Chapter 19: Deepening Summer

Several weeks had passed since I first started working on the festival journals, and now the space breathed with rhythm and purpose. The morning sun filtered softly through the workshop windows, catching in threads of dust that danced lazily above the worn wooden tables. I stood at the center workbench, both hands pressed flat against its scarred surface, my gaze sweeping over the neat rows of completed journals that now lined the adjacent shelves. Thirty in total, each bound with care, stacked in small, themed clusters that seemed to whisper their stories into the quiet.

River-themed journals, their covers dyed in layered blues and greens, featured silver-threaded embroidery that shimmered like ripples. Some bore tiny pressed reeds tucked beneath protective lacquer, a small nod to the landscape just beyond the garden gate. Nearby, a grouping of garden-inspired books waited in soft earth tones. Their covers were textured linen, dyed with onion skins and beetroot, stitched with outlines of lavender sprigs, rosemary bunches, and one with an exuberant twist of thyme that had taken several tries to get just right.

To the right of those rested my Riverhaven series. I had sketched each cover from memory and market day impressions: the bell tower at dusk, the ivy-covered post at the square’s edge, the curved bridge over the stream where children dropped paper boats. These journals were slightly smaller, meant to be portable, ideal for festivalgoers seeking mementos. The covers bore gentle burnishing along the spine where fingers would rest most often, and the endpapers inside were printed with delicate sketches of village life—a flower stall, the stone fountain, a child feeding pigeons.

Behind me, the press gave a final hiss and pop as the latest stack cooled beneath its plate. I turned, brushing a strand of hair from my face with the back of my wrist, and lifted the weights carefully. Inside, a fresh batch of sewn signatures waited, now firm and perfectly pressed. Twenty more journals in progress, their spines still bare but promising.

I reached for the ledger that lived beside the main workbench, flipping it open to the page marked with a sliver of red ribbon. My neat script tracked quantities, types, and stages. My festival goal had been ambitious: fifty finished volumes, ten in each theme, plus extras for impulse purchases. With thirty completed and twenty underway, I was, for the first time since accepting the vendor invitation, ahead.

The realization hit gently, like sunlight warming stone. I let myself smile, small and private. My fingers, still ink-stained despite the early scrub with pumice soap, drummed lightly against the edge of the bench. The rhythm of the work—the folding, sewing, pressing, covering—had begun to settle into my bones. Each step now unfolded with practiced calm. There was still trimming to be done, and endpapers to glue, and titles to emboss, but I could see the path clearly from here.

I moved to the long side table where the themed piles rested. The travel logs were my newest addition. Each bore compass points embossed in gold leaf, a thin silk ribbon sewn into the spine, and pages marked with soft grids for charting or noting directions. The idea had come to me while watching Marcus handle his charts—practical, navigable paper, I’d thought, but with room for memory and story too.

Next to them sat the recipe books. I had let myself lean into whimsy for those: hand-drawn herbs on the inside covers, a scattering of faint watermarks shaped like teacups and spoons, and a contents page with room for family names or kitchen stories. I had chosen warm, creamy paper that took ink smoothly, and I had tested each volume myself by writing small notes—"chive scones from Greta," or "stew with the smoky salt from Brida"—before carefully erasing them.

Finally, a modest stack of children’s journals. These were brightly colored, with sturdy covers and rounded corners. Inside, the pages were slightly thicker, enchanted to resist tearing and ink spills. On the title page of each, I’d lettered a simple phrase: "This book belongs to someone with stories worth telling." A few had playful details: tiny paw prints that ran across a page margin, or a painted star tucked into the corner of the last page.

I closed the ledger with a gentle snap and let my hand rest on its cover. For a long moment, I allowed the quiet to wrap around me. The workshop, once dusty and unused, now pulsed with the quiet order of purpose. Scraps had been swept, tools cleaned and lined up neatly, window glass wiped until light pooled clearly across the work surfaces.

