over to sit beside the list. She gave it a glance, then looked up at me as if to say, See? You’re getting there. I crouched down and scratched behind her ears.

"We’ll keep the books dry next time," I promised.

She purred faintly, and for the first time that morning, I smiled. Still kneeling on the floor, I let my hand linger in her fur a moment longer. The steady sound of the rain outside had softened slightly, but it still filled the quiet with its rhythm—a reminder that even small oversights could carry weight here. I stood and moved back to the counter, checking the splayed books again. The corners were still damp, but no worse than before. I turned a few pages to be sure, spacing them apart with folded slips of blotting paper. Not a complete loss, but a lesson I'd remember.

I returned to the back of the shop with a dry cloth and began wiping down the shelf where the leak had struck. As I worked, I thought of all the tiny systems that must be hidden here—routines Henrik had followed, problems he’d solved with care and notes I hadn’t yet uncovered. He’d patched this place together not just with thread and glue, but with intention. I made another note and tucked it beneath the priorities list: Ask around for Corwin Barleyroot’s contact. Preferably before next rainfall.

Satisfied, I poured myself a fresh cup of tea and carried it to the front window, where the light filtered in through thin grey clouds. Rain beaded softly on the panes. The street outside was empty, save for a bundled-up figure hurrying toward the bakery under a waxed cloak. I sipped slowly, grateful. The day had started with panic, but it hadn’t unraveled. Not fully. Not fatally. And I’d met the morning’s first real challenge without running from it. Maybe that counted for something.

The bell above the door jingled faintly just as I was sitting behind the counter, gently blotting the corner of a damp linen-bound book and inspecting the curve of its spine. I looked up, startled—the street had looked nearly deserted a few minutes ago. Then again, the rain had picked up again, heavier than before, and it made sense that someone might be seeking shelter.

The figure who entered stamped her boots on the mat with practiced precision, shook out her cloak, and pushed back her hood to reveal copper curls tied into a kerchief. It was Miri, the gnome baker from the market.

“I come bearing sweetness,” she declared, lifting a cloth-covered basket as steam curled around her shoulders. “And absolutely no obligation.”

Before I could protest, she was already moving past the front display, her eyes darting around the shop.

“Just checking how things are coming along,” she added, almost offhandedly, though I caught the way her gaze lingered on the drying books at the counter and the bucket still quietly catching drips at the back of the room.

I met her partway with a towel in hand, still warm from drying dishes. “You didn’t need to brave the weather.”

“Oh, it’s just a bit of water,” she said cheerfully, handing over the basket. “These are for you. I made a few extra sweet rolls with orange glaze this morning—seemed a shame to let them sit.”

“They smell wonderful.” I peeked beneath the cloth and felt my mouth water. “How much do I owe you?”

Miri fixed me with a look. “It’s a welcome, not a transaction. We take care of our own in Riverhaven.”

I didn’t argue. I simply said, “Thank you,” and meant it.

She lingered by the travel journal shelf, tapping one cover with a thoughtful hum. “Henrik always had a good selection. Practical and sturdy. Had one I carried through three winters before I filled it up.”

“I’m trying to keep his standards,” I said, quieter than I meant to.

Miri smiled and brushed a damp curl from her forehead. “You’re doing just fine. Though you’ll want to keep an eye on that roof—summer storms here can roll in fast, and autumn’s no kinder.”

She nodded toward the bucket, then lowered her voice. “If you need Corwin to come sooner than later, tell him Miri sent you. He doesn’t dally when I’m the one asking.”

I made a quick note in the margin of my priority list: Corwin—mention Miri.

Miri took one last glance around the shop before pulling her hood back up. “All right. I’ve got more deliveries to make. Stay dry, and keep the rolls warm.”

The bell jingled again as she left, and I was still smiling when the next visitor stepped through the door.

This one was tall and broad-shouldered, a coat of river-oiled canvas dripping at the threshold. He stomped off his boots with the weight of someone used to hauling cargo and pulled his hood back to reveal a weathered face framed by damp black curls streaked with grey.

“Just ducking in,” he said, voice gravelly but kind. “Storm’s picking up near the docks.”

