Chapter 7: The River Delivery

I woke before the sun. Not because of any noise or dream, but because the quiet was too complete—the sort of hush that belongs only to the very beginning of a day. The kind of stillness you could hold in your hands, if you moved gently enough. The air in my small bedroom held that particular chill of early autumn mornings, when the warmth of summer had finally given way to something sharper. I lay still for a moment, listening to the old building settle around me—the faint creak of timber adjusting to the cold, the distant murmur of the river beyond the windows. Even Codex hadn't stirred yet from her spot at the foot of my bed, a warm weight against my ankles through the quilt.

Downstairs, the workshop was already cool when I stepped into it, bare feet brushing the worn grain of the floor. The boards were smooth beneath my soles, polished by decades of Henrik's footsteps and now, slowly, beginning to know mine. I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders—a thick wool piece my mother had made, dyed the deep blue of winter twilight—and lit the small lamp by the workbench, careful not to startle the hush. The rest of the world could keep sleeping a little longer. This hour belonged to me.

The lamp's flame caught and steadied, casting dancing shadows across the tools arranged just as I'd left them the night before. Everything in its place: bone folders lined up like soldiers, awls nested in their leather roll, the heavy pressing boards stacked with military precision. This orderliness was my anchor, the thing that made sense when everything else felt uncertain.

Codex remained curled in her spot on the corner shelf, eyes half-lidded, tail tucked over her nose. She'd claimed that particular perch on my second day here, and I'd learned not to disturb her morning meditations. She knew the rhythm now—morning meant focus. She didn't even twitch when I unlatched the case of finished ledgers and slipped one out to study the seam.

The ledger was one of my practice pieces from the week before, bound in simple brown cloth. I ran my fingers along the spine, checking for any looseness in the binding, any place where the adhesive might have failed. Henrik's workshop had different humidity than Highspire, closer to the river as it was, and I was still learning how materials behaved here. The pages whispered softly as I fanned them, the sound like wind through leaves.

I had two weeks to complete the commission, but only a fool treated a deadline as a luxury. The captain hadn't made idle remarks when he'd said others might follow if my work held up. If these ledgers traveled well—kept dry, stayed flat, resisted mildew and salt—I could expect more orders. Maybe from his fleet, maybe from other captains docked at the market wharf. I didn't want to be caught behind when that happened.

The weight of possibility pressed against my chest, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. In Highspire, success had been measured in grades and evaluations, in the approval of instructors who'd known my work since I was barely tall enough to reach a workbench. Here, success meant something different. It meant keeping the lights burning and the shelves stocked. It meant proving that Henrik's faith in leaving me this place hadn't been misplaced.

I took a deep breath and set out the supplies I'd prepped the night before. Red cloth first, pressed and trimmed. The color was rich as wine in the lamplight, darker than the sample the captain had shown me but within the acceptable range. Then the covers, weighty and firm with just enough give. I aligned the binding boards and marked the fold lines with a silver pencil that would disappear once the work was complete. Thread spools, trimmed waxed linen, bone folder, steel ruler—each in its place on the cloth mat.

The ritual of preparation was almost as important as the work itself. My instructors had drilled this into us: a cluttered workspace led to cluttered work. I'd seen talented binders produce sloppy books simply because they couldn't find the right tool at the crucial moment. Not me. Not here. The moment my fingers began folding signatures, I lost track of time.

It was a rhythm I'd missed. The crease and press of each fold. The careful stitching through pre-pierced holes. The crisscross of thread pulling tight beneath my thumb. There was something reverent in it, like weaving meaning into blank pages. One ledger after another, the pattern repeated, each identical but somehow not. The red and black cloth covers came together like rows of sails, neat and orderly on the drying rack. I worked in near-silence, broken only by the soft shift of Codex repositioning herself and the occasional creak of the beams as the morning stretched and yawned.

My hands moved with the muscle memory of years of training, but my mind wandered. I thought about the captain's weathered hands as he'd described what he needed—ledgers that could survive salt spray and sudden storms. I thought about the previous books that might have failed him, pages swollen with moisture, ink running like tears down ruined columns of figures. These books would be different. They had to be.

Between ledgers, I paused to flex my fingers and roll my shoulders. The repetitive motions could lock muscles if I wasn't careful. Another lesson from Highspire: "Your body is your first tool. Maintain it as carefully as your best knife." I'd laughed at the time, young and convinced I was invincible. Now, feeling the first twinges of strain, I understood.

