Chapter 9: A New Dawn

The rain had passed two days ago, and with it, the clinging damp that made every binding feel slow to set. I'd been working steadily each morning since, rising with the pale light to finish the boat captain's ledger order. Only a few remained—six down, six to go—and though my shoulders ached in the evenings and my eyes had grown sensitive to the fine stitchwork, I was proud. The neat stack of red-and-black bound ledgers lined up on the shelf behind the workbench like soldiers, waiting to be enchanted with the final waterproofing coat.

The waterproofing was the trickiest part. Henrik's notes described a mixture of beeswax, pine resin, and a touch of river mint oil that had to be heated to exactly the right temperature—too hot and it would discolor the cloth, too cool and it wouldn't penetrate properly. I'd practiced on scraps the night before, adjusting the proportions until the mixture spread smoothly and dried with a subtle sheen that repelled water droplets like magic.

That morning, I was halfway through folding the next signature when someone knocked on the shop's front door.

Not the bell above the garden gate, not the faint echo of the post—an actual knock. Gentle, but urgent. I blinked at the sound, glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was early, well before shop hours. The morning light still had that thin, watery quality that came before the sun fully committed to the day.

Codex, who had been curled like a crescent roll on the corner of the workbench, lifted her head but didn't move. She knew better than to worry about such things before breakfast. Her morning routine was sacred: a long stretch, a careful grooming of her white chest patch, then patient waiting by her bowl until I remembered my duties as her personal chef.

I wiped my hands on a clean cloth and crossed to the front. The knock came again, more hesitant this time. When I opened the door, a hunched figure stood just beyond the threshold, cradling something in a tea towel.

"Sorry—terribly sorry," the man said at once. His voice trembled with age and distress, like a worn coat left out in a storm. "I didn't mean to disturb you so early, miss, but I—I wasn't sure when else I could come."

He was elderly, with a wind-burnt face and wisps of white hair sticking out from under a knitted cap that had seen better decades. The bundle in his arms was carefully held, but I could already see the telltale edge of frayed binding cloth, limp and ruined. His hands shook slightly—whether from age or emotion, I couldn't tell.

"It's alright," I said gently, stepping aside. "I was already up. Come in out of the cold."

The morning air had a bite to it, carrying the scent of wet leaves and distant woodsmoke from early hearth fires. He looked immeasurably relieved, and I led him toward the counter while closing the door behind us. His boots left damp prints on the mat, and I noticed how carefully he walked, as if the precious burden in his arms might shatter with a wrong step.

"I'm Elspeth," I offered as he settled the bundle onto the counter. "I do keep early hours—workshop time, before the shop opens. So you're not disturbing me at all."

He gave a grateful nod. "Name's Hollis. Hollis Keene. I work the river—can't come during the day without risking my berth. But this—" His hands, calloused and worn from decades of labor, carefully unwrapped the fabric. "This needed fixing."

I caught my breath. The book was in terrible shape. The binding had been torn clean off, the leather covers ripped and warped. It looked as though someone had stood on it—indeed, from the faint shoe mark across the front, someone very well had. But worse than the physical damage was the way Mr. Keene looked at it, as if seeing a wounded friend.

"It was the little one," Hollis said, reading my reaction. "My granddaughter. Just learning to walk. Someone left a chair pulled out—none of us thought she could reach that high yet." He exhaled shakily. "It's our family history. Names, dates, stories. Five generations. I thought—" His throat worked around the words. "I thought it was gone."

I ran my fingers gently over the loose stack of pages. Miraculously, the internal folios were still intact. The sewing had held, even as the covers had given way. Ink hadn't run, and though one corner had a muddy scuff, it could be carefully cleaned. The paper itself was good quality, thick and well-made—the kind that lasted.

"The structure is sound," I said, reassuring him as I turned a few pages. The entries were in different hands, different inks—a physical timeline of his family's history. "I'll rebind it—new covers, proper casing, spine support. It'll be good for another five generations, at least."

His shoulders sagged with quiet relief. "You can really fix it?"

"I can," I said, more certain than I expected. "And I'll have it ready this afternoon."

He looked stunned. "That fast?"

I smiled a little. "It'll be the only project I work on until it's done."

He dabbed at his eyes with a wrinkled kerchief, cleared his throat, and nodded. "Thank you. Thank you, miss. You don't know what this means."

