Chapter 14: Growing Connections

The knock came earlier than expected, a quiet tap-tap against the shop door that startled me from the small ritual of opening. I was still in the midst of rolling up the oilcloth shades from the front windows, the morning light slanting across the floor in soft golden stripes. Dust danced in the air, caught in the warmth, swirling like tiny spirits celebrating the new day. The shop still held that particular quiet of early morning—before customers, before work began in earnest, when it was just me and the gentle creaking of old wood settling into the day.

I had been humming softly, one of the river songs I'd learned from listening to the bargemen, when the knock interrupted. I glanced at the clock—barely past seven. Too early for customers, too early even for the post.

I crossed to the door, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek and smoothing my apron—a nervous habit I'd developed since taking over the shop. My fingers found a small spot of dried glue from yesterday's work, and I picked at it absently before pulling the door open with a quiet creak.

Marcus stood on the threshold, the brim of his cap shadowing his eyes, though his smile was unmistakable. The morning light caught the edges of his sandy hair where it curled beneath the cap, turning it almost golden. "Caught the dawn tide," he said by way of greeting, lifting one shoulder in a casual shrug. The crispness in the morning hadn't yet lifted, and his breath puffed faintly in the cool air.

He held a ledger tucked beneath one arm and his coat unbuttoned at the throat, the blue of his shirt just visible beneath—the same shade as deep river water. The scent of river water and fresh sawdust followed him like a breeze, mixed with something else—coffee, perhaps, from an early breakfast.

"You're early," I said, surprised but not displeased. My heart did a small, pleasant flutter. I stepped aside so he could enter, and he ducked his head slightly as he crossed the threshold, his shoulder brushing lightly against mine. The touch lingered in my awareness even as he moved away, leaving warmth in its wake.

"Mill shipment came through ahead of schedule, so I took advantage. Thought I'd get these to you before the morning rush." He paused, setting the ledger down on the counter and peering into the shadowed interior of the shop. His eyes tracked over the shelves, the neat stacks of paper, the tools arranged just so. "Still quiet in here. Peaceful."

"It usually is, this early." I reached for my apron hanging on a hook by the door—my good one, with fewer stains—and tied it over my skirt, smoothing the ties at my waist. The familiar weight of it settled something in me, like armor for the day's work. "You want tea first, or unload the wagon?"

His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Let's unload first. Paper's too fine to be left waiting. Miller was particularly proud of this batch."

Outside, the barge-wagon was drawn close to the shop's side entrance, painted in the traditional blue and white of river vessels. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of the river—that particular mix of water, reeds, and the faint sweetness of morning mist. The low hum of the river beyond mixed with the occasional call of gulls circling for their breakfast. The cart's side was stacked with neatly bundled parcels, each tied with hemp cord and marked in charcoal script. I noticed how carefully they'd been arranged—heaviest at the bottom, delicate items cushioned between.

Marcus moved with easy confidence, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his shirt as he lifted the first bundle and handed it down to me as I stood just inside the door. His movements spoke of years of practice, of knowing exactly how to balance weight and motion.

"That one's your usual calfskin," he said, nodding to the label. "But this—" he unfastened a second bundle with deliberate care, lifting a smaller, flatter package wrapped in waxed paper, "—this is the special order. Miller says it's the finest batch he's turned out in years. Pressed it himself, edge-trimmed by hand. Said you'd want to check it first."

"He knows me well," I murmured, already anticipating the quality.

I took it from him gently, our fingers brushing as the package changed hands. The touch was brief, but something in it made my heart skip—a awareness of skin against skin, of shared purpose. The wrap crinkled beneath my fingers as I carried it to the back worktable and carefully opened the corners. Inside, sheets of ivory paper lay pristine and unmarred, with a soft tooth that promised clean ink lines and gentle fold lines. The paper had that particular sheen that came from proper sizing, and when I lifted a sheet to the light, it was perfectly translucent at the edges. I drew in a breath.