“Welcome,” I said, moving around the counter. “Feel free to stay as long as you need.”

He nodded and made his way to the rear shelves, where he paused to run his hand along the spines of the travel journals. “Henrik used to recommend these to the crew headed south. The bindings held even on the roughest barges.”

“I’ve done a bit of checking on them,” I said, warming at the chance to talk shop. “Some were his handiwork, others rebinding jobs he modified for weather.”

He gave a low hum of approval. “Good eye. You’ll want to stock more of the thin ones come midsummer. That’s when the far barges roll in. Traders looking to jot notes between stops. Thursdays are busiest—arrivals from upstream.”

Another note scratched onto my list: Thin travel journals before midsummer. Trader barges—Thursdays.

The man gave a nod as if confirming the thought, then tilted his head toward the back of the shop. “That bucket’s in the right place. But you’ll need to get that patched before wind season hits. Rain’s one thing—highwind’s another. Roof’s liable to lift if the beams aren’t solid.”

“I’ve never lived somewhere with wind like that,” I admitted. “In Highspire, the buildings all sheltered each other. Nothing ever howled.”

He chuckled. “You’ll hear it here. Just don’t let it catch you with loose shutters or an untied gate.”

Another scribbled addition: Secure shutters. Check back gate latch.

He didn’t linger long—just long enough to purchase one of the blank field logs from the display and slip three silver coins into the dish with a nod.

“Welcome to Riverhaven,” he said, voice low but sincere. “Glad to have you.”

The bell hadn’t fully settled from his departure when it jingled again. This time, it was a pair—Idris, the tall, elegantly dressed elf who ran the spice stall near the bakery, and Thaddeus, the goblin who operated the tea stall beside him with the most immaculate display of labeled tins I’d ever seen.

Idris’s silver braid was slick with rain, and Thaddeus’s hood hung low over his brow, his cloak dripping steadily onto the mat. Both looked entirely unbothered by the weather.

“Elspeth,” Idris said as they stepped in. “We thought we’d better check on you. First proper Riverhaven storm and all that.”

“I’m managing,” I said, though my voice tilted uncertainly. “Still learning the building’s quirks.”

Thaddeus stepped forward and passed me a small, carefully wrapped packet. “Here. A welcoming gift. New blend I’ve been working on—clove, caramel, little bit of fireroot. Good for damp bones and foggy mornings. Let me know what you think, if you like.”

I accepted the bundle carefully and inhaled its warm, complex aroma. “That smells… like a fireplace in a spice market. Thank you.”

He gave a pleased grunt and began inspecting the mortarwork around the front door while Idris wandered over to the shelves.

“Henrik used to stock one with infusion ratios,” he murmured as he browsed. “Ah—this one.”

He pulled a red-bound recipe book from the shelf, flipped it open, and gave a small nod. “Perfect. My nephew’s been trying to perfect his apple bark mix. Keeps oversteeping the base and throwing everything off.”

I rang him through, noting the weight of three silver coins placed precisely in the dish.

“You’ve kept the right sort of books in stock,” Idris said. “Henrik would be pleased.”

“And Riverhaven hasn’t washed you away,” Thaddeus added, nodding toward the bucket with a twitch of his pointed ears. “You’re doing just fine.”

They stayed just long enough to share a few warnings about rising gutters, the wind shear on the bluff path, and the best place to buy firewood that didn’t smoke. Then, with their usual efficiency, they disappeared back into the rain, trailing conversation and the scent of herbs behind them. By midday, I’d had five visitors and more unsolicited advice than I knew what to do with. But I wrote it all down. Every last tip and note and bit of neighborly wisdom. And I tucked the tea blend into the cabinet behind the counter like a treasure.

The rain had softened to a steady drizzle by the time I finished inspecting the rest of the ceiling beams. I’d walked the perimeter of the shop with deliberate care, using the stepladder I’d borrowed from the garden shed and a folded rag to test for dampness along every joint and corner. The wood groaned beneath my hands in a few places but held sound, and the only leak remained the one I already knew—the southwest corner, safely caught by the old blue bucket and no worse than before. I allowed myself a quiet breath of relief. It was the first time since the storm began that I felt not behind, but slightly ahead.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Still, it was clear how much I didn’t know about this building. The shadows between the rafters, the corners of cupboards I hadn’t opened, the storage spaces I might have overlooked in my focus on the visible and the immediate. I stood for a moment in the center of the shop and turned slowly in place, trying to look at it not as a space already half-known, but as something full of potential mysteries. There was no telling how many small systems Henrik had in place—tucked away, waiting to be discovered. Waiting, perhaps, for someone to ask the right question.