I did, though. I knew exactly what it meant. I promised to have it wrapped and ready by four and walked him to the door. When I turned back to the counter, the bundle lay open, waiting for my hands.

I made tea before I started. A soft morning blend, something with a bit of cinnamon and lavender—one of Henrik's unmarked tins that I'd grown fond of. The ritual of tea-making helped center me for important work. While the water heated, I fed Codex her morning portion, adding a few extra treats since she'd been so patient. She purred her approval, tail high as she tucked into her breakfast.

Then I cleared the workbench of ledgers and spread out fresh cloth. This wasn't just any repair—it was my first real restoration. Not a product for sale or a blank book for a barge crew. A treasure, entrusted. The weight of that responsibility settled over me like a familiar cloak.

Codex, now awake and sitting with studied indifference on the window ledge, watched with solemn eyes as I selected the right materials: sturdy linen tape, archival glue, binding boards, and soft navy leather. The old cover had been brown, but I'd show him something dignified, something strong. Navy, like deep water, like evening sky—colors that suggested permanence.

First came cleaning the pages—every one of them brushed lightly with a soft horsehair brush and inspected. The entries fascinated me as I worked. Birth announcements written in careful copperplate, recipes tucked between genealogy entries, pressed flowers marking significant dates. A few pages had loose corners that needed careful mending with Japanese tissue paper, nearly invisible once applied. One endpaper had to be recreated from scratch, which meant mixing a subtle tea stain to match the aged color of the original.

The morning sun climbed higher as I worked, shifting the shadows across my bench. Outside, I could hear the town waking—cart wheels on cobblestones, merchants calling greetings, the distant clang of the blacksmith beginning his day. But in my workshop, time moved differently, measured in careful movements and drying times.

Then came the new spine structure: firm, reinforced, lined with cloth to cradle the old sewing inside a supportive embrace. I used a technique Master Catherine had taught for particularly precious books—double-layered mull for strength, with a hollow tube construction that would allow the spine to flex without straining the pages.

The new covers I cut slowly, checking measurements twice before making each cut. The soft leather stretched smooth over fresh boards, and I took extra care with the corners, folding them into neat, mitered points that would never catch or fray. I let the glue set beneath weights as I worked on the finishing touches—a new nameplate inside, stamped with gold leaf using Henrik's old tools. Just the family name, in a graceful, curling script: Keene.

By noon, the new binding was dry enough to assemble. I eased the block into its new case, double-checked the hinge strength, and wrapped the whole thing in clean linen while the last bit of glue cured in peace. The book felt solid in my hands, ready for another century of gentle use.

Codex padded over and sniffed the finished book with interest. Her ears twitched, then she sat back on her haunches and gave me a long, deliberate blink—her highest form of praise.

"I'll take that as approval," I murmured.

The book was beautiful. Not showy or flashy, just whole again. Quietly strong. It reminded me of Mr. Keene himself. I wrapped the finished volume in brown parchment and tied it with a neat length of twine, just as I'd been taught. Then I placed it gently behind the counter, where it would wait for its owner. I still had an afternoon of customers ahead. But something about this work had shifted my perspective. It wasn't just about making things anymore. It was about preserving them—mending what mattered. For the first time in my new-to-me shop, I felt like a true bookbinder.

The shop bell jingled for the first time that morning just as I finished sweeping the front mat. A soft breeze carried the scent of rain-dampened stone through the open door, a reminder of the past few days' weather and the green it had coaxed from every hedgerow and garden. The town had that particularly fresh smell that came after rain—earth and growing things and the faint sweetness of Mrs. Hedgewood's roses from next door.

I set the broom aside and straightened my apron, brushing away a smear of glue from earlier work. The front counter was already tidy, ledger and pen ready, just in case today brought something more than idle foot traffic. I'd learned to always be prepared—customers had a way of arriving in clusters, like birds deciding all at once to visit the same tree.

A man in a moss-green cap stepped inside, his boots leaving faint prints across the rug. He looked to be in his late forties, with wind-reddened cheeks and thick hands that spoke of labor. The calluses on his fingers caught the light as he adjusted his grip on what he carried. In one arm he held a wrapped bundle—flat, square, and heavy—and under the other, a folded rain slicker still damp from his walk.

"Morning," he said, glancing around the shop with interest. His eyes lingered on the displayed journals, the neat rows of ink bottles, the small sign I'd lettered announcing restoration services. "You're the one what took over from Henrik?"

