Chapter 17: The Harvest Festival Announcement

Several weeks of summer had passed in a pleasant, productive rhythm. The warmth lingered, though the mornings were cooler now, tinged with the first whispers of autumn. The air carried that particular quality of late summer—heavy with the scent of ripening fruit and sun-warmed earth, yet touched with something crisper underneath. I had settled into a steady flow at the shop, my days filled with stitching, pressing, and the soft scratch of pen on ledger. The callus on my right middle finger had thickened from holding the bone folder, a small badge of my craft.

Word of my work had spread quietly among the captains who frequented the harbor. The river community, I'd learned, was its own kind of village—connected by water rather than streets, but no less tight-knit. I'd completed no fewer than eleven custom ledger orders—each one tailored with durable bindings, salt-resistant covers, and watermarked pages bearing the sigils of the vessels they would serve. The Siren's Call had ordered three, their captain so pleased with the first that he'd commissioned matching logs for his sister ships. I took a certain pride in those commissions; they carried my craft out onto the sea, recording journeys I could only imagine.

This morning had begun like most others. I'd risen before dawn, drawn by the particular silence that comes before a town wakes. Codex had protested when I'd disturbed her nest at the foot of my bed, but she'd followed me downstairs anyway, her tail expressing her opinion about civilized waking hours. I'd made tea—the strong black blend that helped clear the morning fog from my mind—and spent an hour working on the harbor master's ledger while the world outside gradually lightened from black to grey to gold.

Now, with the scent of warm ink and linen paper still lingering from my early start, I flipped the sign to "Open." The small ritual always marked a transition in my day—from the private world of creation to the public face of commerce. Morning light slanted through the front windows, catching dust motes in a lazy dance. The floor beneath my feet still held the chill of night, despite the season, but I'd already lit the small stove behind the counter. It ticked softly, casting a comforting warmth across the floorboards. The shop smelled of paper and binding glue, with undertones of the lavender sachets I kept tucked between the shelves to ward off bookworms.

I was just settling onto my stool with the morning's first customer ledger when the door swept open on a hush of breeze, and there stood Mrs. Pembridge—tall, graceful, and unmistakably elegant even at this early hour. Her long silver hair was braided into a crown and pinned with carved wooden combs that caught the light like polished amber. Her plum wool shawl, embroidered with acorns in golden thread, rested effortlessly on her shoulders. She moved without hurry, her presence somehow slowing the world around her. Even the dust motes seemed to drift more languidly in her wake.

"News, darling—news!" she declared, her voice bright with excitement as she stepped inside. The bell above the door sang a second chime as it swung closed. "You're to come to the town hall tonight. Seven sharp. It's time to get the local vendors organized."

I blinked, setting down my pen carefully to avoid ink spots, then smiled. "The final meeting already?" Time had slipped by faster than I'd realized, measured in completed commissions rather than calendar days.

"Indeed. The bulk of the planning is done, and now we sort the last details. Booths, participants, the final confirmations. The festival committee has been meeting twice weekly all summer, but this is when we bring everyone together. It's nearly here." Her eyes sparkled with the particular pleasure of someone who thrived on organizing communal events.

I stepped behind the counter and reached for the kettle I had warmed earlier. The morning ritual of tea-making had become second nature, and I always kept water ready for unexpected visitors.

"Let me get you a cup of tea," I offered. "You look like you've been up since dawn yourself."

"Earlier," she admitted with a laugh. "The baker's rooster has nothing on a festival organizer's schedule. But yes, tea would be lovely."

While the tea steeped—a mild green blend with hints of jasmine that I'd found soothing for morning conversations—we stood facing one another across the counter, the comfortable quiet between us filled with the rustling of paper and the faint pop of the stove. I noticed she carried a leather folder thick with papers, no doubt lists and schedules and the thousand details that went into making the harvest festival appear effortless.

"They've arranged for fireworks in the harbor on closing night," she continued, accepting the delicate porcelain cup with practiced grace. "Brought in from the city, if you can believe it. Imagine that—like Highspire's summer revels, only with fewer lanterns and more river breeze. The barge captains have volunteered to anchor in formation to give the best viewing angles."

Fireworks in Riverhaven. The thought kindled something warm and anticipatory in me. I could picture it already—the quiet harbor alight with blossoms of color, reflections rippling on the black water like scattered stars, families gathered along the dock with wool blankets and warm cider. Children would sit on their parents' shoulders, pointing at each burst of light. Couples would steal kisses between the thunderclaps.

"There'll be a traveling band performing on the green," she said, settling into the telling with obvious relish. "The Copper Wheel Players—they come through every third year, and their fiddler is absolutely magical. Dancing, of course, on both nights, and merchant booths lining the main square. The woodworking guild plans to build a sculpture garden near the fountain—all local wood, carved on-site so people can watch. And the children are rehearsing a play about the founding of Riverhaven. The mayor's son is playing Old Berrick—though I do wonder how they'll manage the beard. Last I heard, they were attempting to craft one from wool batting."

