Chapter 8: Spring Market Day

The scent of damp earth filtered in through the open window above the kitchen basin. Dawn was only just beginning to grey the edges of the sky, and the rooftops of Riverhaven still sat in the hush of early morning. Elspeth moved quietly, careful not to disturb the stillness. A thin slice of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a mug of strong black tea made up her breakfast—simple, but enough. Codex weaved through her ankles as she worked, soft-footed and persistent. Elspeth set a small dish of fish offcuts on the tiled floor, and the cat settled beside it with a satisfied thump of her tail.

Cradling her mug in both hands, she descended the narrow stairs into the bindery, still wrapped in the comfort of pre-dawn quiet. The shop smelled faintly of paper and lavender wax, with a hint of ink that never quite faded. These hours, before the bell rang and visitors came and went, were hers alone.

She had no time to waste—not today. The market would bring traders and townsfolk in droves, meaning her public shop hours would be cut short. That left only this quiet window to work on the ledgers. She crossed to the long worktable near the rear window and lit the lamp already prepared the night before. Its glow spilled across neatly stacked signatures and strips of dyed cloth.

Twelve waterproof ledgers. That was the commission. A handsome order from a barge captain who seemed equal parts practical and shrewd. She’d completed five so far, one finished during last night’s session, its binding still pressed beneath a weighted board. She had the folded pages for the rest prepared and the cloth cut and sorted, but even so, she felt the quiet pressure of time.

Elspeth slipped her apron over her head and settled into her workbench stool. Codex, having finished her fish, padded down the stairs and leapt lightly onto the wide windowsill. She curled into a tight ball, tail over her nose, well-versed in the rhythm of Elspeth’s morning focus.

The first journal of the morning came together smoothly. Fold, trim, align. She stitched the signatures with the practiced rhythm of a school-trained binder—her hands sure, her breath steady. The red and black cloth was waiting nearby, already measured for the covers. She glued the spine, smoothed the lining paper, and placed it gently into the press.

Next came the waterproofing enchantment.

From a cupboard beneath the stairs, Elspeth retrieved the small vial of enchanted sealant she had brought from Highspire, developed by a retired enchantment professor with a fondness for practical spellcraft. She had exactly enough for this batch—barely. Her brush moved carefully, three even strokes across the outer cover, avoiding drips, letting the gloss settle into a shimmer.

Each book needed three coats, spaced apart by drying time. She managed the first coat on two finished journals, then turned to sip her tea—lukewarm now, but welcome—and watched the sheen settle across the red-dyed linen. The enchantment would strengthen the bindings against moisture, ideal for barge work. It was one of the few modern touches she offered in this otherwise traditional shop, and she was proud of it.

By the time the light grew pale gold and the town began to stir, Elspeth had completed two more ledgers and applied the second waterproofing layer to the first pair. The final coat would have to wait until after market. She washed her hands at the basin and glanced toward the garden-facing window, where baskets and crates were already being wheeled into place by vendors preparing their stalls.

She took one last look at her work—carefully aligned, the table cleared, drying racks arranged—and gave Codex a fond scratch behind the ears. The cat stretched lazily, then returned to her perch. Elspeth smiled and walked to the front of the shop, already hearing the faint rustle of morning footsteps in the street. Today would be a busy one. But the ledgers were coming together. And she was ready.

The bells had only just chimed eight when I flipped the shop sign to Closed for Market and stepped out into the morning, basket in hand and sleeves rolled neatly to my elbows. The spring air held a faint sweetness, damp from last night’s rain but freshened by sunlight streaming through soft cloud breaks. The cobbled road sparkled faintly with water caught in every crevice, and the usual quiet of Riverhaven was replaced by the low hum of market energy.

I locked the door behind me and turned toward the town square, where the weekly market had already swelled beyond its usual borders. Tents and awnings spilled past their normal lanes, curling into alleys and stretching toward the far end of the green. The scent of roasting nuts and sharp herbs drifted through the air. Flags fluttered above vendor carts. There was a clatter of wooden wheels and the occasional bark of a dog that had slipped its leash.

But it wasn’t overwhelming. Compared to the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds in Highspire, with their shouted prices and elbowing queues, this was... bustling, yes, but almost gentle. The market had a rhythm I could follow—a cadence of greeting calls and chattering neighbors, of barrels being shifted and linen being straightened. And the faces were familiar now.