I nodded. "Elspeth Whitfield. I'm the new bookbinder here." I hesitated, then added, "Though it's still Moonscribe's. I haven't changed the name."

"Good. Wouldn't feel right if it did." He stepped closer, tapping the bundle lightly. "I heard you fix books. Wasn't sure if it were true. Some folks down by the river said you repaired a family history yesterday."

Word was spreading faster than I expected. River workers, it seemed, were an efficient gossip network.

"Yes," I said, gesturing to the workbench near the front. "I do restorations as well. Would you like to show me what needs doing?"

He unwrapped the package carefully, revealing a well-used recipe book with leather flaps warped from damp. The cover had once been a deep red, now mottled with age and kitchen stains—oil splatters, what looked like turmeric, and the ghost of countless finger marks. Several pages near the back had come loose entirely, fluttering slightly when he moved.

"It's my mum's," he said. "She kept it since she was a girl. It's… it's got our whole family in it. Not just food. Notes, names, when things were made and for who. She passed last spring, and I'd like to keep this whole as long as I can."

The reverence in his voice echoed yesterday's visitor. I took the book gently, flipping through the pages with care. The paper was yellowed but sturdy—good rag paper that had survived decades of kitchen humidity. Recipe after recipe filled the pages in various hands. "Aunt Mabel's Christmas Pudding." "Father's Cure for Everything Soup." Margins filled with notes: "Made for Samuel's wedding," "Dorothy's favorite," "Add extra ginger when it rains." A few pages were water-damaged, others dog-eared or torn from overuse, but the binding was the main culprit—it had simply given out from years of loving use.

"This is absolutely repairable," I said. "The binding will need reinforcement and a few pages re-anchored. I can clean the cover and preserve it as-is, or replace it with something similar, whichever you prefer."

He exhaled in relief. "Preserve it, please. I like the old look. The stains are memories too."

I smiled. "I'll make a note in my ledger. It should be ready by the end of next week, if that works for you."

He nodded and handed over a few silver coins for the deposit, the edges worn from years of use. As he left, he paused in the doorway. "You're doing good work here. Makes a difference."

Before I could return to the workroom, the bell chimed again.

This time it was a tall, weathered woman with a streak of white in her tightly bound braids. She wore oilskin trousers and a thick scarf wound against her neck, and her voice carried a hint of salt and wind. Everything about her spoke of a life spent on water—the way she planted her feet wide for balance even on solid ground, the squint lines around her eyes from sun on waves.

"You the binder?" she asked without preamble. "Got something for you."

She handed over a satchel smelling faintly of seaweed and rope. Inside was a ship's log, or what was left of one—pages curled and stiff from water exposure, the cover half torn and the spine missing entirely. The leather had that peculiar texture that came from salt water damage, crusty and fragile at once.

"Wasn't even raining that hard," she muttered, rubbing her arms. "Got caught on deck when a wave broke wrong. Should've known to seal the bag tighter. Captain says it's the only full log for the trade route. Four months of navigation notes, cargo manifests, crew records. Can't afford to lose it."

"I can dry and press the pages to flatten them again," I said, carefully thumbing through them. The damage was extensive but not hopeless. "Some ink is faded, but most of it looks legible. I'll bind it in a waterproof cover going forward if you like."

"Waterproof," she repeated firmly. "Whatever it costs. Can't have this happening again."

Her sharp nod of approval was all the confirmation I needed.

I recorded the second job in my ledger, drawing quick diagrams beside the entry to remind myself of size and structure. Each restoration had its own quirks, its own challenges. This one would need careful attention to salt removal—I'd need to consult Henrik's notes on marine damage.

No sooner had she left than the bell jingled once more.

The third visitor was a soft-spoken man wearing the blue sash of a local wedding officiant. He smiled awkwardly and handed over a velvet-wrapped parcel with both hands. His fingers trembled slightly, whether from nerves or embarrassment I couldn't tell.

"A bit of a... delicate matter," he said. "Bride's mother got too excited at the rehearsal dinner and spilled an entire bottle of berry wine on the album. We mopped it up quick, but the cover's done for. Wedding's in three days."

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I peeled back the velvet to reveal a once-beautiful wedding album with gold-embossed lettering. The cover had indeed suffered—a purple stain spreading across the ivory silk like a bruise—but the inside pages remained mercifully untouched. The album was new, probably commissioned specially for the occasion, and I could feel the weight of expectation in how carefully he'd wrapped it.