Outside, I heard the rattle of a cart and the soft clip of hooves passing. The festival had already begun to ripple outward. In the past week, more traders had arrived, their wares setting up early in anticipation of the crowds. Colorful banners had begun to appear along the village streets, and shopkeepers added ribbons or flower garlands to their doors. Even Brida, ever no-nonsense, had taken to displaying her sausages with sprigs of rosemary tied in twine.

I crossed to the window and leaned on the sill, looking out at the slow-bustling street. From here, I could see the bend where the chandler’s shop caught morning light, and farther down, the corner stall where Greta would already be setting out her scones. I could smell it faintly now—yeast and sweetness mingling with the herbal tang that clung to my own clothes.

A breeze fluttered through the half-open window, stirring the edge of my apron. It carried with it the scent of river water and the faint briny tang of fresh fish, likely from the dockside stalls. I imagined Marcus directing traffic there, sleeves rolled and voice steady, sorting cargo and names with that quiet competence he wore like a second skin.

Codex stirred in her usual spot atop the sun-warmed cabinet, stretching long and languid before flipping to her other side with the deep, judgy sigh only cats seemed to manage. I smiled and glanced back at the journals. I would need to begin assembling the final display crates soon, checking for alignment and spacing, measuring for the foldable shelves Marcus had promised to help rig. I made a mental note to add more signage—gently hand-lettered descriptions that invited curiosity but didn’t crowd.

Beside the hearth, the drying rack held a line of freshly dyed cover cloths, the colors rich and mottled from their herbal baths. I ran my fingers along a plum-colored piece that smelled faintly of sumac and vinegar, pleased with the depth of tone. These would become the covers for my last batch, journals inspired by twilight—cool, contemplative volumes for quiet thoughts.

I moved slowly through the workshop, checking hinges on the display table, testing the folding legs, brushing away a line of sawdust from the baseboard. The motion of the day wrapped around me like a familiar shawl, not rushed, but steady. I lit a small oil lamp near the back worktable and adjusted its glow. Outside, the shadows shortened and then began to stretch again, marking the quiet rhythm of morning turning toward afternoon.

There was much still to do. But I had time. And, as the scent of lavender from the drying bundle over the door mingled with that of fresh glue, polished leather, and sun-warmed wood, I allowed myself a rare moment of stillness. Thirty books complete. Twenty in the making. A goal within reach. And beyond that, something quieter and deeper: the sense that I belonged in this space, among paper and thread, where care and craft met purpose.

I reached again for my bone folder and stack of signatures. The sun climbed, and the workshop held steady, a quiet engine of making. For the first time in many weeks, my movements were not driven by anxiety, but by rhythm. A steady, satisfying rhythm. Fold, press, stitch. A story waiting to be made tangible, one page at a time.

The bell above the bindery door jingled just as I was finishing the last seam of a travel journal, the gold thread pulled snug with a satisfying tug. I set my needle down and glanced toward the entrance, wiping my palms on my apron. Mrs. Pembridge bustled in first, her shawl gathered around her shoulders like a cape, and behind her came a girl who could only be her grand-niece. Seventeen, maybe eighteen, with tightly coiled black curls pinned at the nape of her neck, pointed elven ears peeking through, and the graceful bearing common to her people. Her eyes held a cautious hope she clearly didn’t want to show.

“Miss Whitfield!” Mrs. Pembridge beamed, brushing specks of imagined dust from her sleeves. “I’ve brought Liorabel. She’s terribly nervous, but don’t let that fool you. The girl has hands like water over silk and more patience than her years would suggest.”

Liorabel flushed but stayed upright, nodding once to me with a kind of deliberate poise. Her fingers curled tightly around the strap of a well-worn satchel slung over one shoulder, the leather polished smooth from frequent use.

“Thank you for coming,” I said warmly, stepping forward. “I’m glad to meet you, Liorabel.”