There was Miri at her stall already unwrapping honey-glazed loaves, calling good morning to a group of older selkie women comparing lengths of waxed cord. Thaddeus, resplendent in a turquoise waistcoat today, handed steaming cups of spiced tea to a queue of half-awake shoppers while offering tasting spoons of something called sunroot caramel. Even Idris, typically aloof, stood behind a table of jewel-toned spice jars and nodded politely as a dwarven couple examined his saffron tins with quiet interest.

I kept to the outer edge at first, weaving through the early flow of marketgoers and letting my eyes scan the expanded stalls. The traveling merchants had arrived—there were stands I didn’t recognize, manned by tanned goblins and silver-haired elves and even one gnome with a portable forge set up beside a sign promising “hinges that won’t squeak, or your coin back.” It was more than I’d expected. Better than I’d hoped.

I made my circuit carefully, eyes alert for the paper vendor Henrik had noted in one of his ledgers. It was important to see everything before I started buying—prices could vary wildly depending on where a trader had come from or how often they made this route. And I’d learned in Highspire that the first table with dyed parchment might not be the best, no matter how artful the display.

Codex, wisely, had stayed curled in the sunny patch by the upstairs window. She had no patience for jostling crowds or the scent of too many feet. But I could almost hear her disapproval as I paused beside a stall with fine brushes—indulgent, she'd say, when you could trim a feather just as well.

Still, I was making mental notes. A vendor with engraved wax seals caught my attention, and I tucked away a reminder to come back once I’d checked prices. Another sold wide-rimmed ink wells with magically-reinforced glass—more expensive, but ideal for my cluttered workbench.

I paused longer at a stall piled high with journal blanks and rough-paper sketchbooks. The bindings were sloppy, threads poking out where they should have been tucked, and one cover had warped where the glue had dried unevenly. I felt a tug of mingled irritation and pity. I knew this work. I knew how it should feel in the hand, how it should open without protest. And I knew I could do better.

The realization sent a flicker of something warm through my chest. Not pride, exactly—just... certainty. That I belonged here. That I had something worth offering. Basket on my arm, I adjusted my grip and moved on. The special ink sellers would be in the next lane, and if I timed it right, I could catch the merchant-mage before his order list filled for the day.

But first, tea. I veered toward Thaddeus’s stall with a smile already forming. He caught sight of me and beamed. "Ah! My discerning taster returns."

“I tried the new blend,” I said as I approached, lifting my basket a little. "And I loved it. You weren’t exaggerating about the finish—the clove gives way to something almost... buttery?"

He clapped his hands, clearly pleased. "You have an excellent palate. The hint of caramel comes from sunroot syrup—not too sweet, but it lingers. And only three people have tried it so far. You’re in very fine company."

“Well, I’d like to be in good company too,” I said, handing over a few coins. “I’ll take a pouch. Maybe two.”

He wrapped the tea in paper and slid it into my basket with a little flourish. “Riverhaven has officially adopted you, bookbinder. Don’t let Codex tell you otherwise.”

I laughed, heart warmed, and continued down the lane toward the merchant stalls.

With my basket slightly heavier and the scent of Thaddeus’s blend clinging to the folded paper pouches tucked inside, I followed the winding line of vendor tents toward the eastern edge of the market. This was where the traveling stationers usually set up—close to the scriptor’s guild booth and not far from the lane that led down to the ferry dock. It didn’t take long to spot the paper merchant I’d been looking for.

The canopy above his stall was striped in faded maroon and cream, and the front table held a meticulous spread of paper stacks sorted by grain, weight, and treatment. Handmade vellum curled at one corner. Deckle-edged foolscap shimmered faintly with enchantment. And in neat brass lettering across the crate at his feet: Vellen & Co. – Paperwrights of the Third Tier, Highspire-Trained.

Henrik had scribbled a single note about them in his old procurement records: “Reliable. Ships dry. Good with bulk.”

The merchant behind the stall—a halfling in a well-oiled apron with ink smudges on both sleeves—glanced up as I approached and gave a polite nod.

“Looking for binding stock or correspondence grade?” he asked, his voice brisk but not unfriendly.

“Binding,” I said. “Specifically for barge-ledgers. Weather resistant, smooth grain but tough enough for river wear.”