"I can remove the cover and replace it with something close," I said gently. "Would you like to keep the original cloth? I can reuse it on the inside flap if there's enough to salvage. Perhaps cut around the stain and use the clean portions for decoration?"

He nodded with a look of quiet gratitude. "The bride was so upset. Her grandmother's pressed flowers are inside. If you could save any part of the original..."

"I'll do my best," I promised.

By mid-morning, I had three new commissions logged and a fresh appreciation for the growing reach of my work. The restoration side of the shop, which had felt more hopeful than practical only a few weeks ago, was becoming something real. Tangible. Necessary.

As the door closed behind the wedding officiant, I leaned on the counter and exhaled. The morning sun had fully claimed the shop now, turning the dust motes into tiny golden dancers and warming the wooden floors until they creaked gently with expansion.

Three customers before lunch. All referrals. All trusting me with pieces of their lives.

Codex, lounging beside the sunbeam pooling through the front window, blinked lazily at me, her tail flicking once in approval. I had the oddest feeling she understood exactly what had just happened. She'd positioned herself perfectly to be admired by customers—close enough to seem welcoming, far enough to avoid unwanted touches.

The workbench filled quickly after that—wrapped parcels stacked neatly beside incoming notes and sketches. I checked my paper stock, mentally counting how many reinforced boards I had left in the cellar and whether I had enough gold leaf for lettering. The wedding album alone would use most of my ivory silk. I would need more binding cloth by the weekend if commissions continued at this pace.

And then came the most important part of all—scheduling.

I spread out my work ledger on the counter and sat down with a pencil, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Each project needed its own line and estimate. The columns Henrik had drawn were still visible, his neat categories ready for my entries. I appreciated his foresight more each day. Mrs. Pembridge's next moon journal was still due—she liked them ready for each new moon, to track her garden's response to lunar cycles. The boat captain's ledgers, nearly finished. These three new restorations, all needed within a week or two. I drew timelines in pencil, labeled them in different ink colors, and marked days where shop hours might need to be shorter to finish something in time.

I was learning, quickly, that craft was only half the work. The other half was time. Prioritization. Managing expectations with grace and practicality. Henrik's old notes had more meaning now: "A tired binder makes crooked lines." Another favorite: "Promise modest, deliver excellence."

When I looked up, it was past noon and my stomach rumbled. The morning had flown by in a blur of consultations and calculations.

I made myself a simple lunch—cheese and dark bread with rosemary from the garden—and ate behind the counter while flipping through a newly arrived trade flyer one of the customers had left behind. The bread was from the bakery three doors down, still warm at the center, and the cheese came from Mrs. Hedgewood's cousin who kept goats upriver. These small connections to the town, through food and neighbors and shared recommendations, were beginning to weave me into the fabric of Riverhaven.

A barge festival was coming up in a fortnight, according to the flyer. Decorative sails and music and a market for boat-themed goods. There would be competitions—best decorated barge, fastest river crossing, most creative sail design. It might be a good time to make extra stock of barge-sized ledgers and logbooks. Perhaps some with decorative covers that matched the festive atmosphere. As I sipped the last of my tea, I looked at the collection of new work and felt something settle in my chest—a sense of direction. The kind that only came from doing something well, and being seen for it.

By the time the bell over the door rang near closing, the light outside had taken on that soft amber hue that signaled the river was catching the last gold of the day. I looked up from my ledger, brush still in hand from applying another coat of sealant to the final of the captain's ledgers, and saw the elderly man from that morning standing in the doorway.

Only this time, he wasn't alone.

A young woman—mid-thirties, perhaps—stood beside him, her arm threaded through his in a way that was both protective and grounding. She had the same sea-glass grey eyes and a posture that suggested she was used to bracing against river winds. Her dress was practical wool, well-mended, and she wore the kind of sturdy boots that suggested someone who walked miles each day. There was a tension in her stance as she looked around the shop, gaze flitting across the shelves before landing on the wrapped parcel resting beside me on the counter.

"Oh," she said softly, already starting forward. "Is that—?"

The old man made a noise halfway between a chuckle and a breath of awe. "That's it, isn't it?"

I stood and gently passed the parcel across the counter. "All finished, just as promised. Rebound, restored, and strengthened from the spine out. It should hold steady for years to come—generations, if cared for."