I chuckled, pulling my well-worn notebook toward me and uncapping my pen. The leather cover was soft from daily handling, and the pages were already half-filled with orders and sketches. Her words flowed fast, but I tried to catch them all, letting them spark ideas as they came. Seasonal bindings in amber and moss green to match the turning leaves. Guest books for the inns that would surely fill with travelers. Travel journals for the visitors themselves, perhaps with pockets for keeping tickets and pressed flowers. Linen covers printed with river charts for the nautically minded. The possibilities spun out ahead of me like thread from a spindle.

"I told them you'd be there tonight," she added, sipping her tea with appreciation. "The committee, I mean. You'll have a good spot, I'm sure of it. Being Henrik's successor carries weight, and your work this summer has proven you deserve it on your own merits."

I hesitated, my pen still in hand, a small drop of ink gathering at the nib. The thought of speaking up in a room full of established merchants made my chest tighten slightly.

"Henrik always had a stall," she said gently, perhaps reading my hesitation. Her gaze rested on the spine of an old journal I'd finished yesterday—red leather with gold tooling, waiting for its owner to collect it. "Every year, without fail. It was tradition, and not just for him—for the town. Folks came by to see his latest bindings, even if they didn't buy a thing. Children would run their fingers over the leather covers, and he'd tell them stories about the books. It wouldn't feel quite right without a bookbinder there."

My throat tightened with emotion I hadn't expected, but I nodded. "I want to carry that on. I want the stall. I just... I hope I can do it justice."

Her smile deepened, warming her whole face. "You already have, dear. Every book that's left this shop has carried that tradition forward." She reached into her satchel—soft brown leather with brass clasps that had aged to a lovely patina—and withdrew a folded pamphlet.

"There's a design contest for the festival banner," she said, passing it over. The paper was thick and cream-colored, clearly a special printing. "The winning design will be reproduced on silk and hung across the main entrance. You might enter. Or perhaps make those little decorative labels—what do you call them? The kind folks paste into the front of their books. You could have them say 'From the library of' and let buyers write their names in. Maybe with a Riverhaven border or a little lantern motif."

"Bookplates," I said, the idea already taking shape in my mind. I could see them—delicate prints on cream paper, each one a tiny work of art. "Yes, I could do that. Custom ones, maybe even printed on cream vellum with space for a name and a few lines of verse. People love having something personal to mark their books. I could do different designs—some with botanical themes, some with nautical elements for the river folk."

"Exactly," she said, her eyes warm with approval. "You'd sell out in an hour. I'd buy a dozen myself—I'm always gifting books and never remember to inscribe them until it's too late."

As I took the pamphlet, feeling its weight and quality, my mind spiraled with new possibilities. Could I make tiny field notebooks for herb gatherers, with identification charts on the endpapers? Bind pressed leaves into the covers for the botanically minded? Create a guest log with stitched panels of river reed paper? Perhaps commission books with pages specifically treated to resist moisture, for those who worked on the water?

"It's coming, dear," Mrs. Pembridge said softly, drawing me from my spinning thoughts. "The time of year when Riverhaven wakes up all over again. The harvest brings everyone together—farmers and fishermen, crafters and merchants. And you—you'll be a part of it. Not just as a shopkeeper, but as someone who helps shape the season. Someone who helps people hold onto their memories."

I stood quietly, the afterglow of imagined possibilities still painting my vision. My shop smelled of paper and lavender glue, the table scattered with samples and sketches. I looked around, trying to see it as others might—not just a workspace, but a haven, perhaps, for memories to be kept safe. The morning light through the windows turned everything golden and soft.

I folded the pamphlet carefully and tucked it into my notebook, feeling the edges align perfectly.

"I'll be there," I said quietly. "Seven sharp."

As the words left my lips, a flicker of doubt stirred in my chest. I'd never liked being in the middle of a crowd, the press of voices and bodies, the feeling of too many eyes. Even at the Academy, I'd chosen a seat at the back of every lecture hall. The thought of setting up a stall in the square, surrounded by cheerful chaos and chatter, by children racing between the booths and musicians playing at every corner, made my hands tighten just slightly around the spine of my notebook.

But then I glanced around the shop—the soft piles of linen scraps waiting to become endpapers, the glint of gilded tools arranged precisely on their tray, the rows of carefully crafted spines waiting to be filled with stories and records. This morning alone, I'd already repaired a child's primer and started binding a captain's log. This was what I had built. What I had chosen. The bindery was more than a quiet shop; it was a kind of offering to the community that had embraced me.

So no, I might not love bustling crowds or public attention. But I loved the work. And I would let the bindery speak for me, let the books themselves be my ambassadors.

In my heart, I added, I'll make something worthy of it.

The morning had found its rhythm by the time the bell above the door jingled again, crisp and bright against the soft hush of the shop. Mrs. Pembridge had left with promises to save me a good seat at the meeting, and I'd returned to my work, though my mind kept drifting to festival possibilities. I looked up from where I was trimming paper edges at the back counter, the bone folder making soft whisking sounds against the grain. I brushed a bit of pulp dust from my hands—it clung to everything, fine as flour—and tucked the tool back into its designated slot in the tray. Sunlight pooled in quiet gold across the floorboards, tracking the morning's progress, and the scent of pressed paper and beeswax lingered in the air like an old friend's perfume.