He raised an eyebrow and reached for a sample folio. “That’s not a common request. But I do have something that might suit.”

The sheets he handed over were precisely what I’d hoped for—sturdy but supple, with a lightly enchanted coating that repelled moisture without interfering with ink absorption. When I ran my fingers over the surface, I felt the faintest tingle of static, the hallmark of properly calibrated binding enchantment.

“This is excellent,” I murmured, inspecting the corner grain. “Miller’s stock?”

He looked surprised. “It is. You’ve worked with it before?”

“Trained on it,” I said, smiling. “Highspire Academy, binder’s track.”

That earned a real smile from him. “Then you’ll appreciate this.” He pulled a larger stack from under the table, tied with green thread. “Same pulp, different sizing—less reactive for longer drying inks, and it won’t buckle with coastal humidity.”

It was more expensive, of course, but the quality couldn’t be denied. I considered the ledgers I had to complete—how many sheets per book, how many books still unfinished—and calculated quickly in my head. The math fit. Barely.

“I’ll take three reams of this and two of the original,” I said. “Delivery preferred. My courier is Marcus Riverstone—he does my monthly runs.”

“Riverstone’s good,” the halfling said. “We’ve worked with him before. I’ll have the shipment ready by tomorrow midday.”

We finalized the order and the payment terms—half now, half on delivery—before he carefully wrapped the reams in oilskin and marked the bundle with a wax sigil bearing my shop initials. He noted my order in a thick ledger and passed me a receipt written in swift, practiced shorthand. As I tucked the receipt into my basket, I felt a pleasant rush of satisfaction. This was what I’d hoped for when I first stepped off that barge—reliable vendors, quality supplies, the beginning of real systems forming around the work I wanted to do. I was still learning, yes, but I was no longer improvising. Not entirely. With a last nod of thanks, I stepped away from the stall and began threading my way back toward the ink merchants.

The scent of ink and old parchment always made me feel grounded, as if stepping into the quiet of a well-ordered study. Even here, in the open air of Riverhaven’s expanded market, that familiar aroma lingered around the long booth where tall racks displayed bottled ink, blotting scrolls, and pigment cakes wrapped in waxed cloth.

I approached slowly, taking in the array. Rows of glass bottles reflected the early sunlight, some bearing familiar shades—black walnut, cobalt blue, sepia brown—but others shimmered with subtle enchantments: a frost-blue labeled "No Fade in Sunlight", a burnished ochre marked "Resistant to Seawater and Mist." The latter was exactly the sort of ink I imagined the barge captains needing.

Behind the table stood a severe-looking elf in layered robes dyed the same deep violet as the stamp on his bottles. He inclined his head politely when I paused at the display.

“Looking for something practical or indulgent?” he asked, voice even and calm, with the air of someone who’d said the same phrase dozens of times already that morning.

“Both, actually,” I said. “I’m Elspeth Whitfield. I’ve taken over Moonscribe’s Bindery.”

That caught his attention. He straightened slightly, a flicker of something like recognition passing over his face. “Ah. Henrik’s replacement. You’ve inherited good bones—and a reputation worth keeping.”

“I’m doing my best,” I said with a small, nervous smile.

He gave a thoughtful nod and gestured to the row of practical inks. “Henrik always stocked these for the barge crews. Mist-resistant, won’t run in humid weather. I supplied him every other month.”

I picked up one of the mist-resistant bottles, reading the fine script etched beneath the label. Formulated by Violet Tier Enchanters Guild. Tested in coastal salt and marsh air.

“Will this hold up in a river climate?”

He tilted his head. “Tested in the Estermar Delta. You won’t find better for river work. Henrik swore by them.”

“I’ll take four of these, then. For my customers.”

“And for yourself?” he asked.

I hesitated, scanning the rows again. Near the end of the display was a smaller bottle, dark violet ink with a shimmer of rose gold in the glass. Not enchanted. Just beautiful. The label simply read: "Evening Fire."

“That one,” I said quietly. “Just one bottle.”

“A fine choice,” he murmured, already wrapping the bundle with practiced ease. “It’s made from twilight poppies grown in the Virelian cliffs. Lovely for illuminated headers.”

I handed over the coins without flinching. A thoughtful indulgence, as Henrik might’ve called it. A promise to myself that there was room in the shop for beauty as well as practicality.