"He wasn't exaggerating," I murmured, running one fingertip across the surface. The texture was like silk beneath my touch. "It's beautiful. Perfect for the wedding book. They'll be able to pass this down for generations."

Marcus leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, watching me with a quiet ease. The morning light from the window caught his profile, highlighting the strong line of his jaw. "He mentioned the river-filtered pulp and oat ash—sounded impressive coming from him. Said it should hold color especially well. Something about the mineral content."

"It means the paper won't yellow as quickly," I explained, setting the sheet down carefully. "And ink won't bleed, even with heavy application. This is craftsman's work."

"Like yours," he said simply.

The compliment warmed me more than it should have. "I'll make good use of it."

"No doubt you will."

We fell into a rhythm then, passing boxes and parcels from cart to shop. He handed them to me one at a time, calling out contents as we went—"Binding thread, three colors," "Leather sheets, various," "That new adhesive you wanted to try." His movements were steady and sure, and I sorted them into stacks by material and use. Leather sheaths, binder's board, pots of pigment, and bundles of linen thread. All familiar things, yet somehow different now with Marcus's quiet presence beside them.

He knew my system without needing to ask. Labels upright, heavier items to the back corner where the floor was more stable, delicate materials on the higher shelves away from any chance of water damage. We'd developed this dance over the past months without really discussing it. Once, when I nearly tripped over a stray cord, he reached out instinctively and caught my elbow, his fingers warm and steady through the fabric of my sleeve. Our eyes met for a moment longer than necessary, and I saw something shift in his expression—something soft and wondering.

"Careful," he said quietly. "Can't have the town's best bookbinder injured by her own supplies."

"Only bookbinder," I corrected with a small laugh, but his hand lingered a moment more before releasing me.

He shifted the final box into place with a soft grunt of effort, then stood back and brushed his hands on his trousers. A streak of dust marked one thigh, and I had the absurd urge to brush it off for him.

"That's the lot," he said. "Unless there's anything you want me to double-check. Miller included some samples of his new experiments—said you might find them interesting."

"Let's go over the manifest together," I replied, not quite ready for him to go. The morning was too pleasant, his company too comfortable.

We took our places at the long side table near the back windows, the morning light just beginning to filter in through the smudged panes. The glass needed cleaning—another task for my endless list—but the soft quality it gave the light was almost worth the neglect. I poured two cups of tea from the pot I'd set to steep earlier, adding honey to both from the jar Mrs. Hedgewood had given me. He accepted his with a quiet thanks, his fingers grazing mine in the hand-off. This time, the touch felt deliberate.

We leaned over the ledger together, elbows brushing now and then as we scanned the list. I could smell the soap he used—something clean and faintly piney—mixed with river air. I checked off each item as he read them aloud, his voice low and unhurried. Occasionally he added notes Miller had passed along—"That pigment batch is stronger than usual, Miller says, might want to dilute it more," or "He mentioned this new glue might hold up better in the damp. Been testing it on his own books."

I nodded, scribbling in my own shorthand beside each entry. My writing looked cramped and hurried next to his neat notations. Outside, the day warmed slowly, and the scent of tea mingled with paper and sunlit dust. A cart rumbled past on the street, and somewhere a door opened and closed.

Halfway through, he paused. "My uncle's starting the roof Thursday, if the weather holds. Said he'd bring tarps in case of a late storm."

I looked up from the page. "That soon?" Part of me was pleased—the leak had been worrying me. Another part wondered if the repairs would mean less reason for him to stop by.

"Wanted to get ahead of the season," he said, eyes crinkling with a small smile. "Said the leak near the seam could get worse if we wait too long. Plus," he added, glancing at me sideways, "I might have mentioned you had important work that needed protecting."

I gave a slow nod, touched by his thoughtfulness. "I'm grateful. I've just started to settle in. It'd be nice not to worry about the workroom growing mold. Or worse, losing commissioned pieces to water damage."