When the door opened, they stepped inside like a breeze through leaves.

The bride came first, her bark-toned skin sun-warmed and glowing with the particular radiance of dryads in late summer. Her hair was drawn back in an elegant twist with fine pale leaves woven through—birch, I thought, still green but edged with the faintest gold. Those leaves quivered as she moved, catching the morning light with a faint shimmer that seemed almost musical. She wore a dress patterned with tiny violets and trailing vines, the fabric flowing like water when she walked. Her excitement radiated like the heat before a summer rain, palpable in the very air. Her partner followed close behind, a quiet steadiness in his stride, though even he couldn't quite mask the way the thin filaments at his temples—markers of his oak heritage—lifted with anticipation.

"Elspeth," she said, breathless and smiling wide enough to show the slight green tint to her teeth that marked her as tree-kin. "Is it ready? We've been counting the days."

"It is," I said, unable to keep my own smile from blooming. "And it's waited very patiently for you. Would you like to see it here, or take it with you?"

"Here, please," she said, her fingers twitching like stems seeking light. "I want to see it in the place where it was made. It feels right, somehow."

I understood that impulse. There was something special about seeing a commissioned piece in the workshop where it had come to life. I turned toward the front cupboard, an old piece Henrik had modified with felt-lined drawers for storing finished works. Inside, wrapped with particular care, lay their book. I'd wrapped it the night before in cream linen with a twist of dried rosemary tucked into the ribbon—rosemary for remembrance, as the old saying went. As I lifted the bundle, I felt the familiar nervous flutter in my chest—not doubt, exactly, but the quiet hope that what I'd made would be enough, would match the vision they'd entrusted to me.

I brought it to the front counter and laid it down carefully on the soft cloth I kept there for presentations. "Go on," I said, loosening the bow with practiced fingers, "I think you'll like it."

She reached forward but paused, her fingertips hovering above the linen as if it were something holy. "May I?"

"It's yours," I said softly. "It's been yours since the moment you described it to me."

She undid the wrap with reverent fingers, moving slowly as if to savor each moment. The linen fell away like petals opening, and there it was: pale cream goatskin, soft and supple as silk, with wild roses pressed in delicate relief across the cover. I'd spent hours on those roses, building up the impressions layer by layer until they seemed to bloom from the leather itself. Their centers glinted with just a hint of gold leaf—not too much, just enough to catch the light like morning dew. The initials I'd tooled at the center shone subtly in morning light, intertwined with the same vine pattern that decorated her dress. The whole thing felt alive in my hands when I'd finished it—like it was always meant to be theirs.

A hush fell between us as they looked. Even the dust motes seemed to pause in their dancing.

"It's…" she started, but the words failed her. Her fingers brushed over the embossed roses with the lightest touch, as if they might bruise, and the leaves at her temples trembled in a whisper of movement. "It's more beautiful than I imagined. And I imagined it every night since we commissioned it."

Her partner leaned closer, his hand settling at the small of her back in a gesture of quiet support. He didn't speak, but the mossy scent that seemed to rise from his skin deepened, like warm forest earth after a storm. It was, I'd learned, how oak dryads expressed deep emotion.

"They look fresh," she whispered, wonder threading through her voice. "Like we could pluck them right from the leather. Like they're still growing."

"Or like they might unfurl further if you looked away," he murmured, one hand grazing the corner as though afraid to smudge it. His voice carried the deep resonance common to his kind, like wind through old trees.

I let them turn the pages at their pace, watching the small discoveries bring fresh delight. The interior was simple but carefully considered—thick cream leaves with hand-drawn flourishes at the corners, delicate as frost patterns. A subtle watermark of willow and ivy graced the inside frontispiece, visible only when the light struck just right. I'd tucked a small care note into the back pocket, written in my finest hand, along with a few extra cards for guests who might bring written blessings or sketches. Every detail had been chosen with their story in mind.

She found them and smiled, the curve of her mouth tender. "My grandmother used to keep feathers and pressed leaves in her guest book. She said they held the wishes better than words alone. I'll use this pocket for something like that."

"If the stitching ever loosens, just bring it back," I said, gently resting my hand on the counter. "I'll keep it whole. That's a promise that extends beyond my lifetime—any bookbinder worth their salt will honor the work."

The dryads looked at each other then, and though neither spoke, something passed between them—like a breeze through a canopy, silent but certain. It was the kind of communication that made me wonder what it would be like to be so connected to another person.

"I'd like to carry it as it is," she said after a long moment. "Not wrapped. I want to hold it on the way home. I want everyone we pass to see it."

I nodded and folded the linen for her anyway, tucking the rosemary back inside the ribbon. "For afterward. It keeps dust well, and the rosemary will keep the binding sweet-smelling."

He took the cloth with a small nod, his fingers cradling it like something rare. "Thank you," he said, voice low and rich. "For the work, and the care. For understanding what we needed even when we couldn't quite say it."

"I hope it becomes part of your story," I said, meaning it deeply.

"It already is," she replied, pressing the book gently to her chest. "Our children will sign this someday. And their children. You've given us an heirloom."