As if summoned by that very thought, Codex stirred from her post at the window and leapt soundlessly to the floor. She trotted across the room with brisk certainty, her tail arched in a slow wave. She didn’t pause at her dish or the hearth or any of her usual spots. Instead, she walked directly to the narrow space beneath the stairs and sat, tail curling neatly around her feet.

I raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

Codex blinked at me. Not slowly. Not dismissively. It felt more like expectation.

I crossed the room and crouched beside her, brushing aside a thin edge of rug. That’s when I saw it: the seam in the floorboards, subtle as a whisper, and a small brass ring set flush into the wood grain. I reached down and slipped two fingers into the ring. It lifted easily, and with a bit of pressure, the panel creaked open—revealing a narrow, steep staircase disappearing into the darkness below.

Cool, dry air drifted up from the opening, scented faintly with dust and oiled wood. Not a basement air, not musty or forgotten. It smelled preserved. Protected. I fetched a lantern, lit it with shaking fingers, and returned to the hatch. Codex had already descended, her paws soundless on the old wooden steps. I followed, lantern held high, one hand trailing lightly along the wall for balance as I descended. At the bottom, I found myself in a low, stone-walled cellar—its dimensions nearly the length and breadth of the shop above, and yet utterly silent. The air was still. The walls cool. My lantern cast slow golden arcs across crates, shelves, and carefully arranged boxes, all of them labeled in Henrik’s familiar hand. I took a single step forward and stopped, overwhelmed not by fear or uncertainty, but by astonishment. This was no root cellar. No rough storage. This was a binder’s reserve.

Dozens of flat bundles of paper stock were arranged in covered stacks: ivory, cream, riverstone gray, even flecked mulberry with pressed flower inclusions. Some were tied with waxed thread, others wrapped in parchment cloth to guard against damp. Along one wall, thick rolls of spine cloth were hung on pegs, sorted by color and weight. A small case of tools sat beneath them—bone folders in several sizes, awls with polished handles, brass weights lined with felt, spare needles and binding knives, each resting in their own slot. Drawers beneath the shelves held coils of linen thread, all sorted by gauge, and rows of labels cut and ready to affix.

On a recessed shelf in the corner, glass bottles gleamed in the lantern light, each sealed with wax and labeled in ink so fine I had to tilt the lantern to read them. Archival black. River brown—slow bleed. Rainfern green—steady flow, fine point. They were grouped by use: everyday ink, enchanting-grade, pigment only, diluted tests. There were dozens of them.

I moved deeper into the room, the lantern casting long shadows behind me. Pressed boards were stacked by size and thickness, some with rounded corners for travel journals, others squared off for ledgers or recipe books. There were blanks too—half-bound books awaiting covers, signatures sewn and pressed but not yet assembled. A small wooden chest opened to reveal a neat row of wax seal blanks, sticks of sealing wax in rose, moss, and deep plum, and a set of gently used brass stamps tucked in with care.

It was everything I had needed. Everything I hadn’t dared to hope was still here. Upstairs, I’d been rationing my last spool of binding thread and counting out boards to see how many I could salvage from the shelf of miscut spares. I’d delayed even planning new journals because I didn’t want to run out of essentials before placing a guild order. But this… this changed everything. This was enough to keep the bindery running for weeks, even months. Enough to begin again. Codex hopped lightly onto a crate labeled Paper offcuts—half-sheets, sorted and sat, as if she’d been waiting for me to catch up. She curled her tail around her feet and gazed at me, the very picture of satisfied smugness.

I let out a breath that was half a laugh. “You knew this was here the whole time, didn’t you?”

She blinked slowly, in that maddening way cats do when they’re being both mysterious and completely transparent.