His gaze lingered a moment longer. "You're making the place yours, Elspeth. It shows. The garden alone looks better than it has in years."

I looked down quickly, a faint warmth creeping up my neck. The tip of my pencil tapped lightly against the page.

"I'm trying. Though the mint is threatening to take over everything if I don't cut it back soon."

"Let it," he said with a grin. "Nothing wrong with abundance."

We finished the review slowly, both of us finding small reasons to linger. A note about supply routes for the winter months. Discussion of which merchants were reliable and which tended to short their weights. A shared laugh over an ink label smudged to say "pigeon grey" instead of "pigeon glue."

"Though pigeon grey might sell well," I mused. "For those particularly dreary letters."

"The ones to tax collectors," he suggested, and we both laughed.

I offered him another cup of tea before he left, and he accepted, sitting across from me with the easy quiet that had grown between us in the past weeks. The morning sun climbed higher, painting rectangles of light across the floor.

"How's the wedding book coming?" he asked, genuine interest in his voice.

"Well. I've been practicing the rose motifs. Trying to get them just right." I showed him a practice sheet where I'd been testing different gold leaf techniques. "They want it to last generations."

"It will," he said simply. "Your work always does."

At one point, I reached across him to grab a second ledger, and his hand covered mine for a moment. "You've got ink on your knuckles," he said, his thumb brushing the smudge gently. The touch lingered even after he let go, my skin remembering the warmth of his.

"Occupational hazard," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"I like it," he said quietly. "Shows you're doing what you love."

By the time he rose to go, no more than forty-five minutes had passed, though it felt like a full morning in the best of ways. The light had grown stronger through the windows, promising a clear day. He lingered a moment near the table, tea cup still warm in his hand. I stood as well, and for a breath, neither of us moved. The air between us felt charged, full of possibility.

Then he reached out, brushing a loose curl back from my face with a touch so light it barely stirred the air. His fingers lingered at my temple, then slid back, slow and deliberate. I tilted my head, heart fluttering like a caught bird, and met his eyes. There was no question there, only warmth, and when he leaned in, I met him halfway.

The kiss was soft, almost hesitant, a quiet thing in the stillness of the bindery. His lips were warm, tasting faintly of honey tea. His hand rested briefly at my waist, anchoring, familiar even in its newness. When we pulled apart, it wasn't with surprise but with something settled and unspoken between us. A door opened that we'd both been circling for weeks.

"I'll see you Thursday, then," he said, his voice slightly rougher than before. He cleared his throat, adjusted his cap.

"Weather permitting," I added, standing with him at the door, trying to find my equilibrium again.

He hesitated a heartbeat before stepping through the threshold. "You know, I don't mind early deliveries. Any time you need supplies. Or... anything else."

"I noticed," I said with a small smile, my lips still tingling.

He grinned, the corner of his mouth lifting just so. "Be well, Elspeth."

"You too, Marcus."

And then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the lane, leaving the bindery warm with sunlight and the scent of morning still lingering in the air. I touched my fingers to my lips, smiled, and turned back to my work with a heart considerably lighter than it had been an hour before.

It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes after Marcus left that the bell above the shop door chimed again, its soft jingle calling me back from a gentle fog of thought. I was still in the back room, my hand resting idly on the now-empty teacup, the flavor of chamomile and river air still clinging to my senses. My lips still held the memory of that gentle kiss, and I had to consciously smooth my expression before heading to the front.

I stood and brushed down my apron—noticing with some amusement that my hands were trembling slightly—then stepped lightly toward the front, expecting perhaps a traveler in need of a journal or one of the mill's errand boys come back with a missed parcel. But as I rounded the shelves and came into view of the counter, I saw instead the familiar frame of Mrs. Pembridge standing patiently just inside the door.