As he secured the twine around the bundle, he added, “Henrik used to bring me bundles of dried apple slices wrapped in waxed cloth. Never said much. But he knew what he was looking for.”

“I’m hoping to learn the same,” I said.

“You’re off to a good start.” His tone was dry, but I caught a faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes. Approval, perhaps.

I nodded my thanks and continued on toward the west end of the market, where the stalls grew stranger and more specialized.

Tucked beside a booth of garden salves and wind chimes was a squat canvas canopy hung with sigil-marked scrolls and crates. A wooden sign overhead read: Marden's Mobile Enchantments—By Order, Not On Demand.

The gnome seated beneath it was perched atop a crate, polishing a brass compass. He glanced up, monocle flashing. “You’re the new binder in the old Moonscribe shop, aren’t you?”

“I am. Elspeth Whitfield,” I said, stepping forward. “I’ve just taken over.”

“Figured you’d show up eventually. Henrik always came market-first, tea-second. You’ve reversed the order.”

I smiled. “The tea was important.”

He chuckled and set the compass aside. “Well, if you’re here for the waterproof sealant, I’ve got your answer. Same formula as before. It’s caught on, you know—nearly every binder south of Highspire uses it now.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“I’d like to place a bulk order. I’m doing a river fleet commission, and I’ll be going through more than expected.”

He tapped a pencil against his ledger. “Two tins?”

“Four, if I can have them by week’s end.”

“That I can manage. I do the mixing upstream, ship it down in batches. Nothing made on-site. Marcus Riverstone does the delivery runs—he’s reliable.”

“That’s perfect. He handles my deliveries.”

“Well then,” he said, scribbling quickly in his book. “I’ll have your order packed for his next run.”

He finished the paperwork and wrapped the tins in straw and waxed cloth. “Store these in the cellar—cool and dark keeps the enchantment from degrading.”

“Will do,” I said, tucking the parcel carefully into my basket.

As I walked away, the basket felt heavier, but in a good way. I had what I needed to keep the shop running, and more than that—I’d taken another small step toward making it my own. I had just tucked the sealed bottle of ink into the padded corner of my basket when I noticed a narrow lane off to the side of the market square, where the tents thinned into patchy sunlight. A handwritten sign tacked to a crate read: "Garden Goods & Seedlings – heritage stock, no nonsense." The sort of sign that didn’t try to dazzle, which made me trust it more somehow.

Drawn by the idea of checking on herbs or useful plants, I followed the scent of potting soil and crushed mint to a quiet corner where seed packets were laid out in precise wooden trays, sorted by sun requirements and season. Behind them, a woman with a wide-brimmed straw hat sat on a stool, polishing her spectacles with one corner of her apron. Her hair, what I could see of it beneath the hat, was silver as birch bark, and her eyes—when she looked up—were as sharp as embroidery needles.

“You’re not here for lettuce or rhubarb,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re looking for something particular.”

I smiled, adjusting the basket on my arm. “Yes. I’ve taken over Henrik’s old bindery. I wanted to see what grows well in the back garden—and what might be useful for…well, for the craft.”

At the name, her expression shifted into one of recognition, maybe even satisfaction.

“Ah,” she said, drawing the syllable out like a well-steeped tea. “So you’re the one tending the crescent garden now.”

“I am,” I said, and something about saying it aloud—claiming it in that tidy seed-lane—felt important. “He left it surprisingly well-labeled. I only just realized this week how much of it was planted for inks, washes, pest deterrents.”

“You realized it,” she said, tapping her finger gently on the edge of a wooden tray. “Most folk never would’ve noticed. That patchwork out back? Built like a recipe. Every bed had a purpose. Henrik knew which petal steeped gold, which root fixed blue, which sprig kept mildew off the drying boards.”

I took a step closer. “Did you… supply him?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Long time. He’d trade me a journal every spring. Something simple but sturdy. Said it kept my planting notes organized, and I always knew what seeds I’d saved and what I still needed.” She leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with approval. “You planning to keep the arrangement?”

“If you’ll have me,” I said, heart catching a little at the gentle matter-of-factness of it.

She gave a single nod. “Then we’ll do as we’ve done. Come around the equinox with your finished work, and I’ll make sure your garden never goes hungry.”

I glanced over the trays again. “Would you mind helping me pick? I’m still learning.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t ask.”

