Chapter 6: The First Ledger

The storm had swept through in the night, leaving the morning steeped in that rare, shimmering stillness that only follows a heavy rain. Outside the back windows of the bindery, the garden glistened with droplets clinging to leaves and petals like tiny beads of glass. The stone path gleamed dark beneath puddles, and a low mist lingered over the earth, rising in gentle threads that caught the early light. There was no wind, no birdsong yet—just the soft hush of a world rinsed clean.

I lingered with my tea at the threshold of the workroom, drawing in the quiet. The long table before me was already prepared, each tool in its place from the night before, the paper and cloth supplies sorted into tidy stacks. I’d brought up what I needed from the cellar—boxes of backing board, jars of treated glue, bundles of linen thread—and arranged them in easy reach. This was the kind of morning the space seemed to anticipate: calm, bright, focused.

For the first time since arriving in Riverhaven, I had the freedom and materials to create something from scratch—not out of necessity or repair, but for the sheer purpose of offering it to the world. I would make my first full binding. A ledger, tailored to the dockworkers and traders who passed through town with increasing frequency. If I could design something they preferred—something durable, practical, and thoughtfully made—it could become the foundation of my income. I’d seen the same fraying, mass-produced ledgers in market carts and dock satchels over and over again. There was room for something better.

I began with the paper, selecting a linen blend in a river-toned greenish blue—resistant to moisture, textured just enough to take ink without smudging. I ran my fingers along the grain, aligning edges with care as I folded each sheet into signatures. Henrik’s old bone folder, its surface worn smooth by years of use, fit neatly into the crook of my palm. The soft shuff of the folds lining up in sequence brought back memories of my training, long hours bent over the binding bench in school, quiet except for the occasional scratch of thread or the snap of cloth under tension.

Once I had stacked eight folded signatures, I secured them with clips and prepared my needle and thread. The linen thread I’d chosen was slate-gray, waxed to slide easily through the paper without tearing. I stitched with practiced hands, the needle piercing evenly spaced holes as I bound the sections into a single, cohesive block. With every pass through paper and knot pulled firm, I felt the slow, grounding rhythm return. There was a sense of meditative stillness in it—a gentle momentum that made time fold in on itself.

After tying off the last signature, I set the block between wooden pressing boards to firm the spine. While the weight settled, I turned to preparing the covers—cutting boards to size, beveling edges with the paring knife, and selecting a cloth backing dyed deep river green. I’d chosen that particular cloth for its weather-resistant properties; it had been treated with a thin oil wash that gave it a faint sheen when it caught the light. A few flecks of silver thread ran through it, almost invisible unless one was looking closely, like fish gliding under water.

Once the spine was trimmed and rounded, I reached for the enchanted brass roller next—an innovation taught during my final year in Highspire. It had only recently been introduced into the curriculum, developed by a bindery master known for merging practical spellwork with production techniques. Sleek and finely balanced, the roller was etched with tiny sigils that shimmered faintly when activated. I pressed it along the glued spine. A soft warmth pulsed beneath my fingers as the enchantment activated, evaporating moisture almost instantly and setting the adhesive cleanly in place. What once required a full day of drying could now be completed in a matter of moments. The roller didn’t replace skill, but it enhanced it—offering just enough efficiency to keep pace with demand without compromising the integrity of the work.

I assembled the case next—aligning the pressed text block into its covers, layering glue between cloth and board, using a broad brush and bone folder to chase air from the corners. The press accepted the finished form easily, tightening around the case as I adjusted its clamps and listened for that slight, reassuring creak of the boards settling into place. I didn’t rush. This part needed stillness. Pressure and patience.

While it rested, I sorted through the decorative stamps in the drawer beneath the bench and drew out the Moonscribe seal—the one I’d chosen when I’d arrived. A crescent moon cradling a single turned page. Not ostentatious, but elegant and unmistakably mine. Henrik’s seal had been different—a quill inked in motion—but this one was a quiet continuation. A mark that said the bindery had passed on, not away.