Her hat was trimmed in fresh sprigs of lavender, the purple bright against cream felt, and her shawl—a cheerful violet wool—was draped precisely about her shoulders despite the warming day. She carried her woven handbag, always tidy, and gave me a small smile as I approached. Something in her expression suggested she'd noticed my slightly flustered state, but she was too polite to mention it directly.

"Good morning, Elspeth," she said, her voice smooth and practiced like a woman used to getting things done before noon. "I hope I'm not catching you at a bad moment. I saw Marcus leaving—early delivery?"

"Yes," I said, hoping my cheeks weren't as pink as they felt. "Some special paper from the mill."

"How fortunate," she said with a knowing look that made me suspect she'd seen more than just Marcus leaving. "The Miller does such fine work."

"Not at all," I replied, returning her smile and trying to regain my composure. "Come in, please. The shop's quiet still. Can I offer you a cup of tea? I just brewed some not long ago."

She hesitated a moment, then gave a gracious nod. "If it's not trouble, that would be lovely. The morning has a chill to it still."

I motioned her to the stool beside the counter—a new addition, with a cushion I'd made from scraps of binding cloth—and moved to the kettle, still warm. As I poured, she set her handbag gently on the counter and watched me with a certain fondness, the way older women often looked at someone they'd seen through early struggles.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"The shop is looking so well," she remarked, accepting the cup I offered. Her fingers wrapped around it delicately. "You've really made it yours. I particularly like what you've done with the window display."

"Thank you," I said quietly, sitting across from her. "It's starting to feel that way, too. Like home."

We sipped in comfortable silence for a moment. Outside, the sound of hooves on cobbles drifted faintly through the open window, along with the scent of sun-warmed river stone and the distant call of someone greeting a neighbor. The village was easing into its rhythm—shutters opening, chimneys beginning to smoke, the daily dance of life resuming.

Mrs. Pembridge set her cup down with a soft clink. "I came by with a small matter you might consider. A family thing, really."

I tilted my head, attentive, pushing thoughts of Marcus firmly to the back of my mind.

"My great-niece, Liarobel. She's recently finished her general schooling and is looking for a placement. Clever with her hands, very neat. She's always had an eye for detail—used to spend hours arranging flowers just so, or sorting buttons by size and shade."

The name stirred no image in my mind, though I thought perhaps I had heard it once in passing at the market.

"She lives just outside the village, with her parents. They've always run a bit of a dye garden—flowers mostly, some herbs. She's used to working with things that stain. Knows how to be careful with delicate materials."

I nodded slowly, taking that in. "And she's looking for work in a bindery?"

"She's not trained, of course," Mrs. Pembridge said, her tone even, "but she's curious. Always asking questions. The right kind of questions—not just what, but why and how. Henrik used to say that curiosity was the best place to start, or so I've heard."

"It's a generous offer," I said softly, my mind already racing with possibilities and concerns. "And I could use the help, especially with commissions growing. But training takes time. Focus. And I'm still learning the rhythms here myself."

Mrs. Pembridge nodded knowingly. "Of course. I don't expect an answer today. I told Lysenne it was only a possibility, and she understands. But she's eager, and eager can be shaped into skilled with the right guidance."

I breathed in slowly. "It's not that I don't want to consider it. Only… I've only just settled myself. I'm still learning what Henrik left behind, still finding my own ways of doing things."

She leaned forward slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Henrik never took on an apprentice, did he? Too set in his ways, perhaps. But you could. Start your own legacy. Build something that's entirely yours."

That made me smile, even as it terrified me a little.

"I'll think about it," I said, meeting her gaze. "Truly. It's not a small decision."

She reached out and patted my hand. "That's all I ask. And perhaps... perhaps you could meet her first? She's nothing like her cousins—quiet, thoughtful. I think you'd like her."

We finished our tea quietly, the warmth of it lingering even after the cups were empty. Mrs. Pembridge shared a few stories about the village, about who had new grandchildren and whose roof needed mending. The gentle gossip was soothing, grounding me back in the present. When she rose to leave, I walked her to the door.