With surprisingly nimble fingers, she began sorting packets. “Calendula, for gold washes. Woad, of course—though you’ll want to start that one inside if the spring stays cold. Marigolds—not just for the bugs, but they keep mold off the roots of anything you plan to steep. Chamomile for your drying racks. Weld, if you want to play with yellow—but you’ll need patience. And madder, if you think you’ll ever want red.”

I accepted each packet with growing reverence, already picturing the garden beds full and vibrant. She handed me a final one marked only “Bindery Mix – Shade Edge” and gave a rare smile.

“That one’s mine,” she said. “A blend I made for Henrik’s eastern bed. Likes dappled light. Good roots, good stems, good resilience. Plants that hold stories.”

I nearly hugged her.

Instead, I said, “I’ll make you a journal with strong hinges and a weather-resistant spine.”

“I wouldn’t expect less,” she replied.

We completed our quiet transaction in the old way, not with coin but with mutual understanding. She placed the seed packets in my basket with care, then added a sprig of something lemony for luck. I promised to return in spring with the finished journal, and she promised to set aside extra marigold seeds “just in case the rainy season starts early.”

As I stepped back into the livelier stretch of market noise and midday bustle, my arms full of future harvests, I felt something shift—not dramatically, not like a revelation, but like a book being opened to the right page. The bindery wasn’t just shelves and glue and paper. It was soil and roots and petals crushed in mortar bowls. It was partnership. I was beginning to understand what it meant to tend the whole of it.

By the time I reached the bakery counter, my basket was tugging at my arm, heavy with paper samples, a clinking bottle of ink, and carefully wrapped seed packets tucked beside a loaf of honey oat bread. I’d wandered most of the market already, pacing myself through the stalls, weighing purchases against practicality and timing, indulging in only one whim so far—the ink. My feet ached pleasantly, and the breeze carried the mingled scent of spring herbs, roasted nuts, and rising dough. Miri’s stand was tucked beneath an awning draped in faded bunting, her counters stacked with trays of hand pies, sweet twists, and buttery rolls still steaming from their covered baskets. The warmth of the oven behind her seemed to spill into the air.

"Look at you, Elspeth Whitfield," Miri said, grinning broadly as she dusted her hands on her apron. “You’re in full stride now, aren’t you?”

“Nearly,” I said, setting my basket at my feet. “I think I’ve earned lunch.”

“Well, it’s market day, not penance day,” she said, and handed me a small meat pie wrapped in brown parchment. “Lamb and mint, just pulled from the stone pan.”

I handed over my coins and moved to one of the standing counters set near the back. The meat pie was still warm enough to fog my glasses slightly. I took a bite—flaky, herbed, exactly what I hadn’t realized I was craving—and settled into the comfortable murmur of voices around me.

A trio of older women had gathered at the same counter, balancing wrapped parcels and cups of cider. Their conversation was easy, like stitches in a long-practiced embroidery: quick, neat, and layered.

“…the Ashwells are sending out invitations next week, I hear,” one said, her long ears peeking out from beneath a paisley kerchief. “June wedding. There’ll be dancing until moonrise.”

“Guest book’ll be needed for that sort of affair,” added the one beside her, a dryad with pale bark-hued skin and a generous laugh. “Hope they’ve already been to the bookshop.”

I nearly choked on my bite. I managed a small, polite cough instead.

“They haven’t,” I said after swallowing, keeping my tone light. “But I’d be happy to help if they stop by.”

All three women turned to me, kindly and curious.

“Oh, are you…?”

“Elspeth Whitfield,” I said, brushing my fingers on a napkin and offering a small wave. “I’ve taken over Moonscribe’s Bindery.”

“Ah, Henrik’s replacement!” said the third, whose weather-lined face was bright with recognition. “Well. That’s a relief. We were all worried it’d go to someone from off, no sense of the craft or community. But you’re doing just fine.”

“Better than fine,” added the dryad, wagging a finger. “I heard from Thaddeus you gave fair notes on his new blend.”

“I did,” I said, smiling despite myself. “It’s excellent. I bought more.”

She grinned as if I’d passed a secret test. “Then we can trust your taste.”

Conversation drifted again, and I let it wash over me as I worked through my lunch.

“—and the Elrinsons are extending their trade routes again,” someone said, tearing off a corner of roll. “All the way to Vellimar. Can you imagine? Crossing the river forks that far south, with spring floods still thawing?”