At some point, the sky had begun to lighten, a watery blue brushing the edges of the workshop window. The lamp's flame had grown dim against the sun, and I let it burn out naturally, its oil nearly spent. Morning light had its own quality here, filtered through the old glass and the ever-present mist from the river. It turned everything soft at the edges, dreamlike.

I flexed my fingers as I straightened, blinking away the close-focus blur from my eyes. Three more ledgers stood finished in their upright press. That made five total, and the cut pieces for the rest sat sorted in labeled bundles on the supply shelf. Not bad for a morning's work.

The completed ledgers looked professional, I decided with a critical eye. The corners were sharp, the cloth stretched evenly across the boards without bubbles or wrinkles. The spines showed the distinctive rounded shape that would help them lie flat when open—a small detail, but one that separated amateur work from professional. I allowed myself a moment of pride.

Codex stretched at last, a long, luxurious arch of her back before she dropped gracefully to the floor and padded toward me. Her morning inspection tour, I'd come to call it. She examined each ledger with the gravity of a guild inspector, sniffing delicately at the corners.

I reached down and ran a hand over her spine. "Don't worry," I murmured, "I'll feed you before inventory."

She meowed in mild protest—her morning commentary on my work schedule—but followed me anyway as I crossed the room to the wash basin. I splashed cool water on my face and hands, watching the pink tinge of glue and paper dust swirl down the drain. My body ached in the way it always did after long stretches of seated work—neck tight, forearms buzzing—but it was a good ache. The kind that meant progress.

The kitchen alcove behind the workshop was small but functional. Henrik had kept it tidy, and I'd maintained his system: dishes in the cabinet above the sink, dry goods in the pantry, Codex's bowls on a mat by the back door. The morning routine had become automatic already.

After drying off, I lit the kettle and scooped smoked trout kibble into Codex's bowl, adding the last few slivers of the market offcuts. She accepted it without ceremony, already halfway through by the time I sliced a pear and buttered toast for myself. The pear was perfectly ripe, its juice sweet and cool against my throat. Simple pleasures, but they grounded me in the present moment.

As I chewed, I thought about the ledgers drying on the rack and let a small smile tug at my mouth. The color contrast looked better than I'd imagined—bold but not gaudy. The cloth held up beautifully under the press. When I had touched one cover lightly, it gave just the right resistance beneath my fingers. These were sturdy books, seaworthy in their own way. The kind that would see ink and wear and rough hands. The kind that mattered. Two weeks, I reminded myself. But the sooner they were done, the sooner I could open the door to more. More commissions. More proof that I belonged here.

After my early morning workshop session, I brewed a second cup of tea—a black blend with hints of bergamot that Henrik had favored—and settled in behind the front counter, ready to take stock of my supplies in earnest. With the captain's commission now official—twelve ledgers, all waterproofed and bound in red and black—I needed to make sure I had everything on hand. I didn't expect any foot traffic until mid-morning, so now was the perfect time to count and plan.

The front room of the shop had its own character, different from the workshop. Here, the morning light streamed through the large windows facing the street, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny spirits. The shelves held an array of finished goods: journals in various sizes, letter-writing sets in wooden boxes, bottles of ink in jewel tones. Each item represented hours of work, careful attention, hope for a sale.

I fetched the small lap desk from the corner and pulled up a stool, spreading out the inventory sheets across the workbench. The light slanting through the eastern windows cast a soft glow over the wood, illuminating the faint ghost of past ink spills. I tried to let the quiet calm me.

Back in Highspire, inventory had been a team exercise—structured, precise, led by instructors with sharp voices and sharper quills. Master Aldrich had been particularly exacting, requiring us to count everything three times and record each figure in triplicate. "Precision in record-keeping reflects precision in craft," he'd say, peering over our shoulders with his jeweler's loupe perpetually perched on his forehead. Students like me had been assigned narrow responsibilities: paper weights, thread types, glue vials. I used to find the system orderly, if impersonal. Now, faced with every drawer and supply bin myself, the responsibility felt vast and oddly intimate.