"If you'd like to meet her first, just say. I imagine Lysenne would be thrilled to visit. She's been asking about the shop since you arrived—wanted to know if you'd need help with the garden."

"She knows about plants?" I asked, interested despite myself.

"Oh yes. Grows the most beautiful cosmos you've ever seen. And her morning glories! They climb clear to the roof."

"I might," I said, thoughtful. "Perhaps next week? I could use help with the dye garden especially."

She paused on the threshold, sunlight catching the lavender in her hat and making it glow. "You're building something strong here, Elspeth. It shows. In the work you do, in how the village has taken to you. Don't be afraid to let others help build it with you."

"Thank you. That means more than I can say."

And with a nod, she stepped out into the street, leaving the bell to chime softly behind her.

The shop was quiet again, but her words echoed gently in my mind. Apprenticeship. Expansion. Trusting someone else with the delicate rhythm I'd just begun to find. I turned back to the workbench, hands moving instinctively to sort thread and parchment. It was something to think on. Not today, not tomorrow—but soon. The morning had already brought more change than I'd expected, and I needed time to let it all settle.

By the time midday arrived, the warmth of the sun had coaxed open every bloom in the garden. The morning's encounters had left me restless, my mind spinning between Marcus's kiss and Mrs. Pembridge's proposition. I needed the steadiness of earth and growing things. I left the door to the bindery ajar behind me, its bell muted just enough that I could still hear if someone stepped inside during open hours. I carried my simple lunch—fresh bread, cheese, and the last of the morning's strawberries—out to the bench beneath the apple tree. Codex trailed behind me with languid interest, her paws silent on the flagstones.

The apple tree was just beginning to set fruit, tiny green orbs no bigger than marbles hidden among the leaves. By autumn they'd be red and sweet, ready for pressing or storing. I'd already made plans with Mrs. Hedgewood to share the harvest—my apples for her perry pears, a fair trade that would keep us both in fruit through winter.

The bench's old stone was warm beneath my skirts, its surface dappled with light that filtered through the new leaves above. Someone long ago had carved initials into one corner—HM + RL—weathered now but still visible. I wondered if they'd been happy, if their love had lasted. A breeze stirred the mint and thyme nearby, releasing a bright perfume that mingled with the sweet tartness of the strawberries. I unwrapped my lunch and took a slow bite, letting the quiet settle around me like a shawl.

It felt good to be here. Not in a fleeting way, but in a deep, steady-rooted sort of way. The work this morning had moved briskly and with ease, and Mrs. Pembridge's visit, while thoughtful, hadn't unsettled me as much as I'd expected. If anything, it had opened a door I hadn't thought to find. The idea of teaching someone else, of passing on not just Henrik's knowledge but my own growing understanding—it was daunting but also oddly appealing.

Codex leapt onto the bench beside me, curling neatly into the crook of my hip. She'd put on weight since we'd arrived, her coat glossy and eyes bright. I smiled and reached down to scratch behind her ears, earning a soft purr in return.

"What do you think?" I asked her. "Should we take on an apprentice? Share our quiet kingdom?"

She blinked slowly, which I took as cautious approval.

With my lunch half-finished, I set the bread aside and drew my sketchbook into my lap. The wedding book commission lingered in my thoughts, especially after seeing the quality of paper Marcus had delivered. The pressed roses from the bride, the intertwined initials she'd envisioned. I drew looping vines curling around a border, tiny buds unfurling in delicate detail. Gold leaf, perhaps, along the corners. A cream cover with a natural linen texture. I could see it clearly now—elegant but warm, formal but full of love. As I sketched, the image grew into something both celebratory and timeless.