When the glue had cooled and the case felt set, I removed the ledger from the press and inspected it. The spine flexed cleanly. The covers were even. The cloth caught the light just so, glinting like wet leaves. I held it in my hands a long while, turning it slowly to check every seam, every fold, every alignment. It wasn’t perfect. But it was sturdy, thoughtful, and built to last. A ledger made not just for Riverhaven, but of it. I warmed the brass stamp lightly over the lamp and pressed it into the lower back cover. The seal left a clear impression in the cloth—shallow, elegant, shining faintly in the light. The mark of Moonscribe Bindery. Of me. Codex, who had appeared at some point and taken up her usual post on the windowsill, watched the stamping with feline approval. She stretched luxuriously as if to say, Finally, then padded down and curled beside the ledger as I set it upright to cool.

The room smelled faintly of glue and cloth and brass now—a scent that felt deeply familiar. Comforting, even. I began tidying the scraps and putting away unused thread, readying the space for the next binding. Already, I could see how the rhythm of this might unfold: a few ledgers each week, gradually building inventory, then expanding into custom sizes or logbooks for the upstream barge lines. I’d even begun sketching a few ideas for reusable covers, ones that could be refilled—perhaps a premium offering for merchants who passed through often.

But first: consistency. A reliable product. Something that the dockhands and rivermen could count on. If they began carrying my books up and down the river, word would travel farther than any sign in a shop window. With that thought in mind, I reached for another stack of paper and set the ruler across the grain. One book made. Five more to go. And a future waiting, one stitch at a time.

Later that day, the bell above the door gave its usual gentle jingle, a sound that had quickly grown familiar—no longer startling, but expected. I looked up from the workbench behind the counter, where I was arranging fresh sheets of parchment for the next ledger, just in time to see a stately figure stepping over the threshold with the graceful certainty of someone who had known this building longer than I had.

Mrs. Pembridge stood wrapped in a pale blue cloak that shimmered faintly at the edges. Her silver hair was coiled high in a crown-like twist, and a gloved hand carried an oilcloth satchel with the casual elegance of an elven lady perfectly at home in any season. She surveyed the shop with calm eyes, and I could see at once that she noticed everything—from the new ledgers stacked in the window nook to the drying tray of sealing wax behind the counter.

“Miss Whitfield,” she said with a nod, her voice smooth and lightly musical. “I hope I’m not too early.”

“Not at all,” I replied, wiping my hands quickly on the edge of my apron and rising to greet her. “I finished them yesterday—just let me fetch the wrapping.”

I retrieved the two green journals from beneath the counter, already tied with sage ribbon and sealed with a wax crescent. I’d tucked a sprig of dried lavender into the knot—not for fragrance, but for the quiet symbolism of care and patience. She took the package into her hands and unwrapped it with efficient delicacy, inspecting the covers, the gold edge detailing, and the first page of each with a discerning eye.

“These are very fine,” she said at last, closing one with a satisfied nod. “Henrik would be pleased you kept his cloth stock for this design.”

“I had just enough for the pair,” I admitted. “The rest I’ll order once I’ve sold a few more.”

She gave a small, approving hum and set the journals gently into her satchel. “Of course, dear. Henrik kept the same hours, you know. Mornings for customers, afternoons for his work. Real money’s in the custom commissions. That’s what gives a shop its footing.”

I smiled, relief warming behind my ribs. “That’s very helpful to know.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, drawing a small planner from her cloak. “And I’ll need next month’s gardening journal—the moon phases included this time. And perhaps not green again. Something in ivory or clay, if you have it?”

I reached for a blank order card and scribbled the details as she spoke. “I have a clay-dyed batch of parchment I haven’t used yet. I think it would suit the garden theme nicely.”

“Perfect. I’ll collect it the first of next month.” She gave a soft nod, as if sealing the agreement by sheer will. “I look forward to seeing how you interpret the phases.”

“I’ll make it special,” I promised.

She left a tidy stack of silver on the counter and departed with the same unhurried grace, leaving the scent of lavender and rain-damp wool behind her. I watched her disappear beneath the street awning before turning back toward the bench. A commission fulfilled, another lined up. It felt good—more than that, it felt real.