Mrs. Pembridge clapped her hands once, brisk and light. “Well, I’ve business at the apothecary, and I’ve no doubt the two of you will have much to discuss. Liorabel, be respectful, listen closely, and don’t fret. I’ll return in a bit.” She winked at me as she turned to go. “She’s a good one. I trust your judgment.”

Then she was gone in a swirl of lavender wool, the door swinging closed behind her.

Liorabel lingered just inside the threshold. I watched her take in the workshop with those wide, steady eyes—the tall wooden press near the hearth, the racks of dyed cloths drying gently in the warm draft from the stovepipe, the shallow drawers labeled in my neatest hand. Her gaze settled longest on the display of garden journals by the window, their linen covers embroidered with sprigs and vines.

“Come in,” I said gently. “Let’s start with something warm.”

I moved to the kitchen nook and set a small kettle over the flame, the comforting crackle of the fire filling the silence. The tea blend was already prepared in its jar, a mix of dried chamomile, lemon balm, and peppermint I’d gathered myself from the garden’s second harvest. As the kettle began to hum, I retrieved two clay mugs from the shelf, setting them down with a soft clink.

Codex appeared a moment later, silent as a drifting leaf, and leapt gracefully onto the sill of the tall window that faced the lane. She regarded Liorabel with her usual narrowed gaze, as though weighing not just her presence but her intentions.

“She doesn’t warm easily,” I said, pouring the hot water over the herbs, “but she’s an excellent judge of character.”

Liorabel smiled faintly. “I like cats. They know how to keep their own pace.”

I nodded, approving. “So does bookbinding, most days.”

Once the tea had steeped, I brought our mugs to the bench beneath the front window. Sunlight streamed in through the clean panes, pooling on the flagstone floor. Liorabel sat with her knees close together, her back straight, her satchel resting beside her. She accepted the tea with both hands.

The scent of drying paper and leather mingled with the sweet steam between us.

“You make all of these?” she asked, gesturing toward the rows of journals stacked on the table across the room.

“I do. One at a time. Each with its own quirks, like people.”

Her eyes lingered on the children’s books. “I like careful things,” she said quietly.

I let that settle for a moment. “What do you mean by that?”

She glanced down at her cup. “Things that are meant. Not rushed. Not just made to be sold or used up. Like... when the stitches are even, or when you fold a letter and the edges meet. When something’s done kindly, even if no one sees it.”

That was as close to my philosophy as anyone had ever voiced aloud.

I stood and fetched a tray of unbound signatures, stacked neatly, and a pair of bone folders. The table near the press still held the morning’s light, golden now and warming the worn grain of the workbench.

“We’ll see how your hands feel about the work.”

She rose and joined me. I showed her the motion—folding along the grain, lining up edges, smoothing the crease. She mimicked it without speaking. Her movements were careful, her breath steady. Her hands weren’t fast, but they didn’t falter.

“You’ve folded paper before,” I said, watching her stack grow.

“Not like this. Letters, mostly. Paper stars. My cousin taught me. And I mend clothes, sometimes. I like the stitching part.”

“Good. We stitch, too.”

We worked together for a time. I handed her pages in twos, watched her find a rhythm. Her concentration deepened until the sounds of the bindery faded—only the occasional creak of the old stool beneath her or the distant call of gulls reminded us of the world outside.

I showed her how to stack the signatures and mark the sewing holes. She didn’t ask unnecessary questions, but watched each movement until it made sense, then copied it exactly.

When she’d completed three neat stacks, I paused.

“What made you decide to come?”

She shrugged one shoulder slightly. “Mrs. Pembridge said you might be looking. I was already curious. I like how this place smells. And I want to do something that feels useful, but... also quiet.”

“You’re from South Bend?”

She nodded. “My family’s in the elven quarter. My uncle works leather and taught me how to fix buckles. My mother teaches school. She’s the one who gave me the idea. She used to bind our lesson books with bits of thread and cardboard.”

That made me smile. “The practical kind of magic.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

We turned our attention to stitching. I handed her a curved needle and fine linen thread, and we sat together on the long bench again as I demonstrated a kettle stitch. She followed carefully, her brow creased with focus, and after a few tries, the pattern began to emerge.