I opened the long cabinet beneath the window and began pulling out supplies by category. First the paper: fine vellum, thick linen sheets, a few bundles of waterproofed parchment still tightly wrapped in wax paper. Each sheet had to be checked for foxing, tears, or any imperfections that might have developed since the last inventory. Next the binding threads, which I lined up in a neat row by spool size and color. The linen thread came in natural, white, and a deep forest green. The silk threads—more expensive and used only for special commissions—gleamed like precious metals in their small boxes. Then the glue pots—some enchanted, others plain—followed by stacks of stiff board for covers. I checked each label, each enchantment rune, murmuring the words aloud to ensure the protective charms were still holding.

"Three dozen half-cut folios… twelve sheets of linen weave… eight spools of binding thread, two fine-gauge…"

I murmured as I wrote, the way I'd been taught. It helped me concentrate, even if the only one listening was Codex, curled in a loose circle on the windowsill with one paw covering her nose. She'd developed a fondness for that particular spot, where the morning sun warmed the old wood and she could watch the street for interesting passersby.

I turned to the shelf where I kept my best-quality paper. That's when the worry started. The bundles were smaller than I remembered—two rolls of the weather-treated stock instead of four, only half a packet of sealable endleaf paper, and my last full sheet of waterproof spine cloth. I frowned, checking the notes again, then the previous inventory Henrik had written in the back margin. He'd been down to low reserves as well, perhaps assuming another supply delivery before his final illness.

The realization hit me like cold water. I'd been so focused on the immediate work, on proving I could handle the commissions, that I hadn't thought ahead to the supply chain. A foolish oversight, one that would have earned me a stern lecture in Highspire.

I flipped my sheet and started a second column titled Low or Missing. As the list grew, so did the fluttering in my stomach. I'd been so focused on setting up the front room, on cleaning and repairing and building stock for opening day, that I hadn't thought to do a full inventory beyond what I needed for the first few commissions. And now the largest order I'd yet received was about to clear out my best stock entirely.

The mathematics of it were unforgiving. Twelve ledgers, each requiring specific materials. I did quick calculations in the margins: sheets per signature, signatures per book, thread length per binding. The numbers didn't lie. I'd have enough for perhaps eight ledgers with my current stock, nine if I was creative with the end papers. Not enough.

I set my quill down and pressed both hands to the edge of the workbench. This wasn't panic—it was planning. There had to be a way to handle it. I turned to Henrik's old supplier list, kept tucked in the binder labeled "Materials—Reliable." His neat script named several mills and papermakers, all upriver—two days' journey if I were to go in person, which I couldn't. Not with the shop open and barely a week into its rhythm.

Each entry had notes in Henrik's careful hand. "Crosswater Mills - reliable, fair prices, closed in winter." "Brennan & Sons - finest vellum, dear but worth it for special orders." "River's End Paper - quick turnaround, quality varies." I traced my finger down the list, looking for solutions.

I scanned for other options, hopeful for local names, but every reliable supplier was marked with a barge schedule or upstream price. A few had notations—"Prompt," "Too dear," "Sends samples." I traced a finger along the margin and sighed.

Henrik's notes hinted at another method, something more consistent: 'Monthly via ferry—delivery with ledgers.' But there was no name, no firm schedule. If I could just figure out who did the deliveries, I might be able to ask them for a rush order or a pickup run. Still, even that would take time—and cost. Special arrangements meant higher fees. I tapped the end of my quill against the paper, chewing over the math. If I paid for the pickup, I might have just enough for the paper order itself, provided I kept the ledger commission income untouched until final delivery. But that left no margin for emergencies.

Codex stretched luxuriously and leapt down, padding across the room to settle under the worktable. Her talent for finding the exact spot where she'd be underfoot but impossible to move never ceased to amaze me. I envied her lack of concern.

"You don't worry about supply chain issues, do you?" I muttered.

She blinked once and tucked her paws beneath her again, the picture of feline contentment.

I organized the stock into piles by urgency: Immediate Use, Mid-Project, and Replace Soon. That small act brought some peace. Planning made things manageable, even when the resources were thin. My mother had taught me that, during the lean years when father's business had struggled. "Make lists," she'd say. "Problems on paper are smaller than problems in your head."

Then I made a new list:

* Tally remaining waterproof paper and spine cloth

* Check enchantment wax stock

* Review paper order costs

* Ask at the wharf about barge pickup services

* Prioritize commissions: Captain's ledgers → Mrs. P's moon journal → Letter sets

* Write to Crosswater Mills for pricing

* Check if any local merchants stock emergency supplies

I added a star beside the wharf errand and circled it twice. But not now. Not during shop hours. Even a single missed customer could mean the difference between breaking even or coming up short. I'd go down after I closed up for the day, perhaps around six if the light held. If no one at the wharf knew who made Henrik's deliveries, someone surely would know who could.