They stepped toward the door, the bell already starting to stir above them. The bride's leaves rustled as they caught the breeze coming in from the square, and a ray of light struck the gold details one last time, making them glow as if kissed by morning itself.

"If it's all right," she added before leaving, "we'd like to bring it back after the wedding—to show you how it filled out. How our families' hands look all together on the pages."

"I'd love that," I said. And I meant it more than I could explain. There was something profound about seeing the books find their purposes, like sending children out into the world.

They walked out hand in hand, their book nestled safely between them, a piece of the bindery carried into a new chapter. I watched them go, noting how people turned to look—at them, at the book, at the joy that seemed to follow in their wake. Then I turned slowly back to the counter, where the ribbon they hadn't needed still lay, and the faint scent of rosemary lingered.

For a long moment, I didn't move, just listened to the rustle of ivy outside and the soft ticking of the clock over the door. Then I reached for my pencil and opened my sketchbook to a blank page.

"Bound with love, sealed with light," I wrote, and underlined it softly. Perhaps a motto for bookplates, or simply a reminder of why I did this work.

By late afternoon, the workshop had slipped into that particular hush I'd come to treasure—the kind that settles when the sun dips low and the last customer has gone. The light had changed from morning's gold to afternoon's amber, slanting through the windows at an angle that turned everything warm and nostalgic. Only the whisper of the stove and the occasional creak of the old floorboards kept me company. Codex had claimed a patch of sun on the workbench, her grey fur turned silver in the light.

I rolled up my sleeves, noting the ink stains that probably wouldn't wash out—occupational hazards I'd stopped minding months ago. At the basin, I washed my hands in the lavender soap Mrs. Hedgewood made, working the lather between my fingers until the day's accumulated glue and graphite ran clear. The soap was good quality, with real lavender buds that released their scent as they dissolved. I dried my hands with a square of linen I kept just for this purpose, soft from countless washings.

On the worktable, the ship's log waited beneath a layer of muslin, the fabric draped over it like a respectful veil. The afternoon sun caught the edges of the cloth, making it glow. I peeled it back slowly, revealing the aged cover beneath. The leather had once been dark navy, perhaps even black, but years of salt and sun had lifted the dye, mottling the surface to something closer to stormcloud blue. The corners were rounded with wear, softened by countless hands, and a faint tang of the sea still clung to it, ghostlike. When I breathed deeply, I could almost taste salt on the air.

I sat and opened it with care. The pages whispered secrets as they turned—stories of storms weathered and ports reached, of cargo delivered and crew paid. The pages were brittle in some places, softened to pulp in others where water had found its way in. Salt had crept into the fibers long ago, stiffening them or leaving ghostly white crystals in the margins like a cartographer's notations. But they were intact now—cleaned, pressed, and re-stitched where needed. The process had taken weeks of patient work, learning the paper's weaknesses and strengths.

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The ink had held better than I feared, the handwriting looping in steady navy lines across pages yellowed with age. Names and dates and coordinates all captured in a meticulous hand—I could almost see the captain bent over his desk, carefully recording each day's progress. I'd begun to recognize the quirks of it: the way the writer dotted their i's low and far to the right, or how they looped the y's with a flourish that looked like a gull in flight. On one page, the writing grew shaky—a storm, perhaps, the ship rolling as the captain tried to maintain his record.

I reached for the journal I kept for technical notes—Henrik's journal, once his alone and now shared by me. The leather cover was worn soft, and the pages held decades of binding wisdom. The entries from his years were careful and practical, peppered with notes in his neat block lettering. My additions had started timidly, in pencil at the margins, questions and observations written small. These days, I wrote in ink, my confidence growing with each successful restoration.

"Salt-wicked vellum," I noted, adding today's date in the corner. "Pressed between absorbent boards over eight days. Introduced fine wheat paste on edges before drying. Result: minor warping, improved ink legibility." I paused, considering, then added: "Salt crystals can be brushed away once dry, but attempting removal while damp causes fiber damage."

I paused, then wrote a second note underneath: "Potential application for water-damaged herbals or fishing ledgers. Test sample needed. Perhaps commission paper with higher sizing content for maritime use?"

It felt good to contribute. Not in a grand or showy way, but like laying a small stone on a growing path. Each restoration taught me something new, and I was building a repository of knowledge for whoever might need it next.

The spine had been the most fragile part—broken clean through at the midpoint, as if it had once been bent backward too far. Perhaps in a storm, perhaps in anger, perhaps simply from years of use. I had removed the stitching and reinforced the signatures one at a time, using a blend of flax and mulberry fiber to create new hinges. They were nearly invisible now, but strong as iron. I ran my fingers along the repaired binding, checking the tension. It held beautifully, opening flat without strain.

A breeze stirred through the open transom window, carrying in the smell of sun-warmed leaves and distant river water. The town was settling into its evening rhythm—I could hear cart wheels on cobblestones, a mother calling her children inside, the distant sound of a fiddle from the tavern. I looked up for a moment, letting the air brush past my cheek, grateful for this life. Then I bent back to the table, slipping a sheet of waxed paper under the page I planned to mend.