I had just settled into adjusting the next set of spine boards when the door jingled again, this time with a gust of wind and a muddle of hurried footsteps. A man entered in travel-worn leather, his coat streaked with dried river mud and the cuffs fraying at the seams. He carried a large satchel tucked beneath one arm, which he placed with reverent caution on the counter.

“Are you the binder?” he asked, breath still catching in his throat.

"I am,” I said, moving toward him. “What can I help you with?”

He opened the satchel and withdrew what might once have been a ledger. It was now a tragedy of broken spine, warped pages, and a corner that looked like it had been crushed beneath something heavy and unforgiving.

“It fell off the cart,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wheel rolled right over it before I even realized. I’ve got the next barge out tomorrow morning, and I can’t be without it—too many records I need. Can you—?”

He trailed off, clearly unsure whether this was a reasonable request or a desperate plea. I opened the cover gently, flipping through the worst of the damage. The text was still legible, though the pages had taken a beating.

“I can’t restore it to what it was,” I said gently, turning to a particularly crumpled folio near the middle, “but I can rebind it, reinforce the cover, and glue in the worst of the torn pages. If you’re careful with it, it’ll get you through your trip—and keep your records tidy.”

He exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “That’s all I need. Just something that won’t fall apart if I breathe too hard.”

I nodded. “Leave it with me, and come back before sunset. I’ll have it ready.”

“You’re sure?”

“Binding, I can do,” I said with a small smile. “And the glue I use won’t melt if it gets damp.”

That earned a chuckle. “Bless you, miss. I’ll be back before the light fades.”

When he left, the shop fell back into its gentle stillness, the kind I’d once craved for long study hours. Now I was learning how to shape it—to move between crafting and conversation without losing the thread of either. I’d set up the workbench to allow a clear view of the front door, with enough counter space to receive customers without displacing tools. A rhythm was forming, one that allowed for human interruption without breaking the craft.

I laid the damaged ledger on a blotting mat and began disassembling it carefully. The covers were a loss—pressed board and weak cloth that had warped beyond saving—but the pages were salvageable. I lifted each one, brushing off grit and curling them beneath a wooden pressing plate to dry and flatten. The spine threads had snapped entirely. I would need to resew it.

As I worked, Codex leapt onto the stool beside me and curled up with one paw tucked beneath her chin. The rain drummed softly on the roof, steady and rhythmic. I found a gentle pace in my hands—selecting new boards, cutting cloth, marking signatures for restitching. I ran the enchanted brass roller along the glued spine once I’d set the final folio into place, letting its warmth settle the materials with quiet precision.

There was a kind of peace to mending what had been broken, even if it would never look perfect again. Sometimes salvage was its own kind of beauty—honest, weathered, but ready to carry on.

By the time the bell chimed again, the sun had slipped low enough to cast long shadows across the front floorboards. The trader returned, his coat still damp from the river mist and his expression laced with quiet hope.

“Done?” he asked.

I passed the newly bound ledger across the counter. “It won’t win any style awards, but it’ll hold.”

He turned it over in his hands, nodding as he flipped to the middle and ran a thumb along the repaired hinge. “You did this in half a day?”

“I did,” I said. “Try not to run it over this time.”

He laughed, warm and grateful, and slid a few extra silver coins into the dish before tucking the book under his arm. “I’ll tell the others at the docks. Reckon you’ll be seeing more of us.”

The door swung shut behind him with a gust of cool air, and I was left blinking into the quiet. I wiped the glue from my hands, turned the lamp wick a little lower, and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

There was still more to do—orders to plan, cloth to inventory, thread to sort—but I’d handled the day, and handled it well.

Upstairs, the air smelled faintly of parchment and rain-washed air drifting in through the cracked window. I refilled Codex’s dish with a scoop of smoked trout kibble and added the last sliver of fish from my lunch plate, which she accepted with an approving flick of her tail. My limbs ached in a quiet, satisfying way as I peeled off my apron and let it drape over the back of a chair. I didn’t bother with tea or brushing out my hair. Instead, I slipped beneath the quilt and let the weight of the day settle over me like a second blanket. Codex leapt up a moment later, her warmth pressing into the crook of my knees. No dreams, no letters, no midnight thoughts—just the hush of rain and the soft certainty that I belonged here now. I let sleep take me whole.