“Well,” I said, running my fingers across the edge of a crate filled with ready-cut covers, “I suppose I’ll forgive you. Eventually.”

The cellar felt warmer now. Not in temperature, but in tone—like a place that had once belonged to someone else but had, somehow, been waiting for me. There was nothing flashy or enchanted about it. No glowing sigils, no magical protections. Just care. Precision. The quiet kind of magic that came from well-kept supplies, from materials laid by with patience, from a deep trust that craft mattered.

I walked one slow circuit of the room, lantern held high, taking in every detail. A bundle of ribbon in soft green, good for closures. A half-finished ledger block pressed under a stone weight. A drawer of parchment labels sorted by shape—circle, arch, rectangle, leaf. It was like opening a part of Henrik’s mind. Seeing what he had deemed important enough to store. What he had wanted to be ready for. And now, I was the one standing in that readiness. No longer just the shop’s caretaker, but its craftswoman. I could bind new books. I could design them from the first fold to the last polish. I could fill the empty shelf at the front with journals made by my own hands, not just stock curated from Henrik’s remnants. I wasn’t simply preserving what he’d built—I was becoming part of it.

Codex gave a soft huff and stretched before hopping off the crate and trotting back up the stairs. I stood in the stillness a moment longer, reluctant to break the spell, but eventually I turned and followed. Back in the shop, the rain had lessened again to a whisper, and light filtered through the clouds with that silvery softness that follows a long, honest storm. I closed the hatch gently and rested my palm on the floorboard, as if sealing something sacred.

Then I crossed to the workbench, opened my ledger to a fresh page, and wrote:

Cellar Inventory — full stock located.

— Thread, paper, covers, inks

— Binding tools (backup)

— Unfinished blanks

— Display materials, ribbons

— Labels and seal kits

Begin own bindings this week. Reserve shelf space.

After a moment’s pause, I added:

Codex knew.

I set down my quill, wiped the ink from my fingers, and looked toward the window, where the lane glistened and the gutters ran quietly with water. I had everything I needed now. Not just to maintain the shop, but to shape it—craft by craft, book by book. I tied back my sleeves and fetched a canvas basket from the hook by the door. The cellar was cool beneath my steps, but my heart had settled into something steady. Purposeful. I gathered materials with care: the soft mulberry parchment, sealed bottles of silver and plum-toned ink, blank covers for the green journals, sheets of fine linen thread and spine cloth. I even added a small packet of narrow satin ribbon—pale sage with a stitched edge—perfect for the kind of letter kit someone might buy to send news of a voyage home. Codex returned to her perch by the window, tail flicking with quiet approval as I crossed the shop with my arms full. I placed everything gently on the workbench, smoothing out the cloth beneath the paper with the same kind of care I used to reserve for final exams. I couldn’t wait to get started.

The rain continued into afternoon, steady and measured like a metronome for thought. It tapped gently at the windows and pattered against the eaves, a constant hush that muffled the outside world and wrapped the bindery in a cocoon of silver-grey quiet. It was the sort of weather that demanded stillness, that made bustle feel out of place. The perfect kind of day for work that required precision, patience, and the slow unfolding of something made by hand.

I had lit the small lamp on the corner of the workbench—not for light exactly, since the clouded daylight was enough, but for the sense of intention it brought. The glow steadied my focus. The familiar scent of warmed beeswax, oiled wood, and fresh paper filled the air, blending with the faint lingering spice of Thaddeus’s gift tea, which I’d brewed and set aside in my favorite mug.

Everything I needed was laid out before me: soft river-green cloth covers cut to size, the creamy mulberry paper I’d selected from the cellar, the linen thread coiled neatly on a spindle, and Henrik’s tools. His bone folder sat beside the stack of signatures, its edge slightly darkened with age but still smooth and even. The awl, with its worn wooden handle and gleaming steel point, rested in a shallow groove of the tool tray as if waiting to be picked up.

I took a slow breath and began.

My fingers, at first stiff with hesitation, quickly remembered their work. I folded each signature carefully, running the bone folder down the crease with firm, even pressure. The paper whispered as it shifted under my touch. I lined the signatures in small, tidy stacks and pricked the holes with the awl, measuring twice before committing the first mark. Every motion drew from old habits—school days filled with murmured instructions, the hum of classmates bent over their projects, and the proud ache of my shoulders the day I completed my first full binding.