The shop bell chimed softly, making me jump. But it was only the wind, pushing the door slightly ajar. I rose to secure it properly, pausing to look out at the street. A few early risers were beginning their day—a baker's apprentice hauling flour, a merchant adjusting his awning. Normal life, continuing around my small crisis.

I picked up my teacup and stood at the window, watching the barge sails bob gently on the grey-green water in the distance. The clouds were high, the kind that promised wind but not yet rain. I had time.

"Two weeks," I whispered to myself. "Twelve ledgers. Find paper. Don't panic."

Codex twitched her tail approvingly and I smiled. I was starting to believe I could handle it. Maybe.

It was just past midday when the bell above the door gave a soft chime, breaking the quiet hum of the shop. I looked up from my notes, still tangled in half-calculated numbers and supplier names, and blinked at the sudden shift in light and movement. A figure stood just inside the doorway, shaking the river-mist from a waxed canvas cloak. He was broad-shouldered, with sun-warmed skin and damp sandy hair that curled faintly at the ends. Water beaded on his sleeves, dripping quietly onto the mat. I knew that face.

The recognition came with a flutter of something I couldn't quite name. He'd been the one to help me off the ferry when I first arrived in Riverhaven—offering a steady hand and a warm, reassuring smile when I'd been bleary-eyed and burdened with boxes. I hadn't caught his name then, but the memory had lingered longer than I'd expected. He looked just as steady now.

"Miss Whitfield?" he said, voice low and sure, with the cadence of the river in it—unhurried but deeply rooted.

"Yes," I managed, standing a little too quickly. My stool scraped against the floor, the sound too loud in the quiet shop. "That's me."

He stepped forward, holding out a bundled parcel wrapped in oilcloth. "Marcus Riverstone. Local deliveries. This came in on the morning barge—addressed to you."

I took it carefully, noting the weight. "Oh. I—I placed a few advance orders before moving. I wasn't sure they'd actually arrive."

"This one did," he said with a small smile, one that almost, but not quite, touched the corner of his eyes. There was something warm and searching about it, as if he wasn't just delivering a package but waiting to see what kind of person might be behind the door.

He was attractive. Ridiculously so, now that I had a clear look at him. That kind of easy, river-worn charm that probably had every dock vendor remembering his name and his preferred tea. The way he stood suggested someone comfortable in his own skin, used to physical work but not hardened by it. My mouth had gone slightly dry, and I scrambled for the safety of facts.

"You were there when I arrived, weren't you?" I asked, gesturing vaguely. "At the dock? You helped me with the trunk."

He nodded once, smile deepening. "I remember. Looked like you'd had a long trip. Not every day we get a new bookbinder in town."

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His eyes met mine for a moment too long, and I felt my pulse trip over itself. They were the color of river stones, grey-green and changeable. I turned my attention quickly to the parcel and began unwrapping the oilcloth, grateful for something to do with my hands. Inside were sheets of ivory paper, rolls of blue and green binding cloth, gluing compound, and a sealed jar of brass thread. Exactly what I'd been hoping for.

"I didn't expect this to arrive so soon," I said, smoothing the invoice. "It's… perfect timing."

"Henrik used to have standing orders with half the river," Marcus said. "Most suppliers recognize this shop name. I just make sure things arrive when and where they should. No fuss."

There was an easy rhythm to his voice—calm, grounded, like someone used to moving with the current instead of against it. He leaned against the counter slightly, not presumptuous but comfortable, as if he'd stood in this exact spot many times before.

I hesitated, glancing toward the shop windows. "I've been going through Henrik's notes, trying to understand how he kept everything running. He had supply chains I didn't know existed."

Marcus gave a small nod. "He was organized. Trusted me with most of the pickups. I do a lot of weekly runs past paper mills, herb merchants and ink suppliers upriver. Always have space for another client, if you're interested."

He said it lightly, but I caught the hopeful edge under the professionalism. There was something else there too—a curiosity about me, about what I was doing here in Henrik's space. I folded the oilcloth carefully and glanced at him again.

"That would… actually be very helpful," I admitted. "I've already run into a bit of a paper shortage. And I can't leave the shop unattended."