There was a tear here, slicing through a log entry dated three decades past. The page recorded a stop at a port I'd never heard of, trading cloth for spices. I could almost see the moment the tear happened—a hand reaching too quickly, a page caught on a damp cuff, a careless fold during a storm. I applied the thinnest wash of wheat paste to the tear's edge with a brush so fine it held only a few hairs, then laid a strip of hand-torn tissue across it, coaxing it gently with the tip of my bone folder. The repair nearly vanished into the page, visible only if you knew where to look.

I took a breath and waited, hands resting lightly on the edge of the table. Patience was the secret ingredient to nearly every task I did. Rush the paste, and it would buckle. Rush the drying, and it would yellow. Rush the pressing, and the pages would never lie flat again.

My gaze drifted to the other end of the workshop, where a low shelf held the boxes of projects waiting their turn. Each had a tag—some in my hand, some in Henrik's—and together they formed a quiet queue of memory and intention. A hymnal with mouse damage. A recipe collection with grease stains. A child's first journal, the binding barely holding. The ship's log had come with no story attached, just a brief note on the tag: "Restore if possible. Sentimental value."

That was enough. More than enough. Not all books came with their histories explained. Some carried their meaning in wear alone. A smudge at the corner of every page where a thumb had held it. A faded petal tucked between two leaves, forgotten or left intentionally. An old receipt marking a place. Ink that blurred where tears might have fallen. I didn't need to know everything to understand that this book had mattered. It had lived. It had been carried, consulted, perhaps even clutched in moments of fear or joy. It had recorded someone's life on the water, their daily struggle and triumph.

I finished the last mend and let it dry as I turned back to the journal. I made a small sketch of the new repair technique, noting the angle of the tear and how I'd aligned the fibers, and labeled the tissue type. Then, without quite thinking, I wrote:

"Henrik would have liked this one."

I sat back. The words sat there, quiet and whole. It was the first time I'd written his name in the journal without the weight of comparison. He was part of this shop's story, but so was I now.

The shop had gone golden with the late light. Shadows stretched long across the floor like fingers pointing toward evening, and the ticking of the stove slowed as the fire inside settled to coals. The day's warmth was fading, drawing the workshop into that comfortable coolness that made me want to light lamps and work into the night. I rose and poured a small cup of tea from the pot I had forgotten I made earlier. It had been steeping since noon, forgotten in the focus of work. It was lukewarm but sweet with chamomile and mint from the garden. I brought it back to the table and stood for a while, sipping and gazing down at the completed book.

Tomorrow, I would wrap it carefully. Cream muslin again, with a label noting the repairs and a care note tucked inside. Instructions for handling, for storage, for the next person who might need to repair it in another generation. Whoever received it would find a logbook transformed—not made new, but made whole. The stories it held were preserved, ready to be read and remembered. I brushed a speck of lint from the corner of the cover and smiled. Small gestures, but they mattered.

In restoring it, I had learned something I didn't yet have words for. But it felt like growing into myself. Like settling more firmly into a shape that had been waiting for me. Each book taught me not just about binding, but about being—patient, careful, respectful of what came before while adding my own thread to the story. Back in the journal, I added one last line:

"Worth the hours. Worth the quiet."

Then I closed the cover and set it gently aside, the muslin veil ready to be drawn again. The ship's log would return to the sea tomorrow, carried by whoever had loved it enough to save it. And part of my work would sail with it.

By the time I arrived at the town hall, the late-summer light had begun to soften, painting everything in gold that pooled in the corners and caught on the window glass. The walk had been pleasant—neighbors nodding hello, gardens showing their late-summer abundance, the smell of baking bread drifting from doorways. The square outside was bustling with early arrivals—vendors in travel-worn cloaks still dusty from the road, aprons still dusted with flour or sawdust from the day's work, mugs of cider or tea cradled in hands rough from labor. Their laughter rolled gently across the cobblestones, familiar and low. I could already pick out voices I knew—Miri's bright chatter, Thaddeus's thoughtful murmur, the baker's hearty guffaw.

I hesitated only briefly at the door, my hand on the worn brass handle. Through the windows, I could see the hall was already half-full, clusters of merchants and crafters gathering like birds before migration. Then I straightened my shoulders, smoothed my second-best dress—the blue one with small buttons I'd sewn myself—and stepped inside.

The air within was warm with voices and the scent of old wood polish mixed with the lingering smell of the noon meal. The hall had stood for over a century, and it showed in the best ways—worn smooth where thousands of hands had touched, darkened with age and countless meetings. Lanterns swung gently from the rafters, not yet lit but ready for when evening deepened. Long tables stretched down the hall with chairs tucked in askew, some already claimed with shawls or satchels. I recognized nearly everyone in flashes—Joren the dryad butcher with his heavy apron still marked from the day's work, blood stains faded but visible. Lenna the half-orc dairy vendor chatting amiably with two farmers I didn't know, her laugh booming across the space. Idris the spice merchant in his usual neat navy tunic, sleeves rolled with a kind of elegant practicality, sorting small packets of samples he'd no doubt share.

Thaddeus was already setting up a small folding tray beside his seat, pouring steaming tea into a shared pot he'd brought, as if the meeting were only a long social call. The delicate scent of his special evening blend—something with vanilla and cardamom—drifted through the air.