This was quieter. More personal. No watching instructors, no rows of apprentices. Just me and the steady rhythm of creation. A stitch through the first hole, thread drawn tight. Across the spine, through the next. My hands settled into their work, the tension in my shoulders unwinding with each motion. It was like walking a path I hadn’t seen in years but somehow still knew by heart.

The first journal came together smoothly. The cover adhered without bubbles, the spine aligned with satisfying neatness. I pressed it gently under a weight and moved to the next, confidence growing. Three more followed, each slightly different—one with an extra flyleaf for Mrs. Pembridge’s inevitable marginalia, one stitched a little tighter for durability. I made small adjustments, trusting my instincts.

With the last one pressed and set aside to cure, I wiped down the bench and poured the now-lukewarm tea into a basin to cool for watering the garden later. My hands were ink-smudged, thread-creased, but light. There was a steadiness in me now that hadn’t been there at breakfast. A sense of having made something—something real, something mine.

I dried my hands, rolled my shoulders, and turned to the next task.

The letter kits had been on my mind since the first travelers paused at the shop. With so many merchants, traders, and seasonal visitors passing through Riverhaven, a well-stocked selection of correspondence kits could offer something both useful and charming. I’d sketched a few ideas the night before—a variety of paper colors, small glass vials of ink, matching envelopes, perhaps even wax seal options for the more romantically inclined.

From the cellar, I brought up three styles of paper: one a pale grey-blue with deckled edges, one a warm cream with a slight tooth to it, and a third—my favorite—a soft lilac-tinted sheet with faint shimmer when caught in the light. I chose coordinating envelopes, already pre-cut and neatly pressed, and laid them out in sets of eight. A fourth tray held wax sticks in dusky rose and green-gold, which I paired with two of the brass stamp blanks I’d found earlier. I’d need to design the stamps eventually—something elegant but versatile. For now, they could be sold separately.

The packaging was what would make it sing. I wrapped each kit in a wide strip of tissue-thin vellum and tied them with a length of twine and a tiny label stamped with a moon and quill—a symbol I’d doodled one evening and now quietly claimed as my own. I tucked a sliver of scented lavender leaf into one bundle, just to see how it felt.

Codex wandered over midway through, stretched luxuriously, and flopped beside the stack of kits in progress. She eyed the ribbon but didn’t bite, for once. I took that as approval.

As I worked, I imagined the stories each kit might help tell. A daughter writing home about the barge she’d crewed. A merchant sending prices and poetry in equal measure. A lover’s cautious missive tucked between trade invoices. The thought made me smile. These weren’t just paper and ink—they were invitations to communicate, to connect. And I could be part of that.

By late afternoon, the journals for Mrs. Pembridge were dry enough to stack in a neat pile on the finished shelf behind the counter. They weren’t perfect, not yet—not like Henrik’s confident bindings—but they were solid, honest, and mine. The letter kits were bundled and labeled, ready to price tomorrow. I’d make a small sign, I decided, just something simple: Correspondence Sets – crafted in-house.

I sat back, brushing a stray ribbon thread from my lap, and let myself enjoy the view. The shop, for once, looked like a place in motion—not just a preserved relic, but a space with breath and rhythm. The shelves held not just remnants, but possibility. The tools on the bench were no longer foreign—they were familiar, slightly worn from use, still bearing Henrik’s imprint, and now mine.

The rain outside had eased to a gentle mist. In the window glass, the first signs of dusk were beginning to gather, tinting the panes with lavender shadows. I rose and carried the tea water out to the garden, tipping it carefully near the roots of the thyme and inkleaf. The scent of damp earth rose to greet me. Back inside, Codex trailed after me and leapt onto her windowsill with a chirrup. I gave her a scratch behind the ears and returned to the workbench, tidying the spools of thread and stacking the unused paper for the next round of kits. There would be more to make. More to discover. But today had marked a shift. Today, I had made something. Not just for customers but also for myself and this place. It felt like a beginning.