His expression softened, almost imperceptibly. "How are you settling in?"

The question caught me off guard—gentle, genuine. Not the polite inquiry of a stranger, but something more. I hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Better than I expected, I think. I'm still figuring things out, but it's starting to feel possible."

He studied me then, not with scrutiny, but with quiet attention, as though filing away that answer with care. "Henrik would be glad to hear that. He worried about the shop, toward the end. Wanted to make sure it went to someone who'd understand what he'd built here."

"You knew him well?"

"Well enough. Delivered his supplies for nearly ten years. He taught me to appreciate good paper—the weight of it, the tooth. Said a book was only as good as its materials." Marcus straightened a bit and pulled a folded sheet from his coat pocket. "Speaking of which, if you want to talk shop schedules and delivery windows, I've got a standing list of my upriver stops. We can work something out."

"Please," I said, a bit too eagerly.

He grinned then—really grinned—and the flirty tilt of it was unmistakable, though tempered with a kind of careful respect. He wasn't pushing. Just… seeing if the door might be open. I couldn't help but smile back.

I gestured toward the front counter, motioning for Marcus to join me while I cleared away the invoice and parchment scraps I'd been sorting. He stepped forward easily, his movements steady and unhurried, like someone used to walking on gently rocking decks. Codex stayed curled under the worktable, eyes half-lidded but clearly listening. She had a sixth sense for important conversations.

"I'm glad you stopped by," I began, smoothing the edge of the supply sheet. "I've run into a bit of a dilemma. My stock of quality paper is running low, and there are more commissions coming in than I'd expected. Henrik's notes say most of his suppliers are upriver, but I haven't figured out a reliable way to keep the shop running and get materials at the same time."

Marcus leaned on the far side of the counter, folding his arms. His river-worn jacket smelled faintly of rain and smoke and the clean tang of water plants. Up close, I could see the fine lines around his eyes from squinting into sun-bright water, the calluses on his hands from rope work.

"That's why I came by more than once a month back when Henrik was here," he said. "Most folk think of barges as bulk freight, but there's a lot of small goods moving up and down the current. Ink, paper, thread… they're light, easy to pack. The trick's knowing who to buy from and when the shipments run."

"I'm beginning to understand that," I said with a wry smile. "Henrik left good notes, but they don't always explain why something was done. Just that it was."

He grinned. "That sounds about right. He was precise. Didn't waste words. But he knew every supplier within fifty miles of the river. Knew their schedules, their specialties, who'd give credit and who demanded coin up front."

"And I…" I hesitated, then pressed on. "I need help establishing a regular restocking plan. With someone I can trust. I can't close the shop every time something runs low. But I also can't risk taking commissions if I can't fulfill them."

Marcus nodded slowly. "You've got a solid shop here. If you're planning to make a real go of it, you'll need standing orders. Predictability. Let me ask you this—what's your volume per month, if you're filling ledgers, journals, kits?"

I reached for the notes I'd made earlier that morning and passed them across. "I've estimated based on what I've already sold and what's in progress. I think I can manage consistent output, but I'd rather order conservatively until I know the rhythm."

He studied the numbers, tapping a calloused finger lightly on the page. I watched him calculate, seeing the quick intelligence behind the easy manner. "These are sound. Conservative, like you said, but realistic. You've got a good head for this."

The compliment landed unexpectedly warm. I cleared my throat and looked down at the counter. "So, is that something you'd be able to handle? Regular pickup and delivery from the paper mills or wherever you recommend? I'd cover the cost and a courier fee, of course."

Marcus straightened, brushing damp curls from his forehead. "Absolutely. I already make twice-monthly stops at Miller's Paper and Bramble & Stitch, depending on river conditions. Miller's does fine stock—good tooth, even texture. Fair prices. Bramble's more expensive, but their cloth boards are second to none. They also do custom dye work, if you need specific colors."

I took notes quickly, grateful for his detail. "I'll try Miller's for now, especially with the barge order coming up."

He reached into his coat and pulled out a small folded sheet—a printed inventory list. "I picked this up from Miller's last week. These are the current bulk prices. I can bring samples next time if that helps. We'll tally it by weight and packaging. I don't mark up goods, just charge for the trip."

"That's generous," I said, scanning the prices. They were better than what I'd seen in the old notes. "And regular deliveries… twice monthly, you said?"