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The morning began with the comforting murmur of spoons and kettle, the soft clink of ceramic against wood as I set breakfast out on the little upstairs table. A bowl of warm porridge, dressed with dried currants and honey, paired with strong tea steeped from Thaddeus’s latest blend—a clove-spiced caramel mix that still surprised me with its richness. It was overcast outside, but the air had lost the heavy weight of the rain. Damp, yes, but promising.

Codex padded across the rug, tail flicking, and gave a short chirp of reminder. I set out her smoked trout kibble with a sliver of leftover salted mackerel beside it. She accepted the offering with a brisk nod and immediately began eating, curled neatly like a scroll at the base of the cupboard. Once my mug was empty and the bowl rinsed clean, I descended into the shop to begin the day’s true task—Mrs. Pembridge’s next journal.

I’d already selected the clay-dyed parchment she’d requested, a soft earthy shade with pale flecks in the fibers that reminded me of pressed petals. The moon phases, I’d decided, would be marked with silver ink at the top of each week’s page. She didn’t require detailed astrological notes—just clean indicators for planting and pruning, waxing and waning.

I laid out the folios, folded them into signatures, and began marking the stitching holes. As I worked, the rhythm returned—the steady alignment, the careful cuts, the press of thread through paper and cloth. With Henrik’s bone folder in hand and my own stitching frame adjusted to the right height, I felt the quiet sense of belonging that had first drawn me to bookbinding. The work made sense. It was slow but sure, and it yielded beauty from order.

The quiet was companionable rather than silent. Codex stretched out on the rug near the back window, paws flicking occasionally as if chasing dreams through the dust motes. I hummed a little as I stitched—just enough to keep time, the tune forgotten by the time the needle passed through the next fold.

By the time I looked up, the light had shifted toward midday. I’d just finished gluing the spine and was reaching for my enchanted brass roller when the bell above the door rang—not in the quick patter of a passerby, but with the solid, deliberate weight of someone with a purpose. I wiped my hands on a clean rag and moved to the front.

The man who entered filled the doorway in more ways than one—broad-shouldered, with river-wind skin and callused hands, he wore a dark red coat trimmed in black and smelled faintly of tar, woodsmoke, and rain-soaked rope. A captain, without question. He removed his hat politely, revealing wind-tossed brown hair streaked with silver.

“You the one making the waterproof ledgers?” he asked, voice rough but measured.

I blinked, surprised. “I’ve made a few with water-resistant stock, yes. Are you looking for something specific?”

“I need twelve,” he said. “All the same: sturdy, compact, and able to take a bit of splash. My fleet runs down from Darsmoor and back twice a month. Deck logs get ruined if you so much as breathe damp air too close. I heard from Mikkel, the barge trader, that you repaired his book in a day and it still hasn’t peeled.”

“I remember. His ledger had been crushed under a cart.”

The captain gave a low chuckle. “Sounds like him.”

I gestured toward the display shelf near the counter where I’d recently placed two of my experimental dockworker logs. “I’ve been working on a few that might suit your needs. Waterproof cover cloth, reinforced thread, and a weather-set glue that won’t soften unless it’s submerged.”

He moved with deliberation, lifting one of the journals and flipping through it. His fingers were blunt but careful, like someone who valued well-made tools. He sniffed near the spine, tapped the corner, and gave a short nod.

“I want mine in red and black. Like my sails,” he said. “Twelve to start, all matching.”

I nodded, already estimating material needs in the back of my mind. “Same size as this one? Eight by ten?”

“Aye. Same ruling too—lined, nothing fancy. Just something solid for logging cargo, crew, and weather.”