I made notes in the margins about technique—which adhesive would work best with the gold leaf, how many coats of sealant the cover would need. My pencil moved quickly, capturing ideas before they could fade. A pocket in the back for keepsakes, as they'd requested. Perhaps ribbon bookmarks in their wedding colors. Definitely the translucent vellum overlay for the roses.

The calendula near the garden wall had exploded into bloom—ripe gold in the afternoon light. I'd try the ink again tomorrow, perhaps steep it longer this time. Henrik's notes suggested it needed patience, and I was beginning to understand how right he'd been. Last night's batch had been close, so close. I made a note in the margin to pluck petals after tea tonight and leave them to dry overnight. Maybe I'd add just a touch of iron to deepen the color.

A quiet rustle drew my attention to the brick wall. Mrs. Hedgewood's head appeared above it, her grey curls escaping from beneath a gardening hat, her arms cradling a small bundle wrapped in damp burlap.

"Afternoon, dear," she called cheerily. "I've brought a few cuttings from my dye garden, if you're interested. Thought you might like to expand your collection."

I rose and crossed the garden to meet her, my skirts brushing against the lavender and releasing its scent. "I'd love some. Thank you."

She passed the bundle over, careful not to jostle the roots. "Bit of weld, some young indigo shoots, and a touch of bedstraw. They're small yet, but hardy. Thought you might have space along your sunny wall. The indigo especially likes the afternoon light."

I peeked inside and smiled at the treasure trove of color-to-be. Each plant promised different hues—yellow from the weld, blue from the indigo, soft reds from the bedstraw. "This is wonderful. I've already started a dye bed, but there's certainly room to expand."

"Thought you might," she said with a knowing nod. "The binder before you never had use for them—Henrik only liked his own ideas—but I always thought you'd be the sort who might enjoy experimenting. My grandmother used to say that a garden should give you more than food. Should give you beauty too."

We chatted a while longer, discussing growing conditions and what dyes each plant could yield. She shared recipes written in her mother's hand—mordanting techniques, which flowers gave the truest colors, how to modify hues with different additives. Her advice was practical and laced with the ease of someone who had watched gardens bloom and fade for decades. When she left, I returned to my bench and tucked the cuttings carefully in the shade until I could prepare the soil.

The afternoon sun slanted low across the garden, gilding the rosemary and sending shadows stretching across the grass. Codex had relocated to a patch of catnip and was rolling in it with undignified abandon, her usual elegance forgotten in the face of feline bliss.

I leaned back on the bench and watched her, the sketchbook now resting at my side. The garden, the dye plants, the taste of strawberries on my tongue—each small piece wove into the fabric of my life here. The idea of adding an apprentice into that rhythm no longer felt impossible. Just... distant. Like the calendula ink. It would come into being with time.

And Marcus. His kiss still lingered like a promise, warming me more than the afternoon sun. Thursday he'd return with his uncle for the roof repairs. The thought made me smile.

I stood finally and gathered my things, my skirt brushing lavender and basil as I passed. The afternoon was not yet over. There were books to restore and pages to mend. But the calm from my garden lunch clung to me like a second skin, a gentle reminder that I was growing something here—rooted not just in paper and paste, but in sunlight, strawberries, and a neighbor's kindness. And now, perhaps, in something more.

The soft jingle of the front bell broke the quiet of the bindery just as I was straightening a stack of freshly stitched signatures. The afternoon had been productive—I'd finished the preliminary work on the wedding book and started assessing the water-damaged ship's log. I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped into the front room, catching sight of three women just inside the doorway—a grandmother, her daughter, and a young girl who looked no older than ten.

The eldest woman stood with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her shawl. All three were fox-kin, their russet-toned hair and softly furred ears giving them a familial air of warmth and alertness. Their tails flicked gently behind them, betraying a quiet tension as they stepped further into the shop. The little girl's tail was particularly expressive, curling and uncurling with barely contained excitement. Her eyes lifted to mine, and a hesitant smile broke through the lines of nervous anticipation etched into her face.