He nodded. "More if you need. But most folks find that rhythm works. I run the route like clockwork—upriver on Tuesdays, back down by Friday. Been doing it so long, some of the mill workers set their lunch breaks by my arrival."

The idea of not having to scramble for stock—of knowing that what I needed would arrive with the tide—was a relief I hadn't realized I'd been craving. In Highspire, supplies had appeared as if by magic, ordered by the school and distributed to students. This was real business, real responsibility.

"All right," I said. "Let's set it up. I'd like a regular standing order starting next week. Paper first, then we'll scale into binding supplies."

He reached across the counter and offered his hand. "Then we're agreed."

I placed my hand in his, surprised at how warm and solid his grip was. A pause hung between us—a beat longer than a business exchange. His fingers curled slightly, then released. There was strength there, but gentleness too.

His smile flickered just on the edge of playful. "Glad to be of service, Miss Whitfield."

"Elspeth," I said before I could stop myself. "You can call me Elspeth."

His eyes warmed, crinkling at the corners. "Elspeth, then. Pretty name for a bookbinder. Sounds like it belongs in one of those old tales."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "My mother had romantic notions. Said it meant 'devoted to God,' but I think she just liked the way it sounded."

"Nothing wrong with liking how things sound," he said. "Words matter in your trade, don't they?"

He gave a brief nod and turned back toward the door. "I'll bring those samples in four days' time, same route. And don't hesitate if something urgent comes up. I'm usually upriver by midweek, but I swing back through on Fridays. The dock workers know how to find me."

I followed him to the threshold. "Thank you again. Truly. This takes a weight off my mind."

He paused in the doorway, silhouetted against the afternoon light. "Henrik helped me once, when I was starting out. Gave me credit when no one else would. Figure this is a way of paying that forward."

He tipped two fingers to his brow like a sailor's farewell, then stepped back into the mist. I watched him navigate the puddles with easy grace, his stride confident and unhurried.

The door closed behind him, but the warmth lingered. I stood there for a long moment, my hand still resting on the doorframe, before returning to my notes. The storm had passed. My supplies were on the way. And, quite unexpectedly, I had the beginnings of a dependable—and maybe even kind—business relationship. I smiled, just a little. The river might have brought more than paper this time.

The scent of rain still clung to the walls as the last of the daylight gave way to twilight. I flipped the shop sign to Closed, locked the door with the heavy iron key I'd received at the auction, and exhaled like I was setting down a heavy bundle. Not that the day had been unpleasant—far from it—but it had been full in that way new lives tend to be. Full of names to remember and problems to solve and tiny decisions with oddly enormous consequences. And yet, as I moved through the shop and began tidying surfaces and straightening ledgers, I felt something quietly triumphant take root behind my ribs.

The day's receipts were modest but real: two letter-writing sets sold to a merchant's wife, a repair job accepted for a water-damaged journal, and the promise of the captain's payment upon completion. I recorded each transaction in the shop ledger, my own neat hand following the columns Henrik had established. There was something satisfying about seeing my entries follow his, a continuation rather than a replacement.

The supply problem had a solution. A reliable, river-running, politely handsome solution with a strong back and a keen eye for paper weight. I smiled to myself as I washed my hands in the little washbasin tucked behind the counter. I hadn't meant to be flustered when Marcus arrived—but there was something about his calm, the river-weathered ease of him, that lingered even now. And the fact that he'd offered to pick up supplies with barely a blink of hesitation? That was rare kindness.

Codex weaved between my ankles with a low chirp, tail flicking. She knew what came next. The evening workshop hours were sacred time, when the pressures of running a business gave way to the pure pleasure of craft.

"Workshop hours," I said aloud, nudging the door to the back room open with my elbow. "Time to make something beautiful."

The workbench greeted me like an old friend. Neatly laid out from the morning's preparation, the first few pieces of the barge captain's ledger order waited in tidy stacks—red and black binding cloth, trimmed boards, signatures folded and pressed with the weight of a river stone. I'd only had time to finish one book earlier, but that was enough to set the tone. The rest would come with rhythm and repetition.

I lit the enchanted globe lamp above the bench with a flick of my finger against the copper switch. Warm golden light flooded the surface, revealing the subtle texture of the linen paper I'd cut that morning. The cellar supplies were holding steady for now—enough to get me through at least half of the order. With Marcus scheduled to return in just over a week, I could work steadily without panic.