The rain had returned in earnest by early evening. What had been a soft mist through the afternoon gathered itself once more into purposeful sheets, hurrying along the gutters and pattering heavily against the windows. The lane was empty again, save for the occasional blur of a cloak as someone hurried by with their head ducked against the weather. Inside, I moved through the quiet shop with slow, satisfied steps, checking the window latches and turning the “Open” sign to its resting side. I had just fastened the lock and turned toward the kitchen when a sudden pounding shook the door—a single, urgent knock that startled both me and Codex from our routines. She leapt from the counter with a soft thud, and I paused mid-step, unsure whether to unlock again or pretend I hadn't heard it.

But the knock came again, accompanied by a muffled voice: “Miss Whitfield? Elspeth?”

I cracked the door open, only to be met by the sight of a dripping man in a broad-brimmed oilcloth hat and a long coat soaked through at the hem. His boots were slick with mud, and his beard—short, slightly curled, flecked with grey—dripped steadily onto the doorstep.

“Evenin’,” he said, voice warm despite the weather. “Corwin Barleyroot. Miri gave me an earful this afternoon and told me if I didn’t come see to that leak by sundown, she’d personally revoke my cinnamon roll privileges for a month.”

I blinked, then stepped aside automatically. “Oh—come in, please.”

He ducked through the doorway, removing his hat and giving it a sharp shake just outside before stomping his boots on the mat. He smelled of wet wool, woodsmoke, and the sharp tang of damp metal.

“I’m sorry to barge in,” he said, glancing around the shop as if checking for further leaks. “Would’ve come earlier, but I had another roof half blown off near the stables. This one,” he tipped his head toward the ceiling, “Miri says you found it already?”

“Yes,” I said, gesturing toward the back of the room where the old blue bucket still stood sentry. “Southwest corner. Henrik wrote about it in his ledger, said you were scheduled to repair it before autumn?”

He nodded. “I was. Had the supplies ordered and everything. But… well. Life.” His tone sobered briefly. “Didn’t think I’d be finishing the job without him.”

I offered a gentle smile. “It’s all right. I’m just grateful you’re still available. I wouldn’t have known who to ask.”

Corwin strode over to the leak, crouched beside the bucket, and looked up. He scratched his chin, then stood and tapped along the ceiling beam with the handle of an extending brass tool he’d pulled from his coat pocket.

“Well, no visible spread,” he muttered. “Beam’s old but sound. I can patch it—just need a clear day and a bit of drying time. If the weather turns by midweek, I’ll have it done by Thursday, latest.”

I exhaled, tension loosening in my shoulders. “Thank you. Truly. It’s been… a week.”

He chuckled and adjusted the strap of his tool pack. “They’re keeping an eye on you, you know. This village. We might not say it directly, but Miri’s already enlisted half the dockhands to stop in for ‘accidental shopping.’ Even Thaddeus I hear gave you tea as a welcoming gift, and that goblin doesn’t give away stock without a ceremony.”

I smiled, surprised and warmed all over again. “Yes, he brought me a caramel spice blend, said to let him know if it was too bold.”

Corwin gave a knowing nod. “Then you’re in. Thaddeus only brings his new blends to special folk. I’ve worked on his roof twice and never got so much as a sniff of cinnamon. The way I see it, if he’s already brought you a sample, you’re well and truly adopted.”

The warmth that bloomed in my chest wasn’t from the stove.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, smiling.

He left with a tip of his head and a promise to return at the first sign of sun. I locked the door again and leaned against it for a moment, the sound of rain filling the space between my thoughts.

They were watching out for me. Not in a smothering way, not with expectations or demands. Just quiet checks, thoughtful gestures. A baker’s sweet rolls, a craftsman’s repair visit, a tea vendor’s blend with a note: “Try this and let me know if it’s too bold.” It was a kind of belonging I hadn’t expected to feel so soon.

Back in the workroom, Codex had returned to her usual spot beside the hearth. She blinked at me as I passed, her tail flicking once as if acknowledging the visitor’s departure.

“I’ll write to them,” I murmured to her, already reaching for my writing box. “It’s time.”