"Elspeth!" Miri's bright voice reached me from halfway down the second row. She stood on her chair, defying all conventions of proper behavior, her braid bouncing as she waved both arms. "Over here! I saved you the good spot!"

I smiled, the nerves in my chest loosening just slightly, and made my way to her side. She had saved a seat beside her with a folded quilt square—one of her samples, no doubt—and immediately offered me a cardamom biscuit from the little tin in her lap. The tin was painted with tiny flowers, worn from years of use.

"Thought you might need something sweet to steady you," she said in a conspiratorial whisper that probably carried three rows back. "It's mostly harmless chaos from here on out. Last year, they argued for twenty minutes about which direction the dance floor should face."

"Thank you," I said, settling beside her. The biscuit was warm from the tin and crumbled perfectly at the edges, filling my mouth with sweet spice. Around us, the room was beginning to fill with other merchants and guild members. Some settled into old friendships with the ease of long practice, others looked around with the same quiet curiosity I carried. A young man with ceramic dust on his sleeves fidgeted with a slip of parchment across the aisle, probably his first festival too. Nearby, a woman with weaver's calluses rearranged her swatch board for the third time, each movement precise but nervous.

At the front, the mayor rose, clapping his hands for attention. His chain of office caught the light, and his vest—embroidered with the town seal—stretched slightly across his comfortable middle. "All right, all right. Let's get this underway. Excellent turnout. Glad to see so many familiar faces—and new ones as well."

He nodded in my direction and several others, his expression genial beneath his thick white eyebrows. I felt a flush of pleasure at being recognized. "This is shaping up to be the finest festival we've had in a decade. The weather witches say we'll have clear skies, and advance word suggests record attendance."

Mrs. Pembridge took over next, her movements efficient as she arranged her notes on the podium. Her reading spectacles caught the light as she perched them on her nose. She moved through the updates briskly—final permit confirmations from the council, booth supply notices from the lumber mill, timing for the traveling band's arrival, and the rehearsal schedule for the children's play. Her voice carried with the easy authority of someone long used to being listened to, each word clear and precise.

"The Copper Wheel Players will arrive three days before," she announced. "They'll need housing—the Riverside Inn has agreed to rates. The children's play will have three performances, with understudies for all major roles after last year's incident with the chicken pox."

Then came the part everyone was waiting for: booth assignments.

"We've placed vendors with care this year," she said, peering over the top of her spectacles with a look that suggested arguments would not be entertained. "Some by theme, some by tradition. All with the hope that you'll make a friend or two along the way. And yes, Miri, before you ask, we've kept you away from the honey vendor after last year's... incident."

Miri had the grace to blush. "It was only a small amount of honey," she muttered. "And the bees came back."

She began calling names, and the room leaned in collectively.

"Joren, you'll be by the cider cart again—yes, with the expanded space you requested. Lenna, just across from the wool tent—yes, with the extra awning you requested for shade. The cheese needs it, we understand. Miri, your usual spot near the north corner bakery is yours, though I suspect you'll be sneaking extra pastries to your neighbors as always."

Miri winked and passed me another biscuit without shame.

"Elspeth Whitfield, bookbinder. Placement: southern square, west side of the fountain, across from Idris's spice table and beside the basketry guild."

My breath caught for a moment. It was a wonderful spot—perhaps one of the best for a new vendor. Shaded in the afternoons when the sun would be fiercest, close enough to foot traffic without being pressed against the parade route where children might knock things over. And near friendly faces, too. The fountain would provide pleasant background noise, and people often lingered there, which meant more time to browse.

"Well done, Elspeth," Miri whispered, nudging me with her elbow. "That's a lovely patch of the square. You'll have a breeze all day and excellent neighbors. Idris gives out samples of tea, which draws people, and the basket weavers are always popular. Perfect foot traffic."

I smiled, murmuring my thanks, and jotted the details in my notebook. I underlined "fountain" once, then again, letting the ink settle slowly into the paper. My mind was already spinning with how to arrange my table to best catch the light.

Across the room, movement caught my eye. Someone moved against the back wall, a familiar silhouette. I looked up to find Marcus standing there, his frame half-shadowed by a beam. He wasn't speaking with anyone, simply observing with the quiet attention I'd come to associate with him. When our eyes met, he offered me the smallest of smiles—steady, understated, but unmistakably for me.

It settled me in an unexpected way. Like the brief warmth of a hand on your back as you step into uncertain space. I returned the smile, just enough for him to see, and felt some of the evening's tension ease.

The assignments continued, peppered with small jokes and good-natured complaints. "No, Thomas, you cannot have the spot directly in front of the tavern." "Yes, Mary, we remembered you need access to water for the flowers." Mrs. Pembridge made notes as she went, and the scribe beside her followed with a brisk scratching of pen on parchment. At last, with a satisfied nod, she tucked the remaining slips into her folio and stepped forward again.

"Now then," she said, her tone shifting to something more rallying. "As always, we need a few willing souls to help with setup. Booth markings, benches, banners, and hauling the guild tents out of the cellar. We start at first bell, two days before the festival, and finish by supper the following day. Meals provided, sore muscles optional but likely."