Still, I made a mental note to portion things carefully. No waste. Every cut, every fold, every stitch had to matter. In Highspire, we'd been allowed margins for error, extra materials for practice. Here, each sheet represented coin spent and trust extended.

Codex leapt up to her usual perch beside the herb-drying rack, curling into a crescent like a comma placed deliberately on the edge of my workspace. Her presence had become another kind of ritual—silent witness, occasional critic, warm weight against the evening quiet.

I started by trimming paper for the next three ledgers. The slicing tool clicked cleanly through the sheets, the faint rasp of fiber parting under its sharp edge soothing in its precision. As I worked, I found my thoughts drifting—not far, just along gentle currents of memory and planning.

Henrik's notes had mentioned special ink recipes: ones that resisted smearing, even when wet, and formulas that bonded well to enchanted paper stock. The garden's labeled plants suddenly made even more sense—"For blue ink," "Mordant for binding," "Pest deterrent." It had been an ecosystem of intention. Perhaps once the captain's ledgers were finished, I'd try a batch of ink myself. Something personal to mark the next chapter of my craft.

The signatures were next. I folded them with practiced care, creasing each set with my bone folder—Henrik's, still perfectly smooth and warm from earlier use. The bone had taken on a patina over the years, darkening where countless fingers had gripped it. Using his tools felt like a conversation with the past, each movement a question and answer about technique and intention.

Then came the sewing: kettle stitch bindings along the spine with waxed thread that glided cleanly through the holes I'd punched that morning. The needle flashed in the lamplight as I worked, in and out, creating a ladder of thread that would hold these pages together through storm and salt.

There was something meditative in it, the rhythm of handwork. Fold, crease, punch, stitch. A breath for each motion. A pause now and then to brush away a paper curl or adjust a crooked corner. Time fell away in that room. It always had, ever since I'd first learned to bind in school and lost myself in the silence between tasks.

I thought about Master Catherine, who'd taught me the kettle stitch. She'd been ancient even then, her fingers gnarled but still nimble. "The thread remembers," she'd say. "Each stitch carries the intention of the one before. Make them with purpose." I'd thought it was mysticism at the time. Now, feeling the rhythm build beneath my hands, I understood.

When it came time to affix the covers, I unwrapped the enchanted brass roller from its protective sleeve. The gleaming tool—more like a thick curling pin with copper runes etched along its length—had been one of the newer inventions back in Highspire. Our instructors had only recently begun teaching it, and I'd purchased one with my final stipend before graduating. It was still considered something of a novelty, but I found it indispensable. Once the glue was applied to the inner boards, the roller's enchantment helped press and dry the cover almost instantly, locking it into place with gentle, uniform pressure.

I aligned the covers to the text block, smoothed the cloth over the boards, and gently rolled the tool over the spine. A soft shimmer passed beneath it as the magic took hold, and the whole book settled with a faint sigh of tension releasing. The enchantment was subtle—not flashy magic but practical, the kind that made good work possible.

I smiled, running my fingers over the finished cover. The cloth had bonded perfectly, no bubbles or wrinkles.

One more ledger complete. I set it aside next to its twin and reached for my maker's seal: a crescent moon nestled against a curled page. The shop's symbol. I'd spent hours designing it in my final year at Highspire, wanting something that felt both professional and personal. The moon for the night hours when I did my best work, the page for the obvious. Simple but mine.

I dabbed the embossing ink at the base of the back cover and pressed the stamp in firmly. When I lifted it, the faint glint of silver shimmered in the lamplight. My mark. My promise that this work would hold.

Only ten more to go.

Eventually, my shoulders began to ache. I leaned back on my stool and reached for the tea kettle resting on the corner warmer. The clove-caramel blend Thaddeus had gifted me was still fresh in its tin. I scooped a small measure into a steeping cup and let the scent fill the air—warm, spiced, rich. A comfort tea, perfect for cool, rain-touched evenings.

While the tea steeped, I tidied the workspace, setting completed signatures in the press and cleaning excess glue from my tools. The maintenance was as important as the creation—another lesson from school that had proven its worth. Neglected tools led to sloppy work.

With the tea in hand, I turned to my correspondence notebook and opened it to a fresh page. The letter to my mother had started days ago, piecemeal, little details added here and there as time allowed. Tonight, though, I had something worth sharing.