He untied the twine with shaking hands, the crinkle of paper seeming loud in the quiet shop. His daughter steadied his fingers with her own, helping him unwrap the final layer. As the book emerged—its deep blue cloth newly pressed, corners reinforced, and the gold-lettered family name gleaming once more on the spine—he let out a breath like he'd been holding it all day.

"It's… it's perfect."

I smiled, suddenly nervous despite the praise. "The pages were in good condition, thankfully. Mostly worn at the edges and in need of a dry clean. A toddler's hands, I believe you said?" I glanced at the woman, who rolled her eyes fondly.

"My daughter's youngest. Not even supposed to be able to reach the shelf yet. She's got her great-grandfather's determination, that one."

"We've rearranged the house since," she added ruefully, taking the book in her own hands and tracing her fingers over the smooth new spine. "I thought we'd lost this. Five generations in here. Births, names, letters, family receipts, marriage notes. My own birth announcement is in here, and my mother's, and hers before that. You've no idea what this means to us."

Her father reached into his coat and pulled out a worn leather pouch, from which he counted out the exact number of silver coins I'd quoted him, plus two more for good measure.

"Please," he said, forestalling my polite protest. "Worth every penny, twice over. You've done right by our family."

I felt a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with the shop's small hearth fire. I'd taken classes on restoration, practiced on mock-ups and staged damage—but this was the first time it had truly mattered. Not for a grade, or a mark, or a professor's nod—but for memory. For legacy.

"Thank you," I said softly, fingers closing around the warm coins. "I'm honoured you trusted me with it."

The woman glanced around again, eyes lingering on a few other books laid out for repair. "Word's going to spread, you know," she said with a knowing smile. "You might want to keep a waiting list. My cousin's got a cookbook that's falling apart, and I know Mr. Chen has been looking for someone to rebind his grandfather's journals."

As they left, bell chiming behind them, I stood for a moment with my palms flat on the counter and let the weight of the moment settle. This shop… this life… it was becoming real.

Codex leapt lightly onto the workbench and sniffed the scrap of ribbon left behind from the wrapping paper. Her tail curled neatly over her paws as she met my gaze with an expression that could only be interpreted as approval. She knew, in her feline wisdom, that we'd crossed some invisible threshold. We weren't just playing at being a bindery anymore. We were one.

By late afternoon, the scent of rain-warmed earth had faded into the crisp, golden clarity of early evening. I had just finished sweeping the workshop floor and tidying the counter when a knock sounded at the back door—three brisk taps, familiar but unexpected.

I glanced up from where I was storing away a spool of binding thread. Codex lifted her head from her patch of sun-warmed windowsill, ears pricked. She recognized the knock too, I realized. Her tail twitched with interest rather than alarm.

Crossing to the door that opened into the garden path, I eased it open. The hinges needed oil—another item for my ever-growing list of shop maintenance.

Marcus Riverstone stood just outside, the sun catching on his sandy hair and turning it almost golden. He had a parcel tucked under one arm and that easy smile that seemed to be his default expression.

"Evening," he said with a slight smile. "Hope I'm not catching you too late. Henrik always had me knock here after hours."

"Not too late at all," I said, stepping aside to let him in. "This works fine."

He ducked inside with the ease of someone who'd done so before, his boots tracking just a trace of garden dust onto the stone floor. "Didn't want to interrupt if you were upstairs. But I figured this was the door for business. Henrik trained me well—customer door for customers, garden door for suppliers and friends."

"It is," I said, gesturing toward the worktable. "Come on in."

The familiar quiet of the shop settled around us again as Marcus laid the parcel on the long table, unwrapping the waxed cloth to reveal a tidy stack of labeled paper samples. He was careful and practiced in his movements, clearly used to handling goods for delivery, but there was something extra in the way he smoothed each page—respect, maybe, for the craft behind them.

"These are the full mill samples," he said. "Weight, texture, grain—full range. I figured you'd want to see more than the market selection. Even brought some of the new weather-treated stock they've been developing. Supposed to handle our river humidity better."

"I really did," I said, reaching for the first set. "Thank you."

The papers were beautiful—sturdy, smooth, perfectly cut. Each sample had a small label with weight, fiber content, and suggested uses. I ran my fingertips lightly along one edge and nodded, already thinking through which ones I'd use for ledgers, which for journaling stock. One particular sample, a cream-colored laid paper with visible chain lines, would be perfect for Mrs. Pembridge's moon journal.