I took a thick sheaf of mulberry-toned paper and a slender glass vial of ink from the shelf—Henrik’s archival black, the one that never bled, perfect for careful handwriting. I brought both to the table near the window and lit a second lamp, the warm glow catching in the curve of the glass and gleaming against the gold of the quill’s nib.

My handwriting began tentatively, lines curling into shape like leaves unfurling. But the words came quickly once they began.

Dear Family,

It’s rained nearly all day here, but I’m dry—and the books mostly are, too, thanks to a well-placed bucket and the late Henrik’s habit of writing down everything that mattered. I think you’d have liked him. He was the sort to label not only his tools but the drawers they lived in, and his garden is just as carefully arranged as the shop. Did I mention there’s a garden? With apple trees and inkleaf and herbs I haven’t even identified yet. It’s been tended, even in his absence. I’m keeping it that way.

The bindery is smaller than the school workshop, but cozier. Everything smells of paper and warmed beeswax and sometimes tea. There’s a cat named Codex who watches everything with deep judgment and only allows affection after supper. She’s perfect.

The roof leaks—just a little—but I know where, and Corwin the roofer came to inspect it tonight. (Miri the baker scolded him until he came over in the rain. I think she’s my local patron saint.) He says he’ll have it patched by Thursday if the weather clears.

I made my first sale yesterday. A traveling merchant bought a field logbook and paid three silver without haggling. I still think about that sometimes—three coins for something I sold. He didn’t even blink. Just said, “Glad to have you.”

There’s more kindness than I expected here. They bring small gifts—tea samples, extra rolls, suggestions for where Henrik kept the good ink. No one says it directly, but they’re making sure I find my footing.

I’ve started binding again. Properly. This morning I made a set of journals for Mrs. Pembridge, one of Henrik’s former regulars. River-green with cream pages, stitched tight and folded by hand. The rhythm of it came back quickly. It felt… right. Like my hands remembered something my mind had buried under too many lists. I’ll begin putting my own work on the front shelf soon. Imagine that.

I’ve enclosed a little sketch of the garden layout so you can see where the inkleaf grows. It reminds me of the herb wall in your kitchen, though the pots here are heavier and the soil smells wilder. I’ll try planting something from seed soon, maybe lavender or softmint.

Oh—and the market. That’s its own story. That tea-seller, Thaddeus, brought me a caramel spice blend to sample. He says it’s “for brave mornings and quiet storms.” I think you’d like it.

There’s a rhythm forming now. It’s still new, still creaky in places, but it’s mine. I don’t always know what I’m doing, but I keep finding just enough to keep going. Maybe that’s what settling in is supposed to feel like. Not certainty—just enough steadiness to reach for the next thread.

Tell Maisie I found a ribbon the exact color of her favorite cloak. And Gareth—if he still insists inkwork is dull, remind him I now own a cellar full of pigments and glass bottles and I will use them to make him a personalized ledger for his invoices whether he likes it or not.

Thank you, for everything that brought me here.

I think I can do this.

With love,

Elspeth

The ink dried quickly on the thick paper. I folded the letter and slipped it into a cream envelope lined with green, then melted a stick of plum-colored wax over a small candle and sealed it with one of Henrik’s old brass stamps. A crescent moon and sheaf of paper—a mark that had once stood for his work and, perhaps now, would also stand for mine. Codex hopped onto the chair beside me as I tidied away the writing tools. She circled twice before curling into a perfect coil and resting her head on one paw. I ran a gentle hand along her back, and she gave a single purring breath in response. The lamps flickered softly in their glass, the rain tapped a gentler rhythm now, and the whole bindery seemed to exhale with me.

I blew out the second lamp, then the first, carrying the sealed letter to the basket by the door. It would go out with the morning post, and with it, a small piece of the life I was learning to live. Upstairs, the bed was cool and clean. I slipped beneath the blanket with a tiredness that felt earned, not heavy. My muscles ached, but it was the good kind—the kind that comes after a day of work that mattered. As I closed my eyes, the soft sound of rain continued overhead, less urgent now, more like a lullaby. The bindery was still, and I let myself sink into it, not as a stranger, but as someone who belonged. Not completely. Not yet. But it was beginning, and that was enough.