I felt a quiet urge to raise my hand. To say yes. To be part of building something rather than just participating in it. But my fingers hesitated on the tabletop, caught between thought and motion. What if I couldn't keep up? What if I didn't know how to help? Before I could decide, hands began to lift—first a few, then a dozen more. Miri raised hers with a confident little nod, biscuit tin still perched on her lap.

"I'll draft my nephew," she announced. "He needs to earn his festival spending money anyway."

Mrs. Pembridge looked out across the sea of volunteers and gave a pleased nod. "That'll do nicely," she said. "Thank you, all. Lists will be posted at the bakery tomorrow with specific assignments."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, my hand still resting quietly on the table. Maybe next time, I thought. This year, I had enough new things to manage.

The last announcements followed quickly. Someone passed around samples of new banner fabric—a rich burgundy with gold thread that caught the light beautifully. Thaddeus poured second cups of tea for anyone near enough to hold out their cup. There was talk of lantern patterns and string-light lengths, of which performances would happen when, of the traditional blessing that would open the festival.

"And remember," the mayor added, standing once more, "this festival isn't just for us. It's for everyone who comes to Riverhaven seeking something—whether that's goods, entertainment, or just a sense of belonging. Make them welcome."

The words settled over the room like a benediction.

I lingered only a little after we were dismissed, helping Miri pack her biscuit tin and listening to Thaddeus explain his new tea blend to anyone who would listen. The hall filled with that comfortable hum that follows a shared plan well made. Outside, the square had dimmed into lavender dusk, the lanterns in the windows beginning to glow. Someone had lit the fountain's evening torches, and their light danced on the water.

Marcus appeared at my elbow as I gathered my things. "Good spot," he said quietly. "You'll do well there."

"I hope so," I replied, clutching my notebook. "It's... bigger than I expected. All of this."

"It always is," he agreed. "But you'll find your rhythm. Need help getting your supplies to the square when the time comes?"

The offer warmed me more than the evening's tea. "I'd appreciate that."

We walked toward the door together, naturally falling into step. "I'll be running supply boats that week," he added. "But early mornings are mine. We could load your cart before the dawn crowds."

"Perfect," I said, and meant it.

I walked home slowly after parting with Marcus at the corner, my notebook tucked safely under my arm, the word "fountain" echoing gently in my mind. The evening air was soft, carrying the last warmth of summer and the first hints of autumn's approach. Gardens were heavy with late roses and ripening fruit. Through windows, I could see families gathering for evening meals, lamplight turning everything golden and intimate.

By the time I stepped through my own door, the house was steeped in that settled stillness I'd come to cherish at the end of a long day. The scent of beeswax and dried lavender lingered faintly in the corners, familiar as a embrace. I slipped out of my shoes, wiggling my toes against the cool floor, and padded into the kitchen, where the last of the evening light brushed the windows with amber. It was quiet enough that I could hear the soft shifting of paper in my satchel, pages settling against each other.

I set everything down on the table—notebook, pamphlet, the half-eaten biscuit Miri had insisted I take—and went to light the stove, setting the kettle on for tea. The ritual grounded me, each movement practiced and sure. Then I turned back and began laying out the contents of my notebook and the folded festival packet Mrs. Pembridge had handed out. Within minutes, the entire table was overtaken—sketches from throughout the day, slips of parchment with half-formed ideas, last year's booth layout that someone had passed around, and my ledger with the little ribbon marker peeking from the current page.

The excitement of the meeting hadn't worn off. If anything, it had followed me home and bloomed into something larger, fed by the quiet and space to think. My hands were restless with possibility. I found a pencil and began to sketch, letting the shapes come fast—ideas rather than finished plans. First, the outline of the booth as I imagined it, ten feet by ten feet according to the packet. Then different arrangements for displays. I drew journals in tiers, imagining how the spines would look in the morning light. A shallow box of bookplates spread like cards, each one a tiny gallery. Small shelves for writing paper sets, perhaps with samples pinned to a board behind them.

I turned the page and paused, my pencil hovering. The idea of a fabric banner still tugged at me—a pale hanging with a stitched river map across it, maybe even tiny lantern motifs at the edges. I'd imagined it at the back of the booth, gently swaying in the autumn wind, drawing eyes from across the square. But no. Not this year.

I glanced at the wall calendar, already marked with delivery due dates and binding appointments. The pages were beginning to fill—a good problem, but a problem nonetheless. The harvest festival fell at the very end of autumn—five weeks and four days from now, assuming the weather held. I had eleven current commissions, three of which were multi-volume sets that would need uniform treatment. The maritime ledgers alone would take dedicated time. I needed to finish the ledger for the dockmaster by the end of this week, and two wedding guest books before the second week of Leafturn. That left me… not much. Not enough for elaborate banners or stitched displays, certainly.

Still, there was time for something. I pulled a fresh page into my lap and began a new list, my pencil slower now, more deliberate. Not everything. Just what I could do well.