Codex, now thoroughly disinterested in evaluating us, leapt down with a soft thud and vanished into the warmth of the back room.

When the stitching was done, we sat quietly beneath the front window again, sipping the last of the tea, now cooled. The scent had faded, but the calm lingered. A pair of children skipped past outside, their laughter trailing like windchimes. Someone nearby was baking—cinnamon or nutmeg, something autumnal and sweet.

“I can’t offer a full apprenticeship yet,” I said. “But if you’d like to come in a few mornings a week after the festival, we can try a trial period. See how it feels for both of us.”

Liorabel looked at me, eyes brightening just a little. “I’d like that. Truly.”

“Good. Bring your satchel, wear something you don’t mind glue getting on, and be prepared to fold a lot of paper.”

She smiled then—shy, but sincere.

I handed her the stitched signature she’d completed. “Take this home. It’s not a book yet, but it will be. A reminder that good work takes time.”

She turned it in her hands with care, then tucked it into her satchel. “Thank you, Miss Whitfield.”

“Elspeth, please.”

She nodded, then stood as the bell above the door gave its soft farewell chime. She left with a straighter back, her footsteps even on the stones. I returned to the worktable. The extra bone folder she’d used still lay beside mine, catching the light. I left it there. Just in case.

The light had shifted by the time I stepped away from the workshop, and not just by the clock’s keeping. There was a softened hush to the air, a silver thread of breeze winding gently through the open doorway and brushing across my cheeks like a blessing. I had been working without pause since early, and my shoulders ached with the tightness of too much leaning. My hands, though steady, had begun to protest in small, familiar ways—cramping at the knuckles, thumb joints stiff from pressure. Even Codex had risen from her usual post to circle my ankles twice, meowing in that particular tone that carried an unspoken, undeniable command: Enough.

I glanced toward the hearth where the glue pot simmered low and the dyed cloths hung like flags in the breeze, then back to the bench where a tidy stack of sewn signatures waited to be pressed. They could wait. The garden was calling.

Out through the back door I went, trading the scent of leather and paper for one of sun-warmed earth and blooming mint. The narrow flagstone path curled through the small herb beds I’d planted weeks ago, now fully awakened by the late-summer light. Lavender, thyme, and lemon balm spilled from their borders in green abundance, and the tomatoes—heaven help me, the tomatoes—were growing like they had plans for empire.

I settled on the bench beneath the apple tree with a long exhale. Its branches stretched like arms overhead, casting dappled shadows that danced across my skirts. The apples were still small and firm, but I could see the blush of red just beginning to touch their green skins. Another week or two and I’d be able to start picking them. I made a mental note to check the canning jars in the cellar.

Codex followed with no urgency at all, claiming the shady patch at the foot of the tree with a long, luxurious stretch. She flicked her tail once before curling in on herself, perfectly content.

I leaned back against the tree trunk and let the quiet fill me. The sounds of Riverhaven filtered softly through the hedges: the distant clatter of a wheelbarrow, a pair of women laughing on their way to the market square, a low bark from someone’s dog across the lane. From the workshop windows came the faint creak of the drying rack shifting in the warm draft. The day was alive, but gently so.

The garden had flourished since spring’s first planting. The sage bush had doubled in size, and a second wave of chamomile flowers bobbed their golden heads in the light wind. I’d taken to cutting sprigs for tea every other day, bundling them loosely and hanging them near the kitchen hearth to dry. There were bundles there now, mingling with mint, rosemary, and marjoram.

On the other side of the garden, the cucumber vines clung tenaciously to their frame. I hadn’t expected them to thrive quite so boldly, but they had overtaken the corner bed and even begun to twine through the fence. I’d shared a basketful with Mrs. Hedgewood only yesterday, who had returned the favor with two jars of pickled radish and a cheeky grin. "You’ve got a green hand, dear," she’d said. "Don’t let the river folk tell you bookbinders can’t grow things."