"You must be Miss Whitfield," she said softly, her voice carrying the slight musical quality common to fox-kin.

"Elspeth, please," I replied, crossing the room with a welcoming smile. "You've come for the cookbook."

She exhaled as though she'd been holding her breath all day and nodded. "Yes. I... we weren't sure what to expect. When it was damaged, I thought..." Her voice caught, and her daughter placed a gentle hand on her arm.

"Mother's been fretting all week," the younger woman said kindly. "That book has been in our family for generations."

I gestured toward the counter. "Why don't we unwrap it together?"

The parcel came free of its bindings with a rustle, and I lifted the restored recipe book carefully from the folds. It had been a challenge—pages browned and brittle from years of kitchen use, edges stained with butter and wine, ink faded to near ghosts in some places. But it had also been a joy. I'd reinforced the stitching, replaced only what couldn't be saved, and mended what could be with the lightest touch. The cover was new, though styled in the old manner with soft brown leather and embossed scrollwork along the spine. I'd managed to save the original endpapers, with their faded bookplate reading "From the Kitchen of..." though the name had been worn away by time.

The woman's hands trembled as she reached out. Her fingers brushed the surface before she lifted the book reverently into her palms. She didn't speak at first, only flipped open the cover and turned a few pages. The restored pages whispered softly, no longer brittle but supple again.

"Oh," she breathed, and then again, quieter, "Oh, Mama's writing."

Tears welled in her eyes, and the woman at her side—her daughter, I guessed—rested a gentle hand on her arm.

"You saved the notes," she said, looking up at me with wonder. "Even the ones in the margins."

"I did," I answered. "The margins were fragile, but I was able to preserve most of the handwriting. It tells just as much of a story as the recipes themselves. I particularly loved the note about adding extra cinnamon 'when the heart needs warming.'"

The youngest girl leaned in, wide-eyed. Her small hands gripped the counter's edge as she stood on tiptoe. "Is that the one with the heart?" Her finger hovered just above a page marked with a faded heart drawn in what looked like berry juice. "Mama said these were Nana's favorites."

Her grandmother gave a watery laugh. "They were my mama's favorites, dear. And now they're yours, too. See? Here's the note about how to tell when the bread is truly ready—'It should sound like rain on leaves when you tap it.'"

They lingered in quiet reverence for several long moments, each one turning a few pages, exclaiming softly at remembered dishes, pointing out notes, smiling over smudges of jam or flour that no amount of repair could erase. The little girl traced her finger just above the writing, careful not to touch, reading aloud in a halting voice: "For... new... mothers... to... bring... milk."

"That's right," her grandmother said softly. "That tisane helped me nurse your mother, and her me with you."

When they looked up again, all three were smiling through their tears. The elder woman reached into her bag and produced a small pouch, pressing it into my hands. "This is for you. And... thank you. Truly. You've given us back our history."

I didn't need to look inside to know the value was fair, perhaps more than fair. "It was an honor," I said gently. "I'm glad it could be saved. And please, if you ever need repairs again, don't wait so long. A little maintenance can prevent much heartache."

"We will," the daughter promised. "We'll be more careful now that we know it can be saved."

They left the shop together, the cookbook carried between them like something sacred. I watched through the front window as they stepped into the afternoon light, their heads bowed together in soft conversation. The little girl skipped ahead, then back, her tail swishing with joy.

I stood at the counter a while longer, one hand resting on the worn wood, the other curled lightly around the pouch. Some commissions paid in coin. Others, in gratitude too deep for words. And today, I felt rich in both.

Returning to the workroom, I found the table bathed in golden light. The smell of sun-warmed paper and beeswax polish filled the space, and I let myself linger in the hush. There was still much to do, but for now, I allowed that moment of quiet joy to settle fully in my chest.