“They’ve got the crew for it,” the kerchiefed woman replied. “And good ledgers make all the difference. That’s why Marcus Riverstone’s runs are still the ones I use. Reliable. Knows the current better than most of the old dogs on the long hauls.”

“Elric wanted him on a bluewater route,” someone added. “Tried to get him sailing south with the big freight runs.”

“He stayed for his uncle, didn’t he?” asked the dryad, pouring another splash of cider from her flask. “And the town, too, I expect.”

“Good lad,” said the kerchiefed woman. “We’re lucky to have him.”

I stayed quiet, but I felt the words slide into place like stones in a pocket. I was still learning who mattered most in Riverhaven—and Marcus Riverstone, it seemed, was respected and well remembered.

“He's easy on the eyes too,” the dryad added, deadpan.

All three women burst out laughing, and I gave a choked laugh of my own, eyes on my meat pie as though it had turned fascinating.

“Oh, don’t look so scandalized, dear,” the dryad said, patting my wrist. “You’re new, not blind.”

“I wouldn’t say scandalized,” I managed, cheeks warming. “Just… noted.”

More laughter, gentle and knowing.

“Well, if he comes round, you let us know,” one said. “We’ll take our tea by your window.”

“Or help sweep,” added the other. “Whatever gets a look.”

I laughed with them this time, easier now. There was something comforting in it—the teasing, the undercurrent of care. It reminded me of long afternoons at home in Highspire, when my mother’s friends would linger after the embroidery circle, gossiping over teacakes and the price of nutmeg. It occurred to me, as I finished the last bite of my pie, that I hadn’t just joined a market—I’d joined a tapestry. The threads were already tugging at me, weaving me in.

When I left the counter a few minutes later, Miri handed me a fresh sweet roll wrapped in waxed paper. “For the afternoon lull,” she said. “You’ll want something sweet while you tally.”

I accepted it gratefully. “Thank you. I’ll bring the coin by tomorrow.”

“Just bring yourself,” she said with a wink. “We’re all rooting for you, shopkeeper.”

I stepped back into the flow of the market with a lightness I hadn’t expected. Between the warmth of the bakery, the quiet loyalty of Codex waiting at home, and the patient smile Marcus had given me just yesterday, something inside me had shifted. Riverhaven wasn’t just tolerating me. It was starting to claim me.

The shop was still and sunlit when I returned from the market, my basket heavier than it had been in the morning. I eased the door shut behind me with my elbow, careful not to rattle the jars of ink nestled between packets of seeds and the wrapped parcel of enchanted sealant. The scent of baked bread still clung faintly to my sleeves, and I could almost pretend I wasn’t tired—just pleasantly full, in the way only a good market day could provide.

I tucked everything away in its proper place, setting the specialty inks on the counter for later labeling and placing the paper samples from the vendor by my ledger to note the delivery terms. It had been a successful outing, if not a terribly profitable one. But I reminded myself it wasn’t always about immediate coin. Some days were about relationships, planting the seeds of future work, quite literally in today’s case. I checked the time, then flipped the sign to Open again, more out of habit than hope as most people spent the entire day in the market when it’s big. Still, I propped the front door wide and left the back door to the garden ajar, just enough to hear the bell if anyone happened by.

With no customers in sight, I gathered my seed packets and a clean journal, then slipped into the garden. The bench beneath the apple tree was half in sun, half in dappled shade, and Codex was already curled along the warm stone wall, tail twitching in approval of the arrangement. She blinked lazily as I sat down beside her, spreading the packets out on the bench and flipping open the journal to a blank page. It wasn’t a perfect garden—not yet. Henrik had let it go a little in his final months, and I hadn’t had time to do more than weed and water. But now, with baskets of seed packets and a clearer vision, I could begin to make it mine.

I sketched simple rectangles to represent the beds, labeling them in pencil: Marigolds, Woad, Chamomile, Sage. My lines weren’t particularly artistic, but they were precise. I sectioned off one corner near the back fence for plants used in ink-making, just like Henrik had, and added a cluster of calendula near the shed. In another bed, I penciled in my mother’s favorites—violas and lavender, and a little patch of wild sweet alyssum she used to tuck along garden paths.