I smiled now at the memory, plucking a blade of grass and twisting it between my fingers. My fingertips were still slightly blue from yesterday’s dye bath, but I didn’t mind. It was a good kind of stain, earned from care and process.

The sun filtered down in patches, warming my knees and the tops of my bare arms. I’d abandoned my overshirt in the workshop and rolled my sleeves to the elbow. A lazy insect buzzed past, and the breeze carried the faintest trace of river brine, mingled with rosemary and the sweet, slightly musky scent of overripe basil.

I let my thoughts drift, as they often did when the day slowed. Though the visit had only just ended, I found my thoughts drifting back to Liorabel's presence in the bindery. She had asked thoughtful questions, worked without complaint, and handled the tools with the same reverent caution I remembered from my own early days in training. Even in a single afternoon, there had been something steady about her, quiet but unshakable. There was a steadiness to her, quiet but unshakable. I had begun to look forward to her visits.

The tomatoes near the fence rustled in the breeze, their green globes glowing with the promise of sauce and soup and perhaps a tart or two, if I could brave the pastry. A gentle satisfaction bloomed in my chest as I considered the upcoming harvest. I’d already made lists of who might enjoy extra produce—Mrs. Hedgewood next door, the Widder twins who lived behind the bakery, old Mr. Follick who always brought a ribbon for Codex on market days.

The rhythm of it all settled into my bones. Work and rest. Craft and growth. Quiet moments stitched like signatures into the spine of my days.

From the corner of my eye, I saw movement—a small rustle at the edge of the garden where the calendula bloomed. A young squirrel, sleek and silver-tailed, darted out, its tiny paws clutching something from beneath the herb beds. It paused, caught sight of Codex, and froze. She lifted her head but did not move, tail flicking once as if to say, not worth the effort.

The squirrel vanished again with a flick of its tail, and I exhaled a quiet laugh.

I shifted slightly on the bench, retrieving a small cloth-bound notebook from my apron pocket. A new design sketch had been forming in my mind the night before, and I wanted to capture it before it vanished. Something with pressed petals laminated into the cover cloth—subtle, but textured. I began to draw lightly, letting the pencil flow without overthinking.

Setting the notebook aside, I pushed up from the bench and walked barefoot across the warm flagstones toward the garden beds. The cucumbers needed picking again, their pale green skins hidden beneath large leaves like buried treasure. I fetched the gathering basket from its hook beside the door and began to work slowly, slipping the fruit gently from their stems.

The tomatoes were next—glossy and fat, some already turning from green to red with the promise of sauce and stews. I picked carefully, turning each one to check its weight and blush. Bees hovered lazily near the basil, which had begun to flower, its scent thick and heady in the heat.

I hummed as I worked, an old tune my mother used to sing while kneading dough. The basket filled steadily: cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, a few green beans from the far edge where the vines climbed the trellis. I clipped bunches of mint and thyme as I passed, tucking them between the vegetables. The air was rich with the smell of soil and crushed leaves, grounding me more fully than anything else could.

Back under the apple tree, I set the basket beside Codex, who blinked once in lazy approval before curling tighter. The sky above had softened to that gentle mid-afternoon glow. I leaned back once more against the tree and let the quiet settle again. Work would resume soon enough. But for now, I was content to be a woman in a garden, with sun on her arms, a cat at her feet, and the slow, sure promise of ripening fruit all around.

Eventually, I stood and stretched, taking one last long look around the garden. The second harvest was nearly ready. The journals waited, too. But the balance, I thought, was just right.

And with my hands a little steadier and my breath a little deeper, I returned to the bindery.

The shadows were beginning to stretch long and blue across the garden path when I stepped back into the bindery. The quiet hum of the day had settled into something deeper, edged in gold as the sun slanted through the west-facing windows. Inside, the workshop smelled of beeswax and lavender, with a faint undercurrent of vinegar from the dye bath I’d cleaned earlier.