"Henrik had a few favorites," Marcus added, watching me scan the labels. "But the mill's added a couple new blends since then. More moisture resistant, better longevity. This one," he pointed to a slightly textured sheet, "takes ink like a dream but still holds up to weather."

"You know a lot about paper," I said, raising an eyebrow as I examined the flecked archival weight.

He shrugged lightly. "Years of carting it up and down the river. You learn things. Which mills are reliable, which papers will yellow, which ones smell strange when they get damp. Henrik used to quiz me sometimes, I think just to keep me sharp."

We reviewed the selections together, and I appreciated how he let me lead, only chiming in with useful notes when needed—just enough to show he understood the material without talking over me. Eventually, I pointed out two types I wanted in bulk, one for archival rebinding and one for ledgers, plus a smaller quantity of the fancy laid paper.

"I'll file the order tomorrow," he said, taking out his small, weatherworn notebook. The leather cover was soft with use, and his writing was surprisingly neat for someone who worked with his hands. "Should arrive ten days out. Eight if the river's running fast."

"That'll work," I said. "I've got enough to cover until then."

He hesitated for just a beat, then reached into his satchel and pulled out a small bundle, tied with neat twine and a brass bead.

"These came in on the wrong barge," he said. "Saw your name while helping sort manifests. Thought they might be missed."

My breath caught when I saw the handwriting—my father's bold scrawl, my mother's looping script, and one envelope with a tiny row of stars across the top that could only be from Maisie.

"You found these?"

"They were headed upriver by mistake. Probably would've taken another week or two to come back down. Maybe longer if they'd gone all the way to Cedar Falls."

"Thank you," I said softly, taking them from him. "You have no idea how much this means."

Marcus nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. "Glad I could get them to you sooner. Nothing worse than wondering if your letters are reaching home. Or if theirs are reaching you."

I stood holding the bundle for a long moment before tucking it carefully into the drawer by the ledger. I'd read them tonight. With tea. And maybe tears, but good ones.

He shifted his weight, glancing toward the door. "I should head off before the light fades. River road's tricky in the dark."

"Thank you again—for the samples, for the letters... all of it."

"Anytime, Elspeth."

There was something different in the way he said my name this time—less formal, more familiar. A tentative kindness, maybe. A thread that might tug gently in the days to come.

As he turned and opened the door to the fading light, he paused.

"Henrik didn't give out the garden door easily," he said with a small smile. "Only to people he trusted. Took me three years to earn it."

I smiled back. "I'll try to be worthy of it."

"You already are," he said simply, and then he was gone, the scent of summer dust and paper lingering just long enough to remind me that I wasn't doing this alone.

Upstairs, I prepared a simple dinner—just bread, a bit of sharp cheese, and apple slices from the kitchen bowl—and set Codex's dish down by the window where she liked to eat. The evening routine had become comfortable in its simplicity. The cat sniffed once, approved, and dug in with delicate enthusiasm. I lit the small table lamp by the armchair, its warm glow pushing back the gathering dusk, then settled in with the bundle of letters Marcus had delivered, tied neatly with red string.

There were four in total, each in familiar handwriting: one from my mother, one from Gareth, one from Maisie, and the last—surprisingly—from Aunt Tilda. All had been forwarded and rerouted through at least two courier depots. The corners were softened from the journey, but the wax seals were mostly intact. I ran my fingers over each seal before breaking it, a small ritual of connection across the miles.

I opened my mother's first. Her handwriting flowed in looping, even lines, her sentences tidy and to the point. She asked after my meals, the state of the roof, whether I'd remembered to unpack my heavier blanket. She mentioned that the neighbor's dog had gotten into her herb garden again, and that she'd finally given up on lavender this year. The ordinary details of home made my throat tight. At the bottom of the page, in smaller script, she added, "Your father says hello, in his way. He's proud. I can tell. He's been telling customers about your shop, though he pretends he's just mentioning it in passing."

I sat with that for a moment, hand resting on the page, imagining my taciturn father casually working my success into conversations at his warehouse.