I led him to the workbench, where I pulled out my sample books for cover cloth and thread types. “I have a brick red cloth in stock and black sailcloth as well. The black is more durable, but the red binds tighter. I can alternate them if you'd like, or keep the covers consistent and use the black as a spine accent.”

“No frills,” he said. “All red covers with black spines. No labels on the front. Just room for embossing inside—I stamp them per ship.”

“Understood,” I said, already reaching for my notes. “I can start first thing tomorrow.”

He gave a single, satisfied nod. “And the cost?”

“For the set of twelve—matching size and binding style—that’ll be ninety-six silver crowns. Weather-resistant, reinforced, and finished to the standards you saw here.”

“No gold stamping, just plain embossing,” he reminded.

“Of course. And I’ll leave space for your own stamps on the inside covers.”

He counted out forty-eight silver coins, stacking them with care. “Advance for materials—though sounds like you’re already stocked.”

“I am,” I said, offering a grateful smile. “But I still appreciate the trust.”

He tucked his coin pouch away and added, “If these hold up better than the ones I’ve got now, you won’t just have my business. I’m not the only bargemaster running this stretch of river. Word travels fast along the docks.”

I felt my pulse skip. “I’ll make sure they live up to it.”

“You do that,” he said with a half-smile. “Most books can’t take a hard week on the river. If yours can, that’s worth more than gold leaf.”

He paused before turning to go, eyeing the shop a moment longer. “Thaddeus told me he gave you a sample of his blend. Said he only does that for people he thinks belong.”

I blinked, touched. “He said it was a welcome gift.”

“It is,” the captain said. “That’s just his way of saying you’re one of us now.”

The bell above the door gave a single, affirming chime as he stepped back into the grey light and disappeared down the street.

I stood behind the counter for a long moment, the weight of the silver still warming my palm and the memory of his words settling deeper than expected. Belonging. It wasn’t a loud thing, not here. But it arrived in gestures like these—in new orders and spice blends and the echo of sails across the river.

I returned to the workbench and added his commission to my order ledger, noting the details with steady ink strokes. Then, unable to resist, I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began to sketch the cover plan for the twelve matching books. There would be no gilding, no adornment—just precision. Function. Strength. It suited the work. It suited the river…and, I was beginning to think, it suited me.

At precisely four o’clock, I stepped out from behind the counter, stretched the tension from my shoulders, and flipped the shop sign to “Closed.” The simple act brought a breath of relief, like unfastening a too-tight collar. The shop bell had rung only three times that day, and yet it always felt like more—the steady undercurrent of attentiveness, the readiness to answer questions, tidy shelves, greet customers. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t the part of the work that rooted me.

This—this quiet stretch of evening—was.

I lit the lamp above the workbench, adjusting the wick until it gave off a warm amber glow, and turned back toward the rows of neatly labeled crates I’d pulled from the cellar earlier in the week. The day’s bustle faded behind the closed door. I tied my apron again, rolling up the sleeves of my smock and smoothing the tabletop with both hands. The shop’s back room held a stillness I adored: just the soft tick of the clock, the occasional creak of a settling beam, and the rustle of Codex nosing through the paper scraps I’d swept into a soft pile in the corner.

Tonight would begin with letter kits. I’d made a list that morning—three “simple” sets with thick cream sheets and matching envelopes, wrapped in twine and sealed with a wax crescent; two “elegant” ones that used my finer paper stock—soft lilac, cornflower blue—and were paired with slender glass vials of violet ink. A few of the traders had asked about small luxuries they could gift or resell, and I’d decided to lean into that request with intention.

I selected the cream paper first, cutting each sheet precisely and stacking them into even piles, ten per set. The matching envelopes were already folded, waiting patiently in a cloth-lined tray. I bundled them together with narrow satin ribbons, my fingers adjusting the folds until each corner aligned just so. Then came the seals—each kit closed with a stamped crescent moon and page, the symbol that had come with the shop and that I now claimed as my own.

Codex gave a contented sigh from her paper nest, her tail twitching with feline satisfaction. I chuckled under my breath and moved on to the elaborate kits.