Near the kitchen door, I planned a knot of cooking herbs: thyme, rosemary, and flat-leaf parsley. I drew little dotted lines to mark walking paths, imagining how it would look in midsummer when the leaves brushed my skirts as I passed.

Codex gave an approving yawn.

I looked over at her. “Well Marigolds are a a start, at least.”

A soft voice called from beyond the wall. “Marigolds?”

I glanced up to see Mrs. Hedgewood peering over the fence, a straw sunhat perched at a tilt atop her silver curls.

“Good for keeping aphids off,” she added, nodding sagely. “And woad does well if you don’t overwater it early on. Let the roots settle before you baby it too much.”

“Thank you,” I said, rising and dusting off my skirts. “I wasn’t sure which varieties to start with. I’ve got notes, but…” I gestured to the sky. “A bit different climate here than I’m used to.”

Mrs. Hedgewood chuckled. “Aye, Highspire's a dry old stone compared to us. River towns breathe with the weather. Henrik’s soil’s good—he composted like a champion.”

We stood and chatted about planting plans for a few minutes. She gave her opinions on raised beds versus mounded rows, and I asked whether calendula should be thinned early or let spread on its own. Eventually, she patted the wall and said, “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. We’ll have you sorted out in no time.”

As she toddled back to her garden, I sat again and began penciling in tomorrow’s planting order. I’d need to rise early to beat the sun, and the shop would still open midmorning, so I’d have a narrow window.

Still, my heart felt light. Today had been full—of color, of voices, of ideas—and though I was bone tired, it was the satisfying sort. The sort that meant something was taking root, both in the garden and in my days here.

Codex hopped down from the wall and circled my ankles, tail brushing the folds of my skirt. I gave her a tired smile.

“Come on,” I said, stretching. “Let’s call it a day.”

I was too tired to even think about cooking. A suggestion had surfaced earlier, more than once. The tavern near the square—The Alder and Ivy, as I’d heard it called—was well-regarded by locals. A few folks had mentioned it in passing, always with a nod and a smile. I hadn’t ventured there yet. I hadn’t quite had the energy, or perhaps the courage, to sit at a table alone in a new place. But tonight, the thought of stew and bread I didn’t have to prepare won out over hesitation.

I pulled on my shawl, tucked my shop keys into my pocket, and left the lamps low behind me. The air outside still carried the warmth of the day, though twilight had begun to cool the stone walkways. The sounds of the village softened into evening—windows creaked open, laughter drifted from doorways, and the distant call of gulls echoed from the docks.

The tavern was easy to find. Its windows glowed gold, a flicker of lanternlight spilling onto the cobblestones. I hesitated only a moment before pushing the door open.

It was lively inside, full but not raucous. The scent of roasting root vegetables and yeasty bread greeted me like a familiar song. Woodsmoke curled from the hearth, and the hum of conversation wrapped around me—half a dozen conversations unfolding at once, none of them mine. For now.

A server passed by with a tray of cider mugs and caught my eye. “Just one?” she asked kindly, and I nodded. She led me to a small table near the back, tucked beside a window streaked with condensation.

“This one’s good and quiet,” she said, setting down a clay mug and a worn menu slate. “Shout if you need anything.”

I smiled, murmured thanks, and settled into the corner seat. From here, I could see the room without feeling too exposed. I wrapped my hands around the mug—plain tea, thankfully—and let my shoulders relax.

I had just begun reading the day’s stew options when a familiar voice broke through the din.

“Mind if I join you?”

I looked up, startled—and there he was.

Marcus Riverstone.

He was a little damp from the mist, his shoulders broad under a travel-worn coat, and his sandy brown hair tousled from the wind. His eyes, that warm river-silt brown, crinkled faintly at the corners as he offered a smile. There was something cautious in it, something waiting.

“I don’t want to intrude,” he added. “It’s just getting a bit crowded and—well, I could use a quiet seat and a proper meal.”

My heart skipped a beat, absurdly.

“No intrusion,” I said quickly, pushing out the second chair with the toe of my boot. “Please, sit.”

Marcus settled into the chair with a quiet exhale, as though he’d been carrying the day’s weight across his shoulders and only now allowed himself to rest. He unwound his scarf and draped it over the back of the chair before offering me a grateful nod.

“Thanks. Thought I might end up standing in a corner with a heel of bread.”

I smiled faintly. “Seems a waste of a tavern visit.”

“Exactly my thought.”