*Dear Family,*

*The shop continues to surprise me. Each day brings something new—a customer with specific needs, a technique I haven't tried, a problem that requires creative solving. Today I arranged my first proper supply partnership. A river ferryman named Marcus—yes, the one who helped me off the ferry—delivered my long-delayed paper order and offered to take on monthly pickups from the mills upriver. Henrik used his services, it turns out. It's a relief to know I'll have access to proper materials going forward.*

*I've already finished two ledgers for a barge captain's order and prepared pieces for the next. The red and black cloth matches his fleet, and he seems the sort who will spread the word if pleased. The work is good—I can feel it in the weight of the finished books, the way the pages turn. These aren't just practice pieces anymore. They're real books for real purposes, and that knowledge changes everything.*

*The building itself has moods, I'm learning. Morning light through the workshop windows is golden and encouraging. Afternoon brings shadows that pool in the corners like spilled ink. Evening is my favorite, when the whole place settles into quiet and I can work without interruption. Codex has claimed several strategic spots and moves between them based on the sun's position. She's become an excellent shop cat, greeting customers with dignity and keeping the mice at bay.*

I paused, chewing my pencil before adding:

*I haven't had time to try the garden ink recipes yet, but I've marked the plants and plan to experiment soon. There's so much Henrik built here that I'm still discovering. Sometimes I find notes tucked into books or tools with his modifications. It's like having a conversation with a ghost, but a friendly one.*

*The town is starting to know me. The baker nods when I pass. The fruit seller saves the good pears. Small things, but they matter. It's starting to feel like I belong here. Slowly, quietly, this place is becoming home.*

*All my love,

Elspeth*

I sealed the page with wax from Henrik's supply drawer and tucked the letter beside the outgoing bin. I'd bring it to the post in the morning, along with an order for more sealing wax. Another item for the endless list.

The rest of the evening passed in gentle rhythm. I stitched a few more signatures, aligned pages with the careful precision that good work demanded, and cleared my bench for tomorrow's efforts. Each completed section went into the press, the wooden screws turned just tight enough to set the folds without crushing the paper.

When I finally rose and turned off the lamp, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath my feet felt familiar. Welcoming. The workshop held the lingering scents of paper and glue, leather and ink—the perfume of my trade. I breathed it in deeply before closing the door.

Codex followed me up the stairs, tail high and expectant. The narrow staircase to my quarters above the shop creaked in all the familiar places now. I'd learned which boards to avoid when trying not to wake her in the early morning, which bannister post wiggled if you grabbed it wrong.

My small apartment was simple but sufficient: a bedroom, a tiny sitting area, and a kitchen just large enough for one person who didn't cook elaborate meals. I'd added touches of home—mother's quilt on the bed, pressed flowers from Highspire in frames on the wall, my collection of binding tools displayed on a shelf like the treasures they were.

I filled Codex's dish with the last of the market cutoffs, adding a bit of the dried fish I kept for treats. She purred her approval, already focused on her meal. I rinsed my tea mug, washed the day's accumulated dishes, and paused by the window for a final glance outside. The clouds had begun to break. Just a thin silver sliver of moonlight glinted on the street below.

The town was quiet now, most windows dark except for the occasional candle or lamp. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the river moving, constant and reassuring. Tomorrow would bring more ledgers, more planning, perhaps even another surprise. The captain expected quality work, and I intended to deliver it. But more than that, I wanted to prove—to myself, to Henrik's memory, to this town that had taken me in—that I could build something lasting here.

I changed into my nightclothes and settled into bed with one of Henrik's journals, reading his notes about suppliers and techniques by candlelight. His handwriting was becoming familiar now, the shape of his thoughts clear in the careful lines. He'd been methodical but not without creativity. I found sketches for new binding styles, experiments with local plants for dyes, even a few pressed flowers between pages with notes about their color properties.

But for now, I let the hush of the bindery settle around me and climbed into bed with a full heart and ink-stained fingers. Codex joined me eventually, curling into her spot at the foot of the bed, her warmth a comfortable weight through the blankets.

As sleep began to take me, I thought about the ledgers waiting in the press, about Marcus's easy smile and promise of regular deliveries, about the garden holding secrets I hadn't yet discovered. So much to learn, so much to do. But for the first time since arriving in Riverhaven, I felt ready for it all.

The last thing I heard before dreams claimed me was the sound of the river, constant and patient, carrying boats and goods and stories ever onward. Tomorrow would come with its own challenges and possibilities. Tonight, I was exactly where I needed to be.