*Riverhaven Journals*

* Map endpapers (check inventory for suitable paper)

* Indigo linen covers (test dye batch first)

* 10 copies maximum (unless I can work faster than expected)

*Bookplates*

* Themes: lanterns, rivers, herb gardens, sea creatures

* Gilded set? (limited run of 5)

* Include writing space: name + 1–2 lines

* Consider: seasonal designs? Autumn leaves?

*Letter Writing Sets*

* Standard: sheets, envelopes, ribbon tie

* Fancy: include decorative edge, small ink sample, sealing wax

* Highspire and Riverhaven themes

* Perhaps maps? River charts?

It felt good to see the list take shape, not just in ideas, but in actual plans. Each item was something I knew I could execute well, something that would represent the bindery properly. My thoughts began to slow as I measured them against time. I'd need to place a paper order, and soon. The endpaper stock would run out after five journals, and I was low on the soft gray envelopes I hand-made for gift sets. The market paper vendor might have some, but the quality was inconsistent.

I opened my order ledger and started jotting numbers. Cream laid paper for the letter sets. Cold-press paper for maps and bookplates—it would take the ink better. Linen in two tones, navy and forest green. Binding thread in complementary colors. Sealing wax in amber and copper, perhaps a deep plum if Miller had it. The numbers added up quickly, but not alarmingly. I had funds set aside for supplies, and the recent commissions had paid well.

I sat back, sipping from the tea I'd nearly forgotten I was steeping. The gentle bergamot blend was perfect for evening, calming without making me sleepy. It was cooling fast in the evening air, but the warmth was still comforting. I let it settle in my chest and stared down at the quiet sprawl of paper on my table. Lists and sketches and half-formed dreams spread like tea leaves, ready to be read.

It was a lot. More than I'd ever tried to prepare at once. The Academy had never taught us about inventory planning or bulk production. But not too much. Not if I started tomorrow, and carved out the hours between commissions. I'd work in batches—cut all the paper one day, fold and stitch the next. I wouldn't be able to stock everything I imagined, and I'd need to stay flexible if someone arrived with an urgent repair or unexpected request. Still, it felt good. A challenge with shape and purpose. Not just something to survive, but something to meet with my hands and skill and care.

I reached for a smaller sheet of stationery from the drawer—the good paper, cream with a subtle watermark—and uncapped my fountain pen.

*Dear Family,*

*Just a quick note, but I couldn't wait to tell you—I've been accepted as a festival vendor this year! The harvest festival here is apparently quite the event, with fireworks and dancing and travelers from all along the river. I have a booth assignment near the fountain (prime location, I'm told) and seven weeks to prepare.*

*I'll write more when the festival is over. I expect I'll be very busy preparing, but I'm very excited. The whole town seems to come alive for this event. I'm making special journals and bookplates and letter sets. Perhaps I'll save one of each for you.*

*Love,*

*Elspeth*

*P.S. - Mother, before you ask, yes, I'm eating properly. The meeting included biscuits.*

I let the ink dry for a moment, watching how the lamplight caught the wet letters before folding the letter and setting it near the door. It was short, yes—but proud, and enough for now. They'd want to know immediately, and a longer letter could wait until I had stories to tell.

Back at the table, I picked up my pencil again, unable to resist one more sketch. This time I drew the booth as I hoped it would look—neat tables with displays at different heights, samples pinned to boards, perhaps a garland of autumn leaves strung along the front. I sketched out a quick design for a bookplate with climbing ivy around the border and a ribbon banner that read, "From the library of." Another one with little lanterns swinging from tree branches, their light suggested with tiny radiating lines. I tried a third with a shoreline pattern—waves and shells and tiny sandpipers—then added a sketch of a stack of paper tied with twine, the front sheet watermarked with a willow.

My tea had gone cold, but I didn't mind. The kitchen had taken on that particular late-evening quality where time seemed to slow, where creative work felt both easier and more important. Somewhere in the back of my mind, festivals had always belonged to other people—merchants who spoke easily with customers, who had neat signage and full baskets and stall partners to help count change. People unlike me, who thrived in crowds and noise.

Now, I was to be part of it. I had a place by the fountain. I had a list, a plan, and a shelf in the workshop already cleared and waiting. Tomorrow, I'd need to be practical—checking supplies, making schedules, perhaps starting the paper order. But tonight, I could dream.

I ran my fingers over the edge of one of the map sketches and smiled. The paper was rough under my touch, ready to hold more dreams. Tomorrow, I'd send the paper order first thing, maybe walk it to Miller myself if Marcus couldn't take it. Tonight, I'd let the possibilities keep me company a little longer.

The lamp flickered, reminding me to check the oil. As I rose to tend it, I caught sight of myself in the dark window—hair coming loose from its pins, ink smudge on my cheek, smile still playing at my lips. I looked like someone with plans. Someone with a place in the world.

"Seven weeks," I said aloud, tasting the timeline. "I can do this."

Codex appeared from wherever she'd been napping, winding around my ankles with a questioning mrrp.

"Festival booth," I told her. "We're going to need more ribbon. And probably your best behavior."

She blinked slowly, which I took as agreement, or at least resignation. Together, we headed upstairs, leaving the sketches spread on the table like promises waiting to be kept.