The ship's log sat waiting at the far end of the table, its leather warped and salt-stained. I moved to examine it more closely, running my fingers along the damaged spine. The captain's name was still visible—barely—embossed into the cover: "T. Whitmore." Inside, the entries were in a careful hand, documenting routes and cargos, weather and crew. This too was someone's history, someone's life's work. I would start on it soon, but not yet. Not until I'd had a cup of tea and a few more moments with the feeling that today, I had helped something precious find its way home.

By the time twilight began to pool in the corners of the kitchen, the bindery had grown quiet again. The day's work was done—pages mended, customers served, connections made. The garden beyond the window was steeped in shadow, lavender and basil just visible in the softening light. I lit the oil lamp on the table and adjusted the flame until it cast a steady glow across the wood, then fetched the ledger from the sideboard.

Codex had claimed the corner of the windowsill, her tail wrapped neatly around her paws as she watched moths flit against the glass. She'd had a full day too—supervising my work, accepting admiration from customers, patrolling the garden for invaders. The kitchen smelled of tea and warm wood, and I felt a rare sense of peace as I settled at the table.

The ledger was worn, bound in sturdy leather and thick with parchment pages. I'd taken to tracking not just sales and commissions, but small notes about materials and delivery schedules, things Henrik had scrawled on scraps and left to drift into piles. I preferred them neatly lined up where I could see what the future held. Organization was a comfort, a way of making sense of this new life.

This month had been good. Better than good, really. The wedding guest book alone had brought in a generous deposit, and smaller jobs—like the seed seller's ledgers, a new journal for the traveling apothecary, and that recent commission to repair a midwife's birthing records—had added up swiftly. The shop's shelves were half-empty already, which meant another order to the Mill by week's end. And with it, another visit from Marcus.

My pen paused above the page at the thought of him. I'd written his name once already in the delivery column, then again when I noted the roof repairs scheduled for Thursday. Seeing his name twice in the space of a page made me smile, though I caught myself and shook my head. But the smile remained, warming me from within.

I turned the page and found the letter from my brother tucked neatly in the back. His handwriting was bold and looping, teasing as always.

Still playing with books? he'd written. Don't forget to do something useful with that brain of yours. Come visit soon. We miss you. I promise not to rearrange your tools this time. P.S. - Father actually smiled when I told him about your commission from the barge captain. I think that means he's proud.

I'd smiled when I first read it, and I smiled again now, setting it beside me as I reached for fresh paper. My reply formed easily, the words flowing without hesitation.

I'm not just playing, I wrote. I'm building something real. The bindery is thriving. People here are kind. The garden is flourishing. Today I restored a family cookbook that made three generations of women cry with joy. And yes, I'll visit—but only if you promise not to tease me about the ferryman. Yes, that ferryman.

My pen hesitated again.

His name is Marcus, I added, feeling warmth creep into my cheeks despite the solitary quiet of the kitchen. And he kissed me this morning. It was... perfect. Don't tell Mother yet. I want to be sure of what this is before she starts planning a wedding.

I signed the letter and set it aside to dry, my gaze drifting out the window. Codex had fallen asleep, her sides rising and falling in a rhythm that matched the pulse of the village just beyond our walls. Somewhere, Marcus was probably finishing his own day's work, perhaps thinking of Thursday's repairs. Perhaps thinking of me.

I gathered the ledger, the paper, and my now-empty tea cup, tidying the table for the night. The soft clink of porcelain, the rustle of parchment, the creak of the old wooden chair—all of it felt like music, a lullaby sung in the language of home.

As I turned down the lamp, the room slipped into hush, golden edges fading to shadow. Tomorrow, there would be more work, more pages to mend, more stories to preserve. The apprentice question would need considering. The wedding book would need attention. But for tonight, I let the fullness of the day carry me gently toward sleep, a quiet satisfaction resting in my chest like a secret I didn't need to speak aloud.

Yes. I was building something real. Something that included not just books and bindings, but community, connection, and perhaps—my fingers touched my lips again—love.