I set the basket of garden spoils on the kitchen counter and brushed a smear of soil from my cheek. The wood floor felt cool beneath my bare feet, a subtle contrast to the garden warmth still clinging to my skin. Evening was gently, unmistakably arriving. I moved slowly, washing my hands in the enamel basin, then refilling the kettle from the jug near the hearth. The click of the flame catching beneath it echoed softly in the quiet space.

Outside, the lane had quieted. The midday foot traffic had ebbed, leaving behind the occasional sound of a door closing or the roll of a distant cart. I glanced toward the front room, where the journals waited in their tidy stacks. The light caught their covers now, making the dyed cloths glow faintly—river blue, herb green, clay red. There was pride there, but also anticipation. The festival was coming quickly.

Just as I reached for a clean towel to dry my hands, I heard a knock at the back garden door—firm, familiar, unhurried. I dried my hands quickly, crossed through the kitchen, and unlatched the door. Marcus stood just beyond it, the low golden light of evening painting his features in warmth and shadow.

“Evening,” he said, offering the smallest smile.

I turned to find him removing his cap, hair wind-mussed and cheeks lightly sun-touched. He carried himself with his usual ease, but I noticed the fine sheen of sweat at his temples and the slight crease between his brows—he’d come from the docks.

“Long day?” I asked, offering him a cloth from the hook.

“Fleet’s larger than expected,” he said, wiping the back of his neck. “Three extra boats came in from Duskwater, plus a barge from Northmere. Half the crews didn’t have proper tags, so there was sorting to do.”

He leaned against the doorway for a moment, letting the calm of the bindery settle around him. His eyes moved over the space, then to me. “It smells like your garden exploded in here.”

I laughed and stepped back, gesturing for him to follow. “Come up. I’ll show you what I’ve been overrun with.”

He trailed me up the narrow staircase, his boots sounding gently against the worn wooden steps. In the upstairs kitchen, the light was warmer, cozier, clinging to the shelves and copper hooks like a second skin. I led him to the counter where the garden basket sat, overflowing with cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, and a fragrant tumble of herbs.

“It’s getting ahead of me,” I said. “I think the cucumbers are planning a coup.”

He chuckled and stepped further in, giving Codex a brief nod as she emerged from her spot by the hearth to wind around his boots.

“Traitor,” I murmured fondly. “She ignores me all afternoon, then greets you like you hung the moon.”

Marcus crouched to scratch behind her ears. “She knows good company when she sees it.”

We moved naturally into our quiet rhythm then, the way we often did when he stopped by in the evenings. I poured the hot water over a fresh pot of lemon balm and mint, and he helped himself to two mugs from the shelf. While the tea steeped, I pulled a bundle of spring onions from the counter and began trimming them, piling the white stalks in a dish. He leaned beside me, peeling the last of the boiled eggs I'd left to cool earlier.

“Dinner or snack board?” he asked.

“Something in between,” I said. “I’ve bread left from the morning and that soft cheese from Lenna’s stall. We’ll make it respectable.”

Together, we filled two small plates—bread, cheese, egg slices, cucumbers with salt, a few wrinkled olives from a jar I’d nearly forgotten. Marcus found a small wedge of quince paste at the back of the shelf and added it with a flourish.

We carried the plates to the kitchen table, settling into chairs worn smooth by years of use. The wood was cool beneath our forearms, and the teapot sat between us like a quiet anchor. We ate slowly, comfortably—passing the cheese back and forth, slicing eggs, tearing bread with our hands. Codex leapt up onto the window ledge nearby, watching us with half-lidded interest before curling in the last sliver of sunlight. At one point, Marcus paused to refill both mugs, his knuckles brushing mine. he evening softened around us. It wasn’t a grand meal, but it was warm and good and ours.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out a folded scrap of parchment. “Made you a list. Of the captains arriving early. Figured you’d want to know who’s likely to stop by the stall.”