The server returned with a nod of recognition and took his order—stew and a pint of dark ale. Once she’d vanished again, Marcus leaned back slightly in his seat, stretching his legs under the table. For a moment, we simply sat in companionable quiet, letting the buzz of the tavern surround us.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” he said at last. “Meant to stop by the shop again, but the day got away from me.”

“You delivered that last parcel exactly when I needed it. You’re already doing better than half the suppliers I’ve worked with,” I said, then felt the flush of self-awareness creep up my neck. “Not that the bar is terribly high.”

He chuckled. “Well, I’ll take the compliment anyway.”

The food arrived shortly after, steaming bowls of stew thick with barley and vegetables. We tore into the bread—crusted just right, still warm—and for a while, the meal held our attention more than words did. It was good, the kind of hearty fare that settled deep in your bones after a long day.

“So,” he said, once our bowls had cooled enough to let conversation resume, “how’s the settling in going? Shop still treating you well?”

I swallowed my bite of carrot and met his eyes. “It’s been… busy. But in a good way. I’ve had enough commissions to keep the lights on and just enough time to start shaping things into my own version of what Henrik left behind.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s no small thing. He ran it for decades, but folks in town already say you’re settling in better than most newcomers.”

That caught me off guard. “They do?”

“Miri mentioned it just this morning—said Thaddeus only brings his new blends to people he likes, and he left you a whole tin.”

A surprised laugh escaped me. “That’s true. He did. Told me to give feedback.”

“Well, that’s basically a profession of friendship in Thaddeus terms.”

I smiled into my mug. “I thought he just liked testing things on newcomers.”

“Nah,” Marcus said with a grin. “He’s picky. You’re officially one of us now.”

Something about that—one of us—made a warmth bloom low in my chest that had little to do with the stew or the tea.

“And what about you?” I asked, gently deflecting. “You’ve lived here long?”

He nodded, resting an elbow on the table. “Grew up on the river, mostly. My uncle’s barge ran long-haul routes when I was a kid. I rode with him for a while, thought I’d do the same. But… Riverhaven stuck. There’s a rhythm here. I like it.”

I studied him for a moment, the firelight catching in the soft scruff along his jaw. “Is that what brought you into local deliveries?”

He tilted his head in a shrug. “Sort of. Someone’s got to run between the big barges and the shops. I liked knowing the people I was delivering to. And Henrik always said, ‘You can trust a man who’s on time and remembers your paper weights.’”

“That does sound like him,” I said, then softened. “He left more behind than I realized.”

Marcus nodded again, his expression thoughtful. “He did. But I think you’re the right person to carry it forward. I can already see the difference.”

There it was again—that quiet, careful kind of compliment that didn’t press, didn’t presume. Just offered something true and waited to see if I’d accept it.

I took a sip of tea to hide the fact that I wasn’t sure how to reply.

“I’m heading upriver tomorrow,” he said after a pause. “I’ve got a stop at Miller’s mill, and I’ll be bringing back the full paper sample sets you asked for. Not just the market ones.”

My eyes brightened. “That’s perfect. I’ve only had the popular sheets to work with so far. I’d love to see the full catalogue.”

“You’ll have them by midafternoon,” he promised, and his tone was earnest in that way I was beginning to associate with him. He didn’t make empty promises. “Once you know what you like, I can put you on a regular pickup schedule. Makes life easier on both ends.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I really do appreciate it. I’m trying to do this right—make sure it all runs properly.”

“You’re doing better than that,” he said, and his smile held that same flicker of something—tentative, a little uncertain, but hopeful.

Outside, the tavern door opened, and a breeze of cooler night air swept in. We both glanced toward it instinctively, then back at each other.

“I should let you get home,” he said softly. “Long day ahead.”

“Same for you,” I said, standing as he did. “Thank you for the company. It was—nice. A good end to a busy day.”

“It was,” he agreed. And then, almost as an afterthought, “I’ll see you soon, Elspeth.”

There was something about the way he said my name—careful, deliberate—that lingered even after he’d gone.

I walked back through the village with my shawl pulled close and the quiet press of footsteps behind me. When I reached the bindery, I found the lamps still warm, the garden just a soft shadow out the back windows, and Codex curled on the cushion by the door, blinking at me sleepily. It had been a long day. But a good one. And somehow, I already looked forward to the next.