The lavender sheets were slightly translucent in the light, the fibers catching subtle glints of silver. I paired each with a glass ink vial—reclaimed from the cellar and carefully cleaned—and filled them with the dusky violet blend I’d mixed myself earlier in the week. Not magical ink, but the scent alone—a blend of elderflower and plum—made them feel special. I tested the stopper of each bottle, added a blotter sheet wrapped in beeswax paper, and secured the whole bundle in a folded pasteboard sleeve lined with soft felt.

Some of these would go in the display case. Some I’d reserve for the traveling merchants. But all of them bore the careful touch of my hands. My judgment. My craft.

By the time the last kit was finished and labeled, the light through the window had turned blue-grey, dusk curling at the corners of the sky. I rose, stretched again, and turned to the real work: the barge captain’s ledger set.

Twelve journals. Uniform, durable, unobtrusively handsome. I spread the red and black cloth across the worktable and cut measured lengths for each cover, smoothing the material with my palm as I worked. The smell of the treated cloth was sharp—like ink and woodsmoke—and I found it oddly comforting. I marked fold lines, trimmed corners, and set them aside, one by one.

Then came the paper. I selected the thicker field-weight sheets from the cellar stock—smooth, slightly speckled with fiber, and ideal for wet docks and gloved hands. Folding each into signatures took time, but it was satisfying: the paper gave just the right resistance as I creased the fold with Henrik’s old bone folder, the edges aligning with satisfying precision. My rhythm deepened with each repetition. Stack, fold, press. Stack, fold, press.

When the first set of signatures was ready, I began the stitching. I’d already chosen the strongest waxed thread in dark grey—visible but not garish against the red cloth. The curved needle slipped through the holes with an ease that came from long practice, and I settled into the familiar rhythm of Coptic stitching, letting my mind empty of everything but the task.

It was around this point that I lost all track of time.

The soundscape narrowed to thread pulling through paper, scissors slicing cleanly through cloth, and the subtle purr of Codex as she repositioned herself on a discarded offcut of red binding fabric. She was watching, in that half-lidded feline way, clearly satisfied that I had at last remembered what I was meant to be doing.

This was why I kept shorter shop hours. This kind of work—focused, thoughtful, exacting—couldn’t be done after eight hours of customer queries and errand-running. If I tried to do it tired, corners would slip. Thread would twist. Spines would skew. But now, in the hush of a post-closing shop, I was wholly present. Every seam precise. Every fold intentional.

By the time I finished the the first ledger and the cuts for all the others it was growing dark. The lamplight had begun to dim at the edges and the scent of ink and cloth had settled into the corners of the room like a spell. My shoulders ached, but I didn’t mind. This ache was earned. It meant something was being built.

I cleaned my tools with care—wiping down the awl, reshaping the thread cards, capping the glue pot—and stacked the completed pieces under a weight board to set overnight. Then I scooped Codex into my arms, earning a half-hearted paw bat for disturbing her perch. She forgave me, of course, once I set her dinner out.

Upstairs, the quiet had deepened into something more profound. Not silence exactly, but stillness. I washed my hands, noticing the faint glue stains at my cuticles and a smudge of wax near my wrist. My fingers smelled like paper and thread. It was a good smell. I poured a last cup of tea—lukewarm, but comforting—and stood by the window while I sipped it. The river was hidden in the dark, but I could hear it, faint and steady in the distance, like the turning of pages I hadn’t yet read.

By the time I washed up from the day’s work and lit the lamp near the desk, the windows had already surrendered to dusk. The view beyond had become a soft blur of charcoal shadows and deep blue sky, the last light of evening caught faintly in the wet shine of garden leaves. I ladled the rest of the barley stew into a bowl and carried it to the worktable, my steps quiet, the wooden floor pleasantly cool beneath my feet. Codex padded along beside me, then leapt onto her usual perch near the warm bricks of the hearth, tail flicking contentedly.

Dinner was plain but satisfying—root vegetables, barley, a few shreds of smoked fish from the package I’d stretched carefully throughout the week. I dipped a torn heel of bread into the broth and let the quiet settle in, broken only by the occasional tap of cooling rain at the windowpanes and Codex’s soft sigh as she tucked her paws beneath her chest.