Next was Gareth's. His writing was broader, slanted, occasionally smudged—as if he'd penned it at the warehouse in stolen minutes between tasks. He offered a series of bullet-pointed updates: business was steady, he'd passed on my forwarding address to a few suppliers, and he'd found an old ledger I might want to rebind for practice. "Also," he added in a postscript, "I'm courting the baker's daughter. Don't tell Mother yet—I want to be sure it's serious first. Her name is Rose and she makes the best apple tarts I've ever tasted." It was classic Gareth—practical, efficient, but threaded through with care. He ended with: "Don't let the townsfolk push you around. Except maybe the baker. If someone's got fresh bread, let them push all they like."

Maisie's letter, as expected, was twice as long as anyone else's and full of stories—some of which may have actually happened. She wrote about Academy gossip and a professor who kept falling asleep during morning lectures. She'd tried a new enchantment formula and singed her sleeves ("But Elspeth, the color it turned the flame was absolutely worth it—like sunset through amethyst!"). She included a sketch of her latest wardrobe project, a jacket covered in embroidered moons. At the bottom she'd scrawled, "Come visit before I graduate or I'll come drag you back myself. I mean it. I'll show up with a hired cart and make a scene."

Last came Aunt Tilda's. I hadn't expected one from her. The paper was thick and pale blue, her personal stationery that always smelled faintly of violets. The handwriting was surprisingly elegant. She wrote simply: "It does my heart good to think of you with ink on your fingers and your own keys in hand. I was never brave enough to leave Highspire. You were. Be proud of that. P.S. - I've enclosed some pressed flowers from my garden. The blue ones take ink beautifully."

Indeed, tucked into the envelope were several delicate pressed forget-me-nots, their color still vivid. I held them up to the light, already imagining the deep blue ink they might produce.

I pressed the letter to my chest for a moment, then placed it with the others.

The room was quiet but for the ticking wall clock and Codex's faint snores from the window seat. I refilled my tea and moved to the writing desk near the corner window, drawing a fresh sheet of stationery from the drawer.

Dear all, I wrote. Your letters arrived in a bundle this evening, thanks to a kind delivery by Marcus Riverstone, the ferryman I mentioned in my first note. They'd been misrouted—wrong barge, wrong port—but they found me eventually. I'm grateful.

Things here are busy, but good. I returned a family history book today—my first major restoration. The owner's daughter cried when she saw it. I nearly did too. It seems word travels fast on the river, because I had three more restoration requests before lunch. Orders are piling up in the best possible way. I'm nearly finished a commission for twelve waterproof ledgers, and I've been working on letter-writing sets in the evenings. It's a quiet sort of work, the kind I enjoy.

Customers have been kind, and the townsfolk even kinder. Mrs. Hedgewood continues to share gardening wisdom over the wall. The baker saves me the best loaves if I arrive after the morning rush. Even the stern harbormaster nodded at me yesterday, which I'm told is high praise.

The garden's started. Marigolds for pests, calendula for gold ink wash, woad for blue, herbs for the kitchen. Today I noticed the first shoots of what might be Henrik's ink plants coming up—tiny green promises of future colors. Codex, by the way, is still entirely unhelpful. She naps on my materials and refuses to move. I think she considers herself the shop's quality control department.

I hesitated a moment, the pen hovering.

There's more I could say—about the river, about market days, about the people here—but I'll save that for next time. Just know I'm well. The shop feels more like mine every day. I've even started planning next month's offerings. There's a rhythm forming, slow and good.

Gareth, congratulations on Rose. Bring her apple tarts when you visit. Maisie, no dramatic arrivals, please—come for the barge festival instead. Mother, the roof is sound and I'm eating properly. Aunt Tilda, thank you for the flowers. I'll experiment with them this week.

All my love,

Elspeth

I signed with care, folded the letter, and sealed it with the wax stamp I'd received at the auction—the crescent moon and the page. My hand lingered on the seal a moment, a quiet thrill blooming in my chest. Each letter sent and received was another thread connecting my new life to my old one, weaving them together into something stronger.

I tidied the desk, turned down the lamp, and coaxed Codex off the window ledge with a few murmured words and a soft scratch behind the ears. She stretched luxuriously, yawned to show her impressive teeth, then padded after me with the dignity of a small queen granting an audience.

Upstairs, the bed was cool and familiar, the blankets heavy in just the right way. I slipped beneath them and let the quiet take over. This place, I thought drowsily, was beginning to feel not just like a place I lived, but a place I belonged. The sound of the river carried through the window—constant, patient, connecting all the towns along its length just as surely as Marcus's barge routes.

Sleep came easily after that, filled with dreams of golden book spines and blue flowers and letters finding their way home.