I took it with careful fingers, smoothing it flat against my knee. “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t want you caught by surprise. A few are old names. Lira the Black’s crew is in town—she’s got a taste for pressed flower journals, if I remember right.”

“I still have two left from the spring batch,” I said, tapping my lip thoughtfully. “Might move them up to the front of the stall.”

He nodded. “Smart.”

We sipped in silence for a few moments, the kind of easy quiet that had become familiar between us. Outside, the sky deepened into that particular shade of blue that only comes when the sun has dipped just below the trees but not yet fully let go of the day. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke now, likely from someone starting their supper fire.

“I brought something else,” he said, after a time.

I looked up.

He reached into the deeper pocket of his satchel and withdrew a roll of linen, tied with twine. “Saw this at the dockside market. The weaver said it was a mis-dye, but the color made me think of something you might like. Thought maybe you’d find a use for it.”

I untied it carefully. The cloth was soft, a pale silvery green with faint marbled striations running through it. My fingers traced the weave, already imagining covers, endbands, or maybe an inset for a new ledger series.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “Thank you.”

He shrugged again, but I saw the flicker of something warm in his expression.

There was something different in the quiet between us tonight—not awkward, not urgent, just... fuller somehow. Like a room that had been gradually filled with flowers and only now did I notice the fragrance. The way his hand had brushed mine while passing the mugs. The way I caught myself watching his mouth as he explained the new harbor assignments.

I rose, gently breaking the spell, and moved to the back worktable where the crates for the festival stall waited. “Want to help me check the display boards?” I asked, over my shoulder.

He followed without a word. Together, we moved through the inventory—me laying out cloths and titles, him lifting and setting the heavier items into place. He offered suggestions in his usual practical tone, but every now and then our hands would meet over a journal or a spool of twine, and my breath would catch just slightly before I exhaled it away.

“You could use a second crate on this side,” he said, adjusting the corner of the table. “Keeps things balanced.”

“I’ll need to borrow your cart again.”

“Already set aside. Wheels greased and everything.”

I smiled, glancing up at him. “You think of everything.”

“Only when it matters.”

That earned him a longer look, one I didn’t disguise. He met my gaze steadily, and for a heartbeat the space between us held something neither of us moved to name. Then Codex leapt onto the table with a thump, breaking the moment like a well-placed page turn.

We laughed, a little too loudly, and returned to the task at hand.

By the time the tea had gone cold and the last journal had been measured against the crates, the room was steeped in twilight. I stacked the mugs, emptied the kettle, and nudged the cupboard closed. Marcus stood near the shelf, his fingers idly toying with a bit of twine.

There was no great rush between us, no storm of words or flustered fumbling. I crossed the room to where he stood, stopping just within reach. The silence curled warm around us. When I stepped close, he didn’t move, just let his hand come to rest against the side of my arm in a touch so light it might have been imagined.

I leaned into him slowly, resting my forehead against his chest. His arms came around me as naturally as breath. We stood like that for a long time, letting the hush of the hour soften everything between us. I could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek, strong and grounding.

"You can stay," I said, my voice no louder than a thread. "If you want to."

He didn’t answer with words. He only held me a little closer.

Later, I pulled the quilts down and turned the lamp low. We brushed teeth side by side in the small washroom, quiet and easy, our elbows occasionally bumping. In the dim light of the sleeping room, there was no need to name what had already settled between us like folded linen.

When I slipped beneath the covers, Marcus joined me without hesitation, stretching out beside me with the quiet sigh of someone who’d carried too much weight through the day. We turned toward each other as naturally as if we’d always done so, and when I nestled into the curve of his body, his arms came around me like they’d been waiting.

Neither of us spoke. There was no need.

We lay in the quiet, listening to the wind in the trees outside the window, the soft sighs of a house settling around us. I reached out in the dark, finding his hand where it rested atop the coverlet. He folded his fingers around mine.

Sleep found me with my fingers twined in his, and the scent of lemon balm still lingering on the air.