Beside my bowl, Henrik’s old ledger lay open. I brushed a stray crumb from the page and picked up my quill, freshly trimmed that morning. The ink flowed smoothly as I turned to a new sheet in my own records, the scent of iron gall familiar and oddly grounding.

One of the barge ledgers was finished—just one, but it was enough to prove I could do it. Eleven more waited in neatly stacked pieces by the press, their cloth covers cut and ready. It was a major commission, far larger than anything I’d taken on in school or since, and it would carry me through the next few weeks if I paced myself wisely. The advance payment had been set aside for materials already, but the remainder would help fund the shop through early summer if I was careful.

I glanced at the list I’d drafted that morning and amended it slightly as I began to outline the week ahead.

Workshop Priorities – This Week

* Finish Mrs. Pembridge’s moon journal (waxing illustrations, lunar notes)

* Continue barge ledger set (goal: 2–3 this week)

* Restock letter writing kits (4 simple, 2 elegant)

* Inventory ink levels (low on violet and marine black)

* Check wax seals for journal closures

* Order parchment sheets for summer fair bundles

My hand paused above the last item. The letter kits hadn’t sold much yet—not directly, anyway—but the interest was there. The traveling merchants who’d stopped by last week had admired them, asked about customizations, and promised to return once their routes circled back. They hadn’t flown off the shelves, but they had potential. The kind of quiet product that built a reputation slowly, through word of mouth and thoughtful gifting. I had to trust in that.

With the list complete, I turned to a blank page and charted a loose schedule, testing ink flow with the corner of my quill.

Daily Rhythm (Flexible)

Workshop: 6:00 AM – 10:00 AM

Shop Open: 10:00 AM – 4:00 PM

Workshop (continued): 4:00 PM – 8:00 PM

Quiet Evenings: reading, letters, prep

It looked almost too clean, too orderly—but I knew better than to expect perfect adherence. Still, the shape of it reassured me. A structure I could return to even when the days bent out of shape. And I was beginning to understand why Henrik had done things the way he had.

I flipped back to a page I’d marked in his ledger earlier in the week and reread the note scrawled in the bottom corner in his distinct, looping script: The shop feeds you. The workshop fills the coffers.

I smiled faintly. It wasn’t just a phrase. It was the rhythm of his life here—of mine, now, too. The shop brought in the trickle: pens, small journals, sealing wax, the odd custom piece. The real income came from the workshop, from the commissions, from the crafted goods that carried my name across town and downriver. The difference between surviving and thriving lay in knowing how to balance both.

I adjusted the lamp wick slightly and reached for my supply log, beginning a quick inventory. I still had enough thread and spine boards for the current batch of ledgers, and plenty of black and red cloth, thank the stars. I’d been lucky that the captain’s color request matched materials I already had on hand. The moon journal would require some silver leaf and a touch of tinted glaze, but I’d already set those aside in a tray labeled Mrs. P.

Codex stretched out long beside the desk and gave a soft huff, her tail twitching against the rug. I set down my pen, capped the inkwell, and stood to stretch. My back twinged faintly—a reminder of how many hours I’d spent hunched over thread and board today.

In the basin, I rinsed my bowl and left it to dry on the rack. I swept a few stray paper scraps into the bin and pulled the drapes closed, pausing for a moment to look out into the darkened garden. The apple trees rustled gently in the wind. Tomorrow’s dawn would come early.

Upstairs, the bedroom was cooler than I liked, but the sheets were clean and the quilt held the faint scent of lavender from the sachets I’d tucked into the wardrobe. I changed into my nightdress, rubbed balm into my hands, and set my folded schedule atop my journal before climbing into bed. Codex joined me a moment later, curling up with practiced ease into the hollow behind my knees. Her warmth was immediate and steady, the soft sound of her purring already pulling at the edges of my awareness. I turned off the lamp and lay back against the pillows, eyes closed, a gentle ache in my shoulders but satisfaction in my chest.