Page 15

I pushed open the heavy oak door of the Archives, my cloak damp at the hem from the morning drizzle.

Ellie was bundled close against my chest, her tiny body warm beneath layers of wool.

The familiar scent welcomed me—old paper, waxed wood, rain-damp stone—as I stepped inside, grateful for the shelter from the persistent autumn rain.

The claiming bite still throbbed gently at the junction of my neck and shoulder, two days fresh. I'd taken to wearing my hair loose, letting it fall beside rather than over the mark. Not hiding. Not anymore.

"Just us for now, little one," I murmured to Ellie as we made our way through the quiet entrance hall.

Morning light filtered weakly through high windows, casting pale rectangles across the stone floor.

Edwin wouldn't arrive for another hour at least—he took his time on rainy mornings, his old war injury troubling him more in the damp.

I headed for the east alcove, where I'd set up a small workspace. It was tucked away from the main reading area, private enough for nursing Ellie between tasks but close enough to the central stacks that I could retrieve books without lengthy absences.

I rounded the corner into the alcove and stopped short.

Everything was... different. The space had been tidied, but not in the usual way.

My small desk had been rearranged—quills lined up perfectly beside fresh parchment, a candle already lit and burning steadily despite the early hour.

The basket-cradle I used for Ellie's naps had been moved slightly closer to the desk, positioned just right to catch the warmth from the nearby brazier without being too close to the heat.

And there, folded neatly in the cradle, was a wool blanket I didn't recognize—soft-looking, dyed a gentle shade of moss green. Tucked beneath it was a small, smooth stone that radiated gentle warmth and smelled faintly of herbs.

I glanced around, suddenly alert. The Archives were supposed to be empty at this hour.

"Hello?" I called, my voice barely above a whisper. "Is anyone here?"

Nothing. No footsteps on the stone floors, no rustling of robes. Just the soft crackle of the brazier and Ellie's quiet breathing against my chest.

As I stood there, uncertain, I caught a flicker of movement from behind a nearby row of shelves—just a shadow, really, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. But I didn't call out again. I just watched, waiting.

Nothing more.

I’d noticed other small changes before—scrolls organized before I'd touched them, books opened to useful pages. I'd assumed it was Edwin's thoughtfulness, or perhaps Fira's, though the dwarf would die before admitting to such sentiment.

"Well," I said softly to Ellie, "it seems we have someone watching over us." I touched the warm stone again, appreciating its gentle heat on such a damp morning.

I settled at my desk with Ellie still against me, needing to finish the transcription Edwin had assigned before he arrived. The work was detailed but satisfying—copying ancient texts onto fresh parchment, preserving words that might otherwise disappear into dust and time.

Later that morning, with Ellie dozing peacefully in her newly outfitted cradle, I made my way deeper into the Archives to retrieve a reference text Edwin had mentioned.

The stacks stretched tall around me, shelves rising toward the vaulted ceiling, the scent of old parchment and leather bindings rich in the cool air.

I'd grown to love these quiet corridors, the sense of knowledge waiting patiently to be discovered.

I turned down a narrow aisle lined with historical records of the northern territories, searching for the Lindell family crest among the spines.

The Archives were organized by an elaborate system that I was still learning—region, then family, then chronology, with exceptions for magical texts or particularly rare volumes.

It made finding specific works challenging, but there was a satisfying logic to it once understood.

I rounded a corner and stopped abruptly.

There, halfway beneath a low shelf, was a small figure whose arms were loaded with scrolls nearly as tall as she was.

Silver-streaked hair was pulled back in a tight knot, and she had an ink-smudged shawl draped over narrow shoulders.

Her posture reminded me of a startled animal, tense and ready to flee.

But her hands never stopped moving, quick and sure, like someone who knew her work by heart.

At the sound of my approach, she froze mid-motion, a scroll half-balanced in her arms. She didn't run. She just stared at me with sharp, assessing eyes, waiting.

I stayed where I was, not wanting to startle her further. "It's alright," I said gently. "You're the one who's been helping us." Not a question.

She shrugged, a quick, dismissive motion. “Archives need tending. Babies do, too. That’s all.”

"I'm Issy," I offered. "And my daughter is Ellie."

"I know who you are," she replied, her tone making it clear she found the introduction unnecessary. She hesitated, then added begrudgingly, "Hobbinia. Most just say Hobbie."

"Thank you, Hobbie. For the blanket. And the stone."

She dropped the scroll on a lower shelf. "Draughty in that corner." She straightened her shawl. "Keep the blanket clean. Wool that fine doesn't grow on trees."

Before I could respond, she slipped behind another row of stacks—not exactly fleeing, just... finished with the conversation. I heard no footsteps, no rustling of fabric. She simply vanished into the maze of shelves as if she'd never been there at all.

The afternoon sun broke through the clouds, sending shafts of golden light through the high windows of the Archives' main hall. I'd moved to one of the larger tables to work on the Lindell translation, spreading reference materials and comparative texts to help with the more difficult passages.

Ellie was awake but quieter than usual, watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight from her basket beside me.

Occasionally, she’d wave her tiny hands at nothing in particular, a serious expression on her face as if conducting some invisible orchestra.

Her cheeks were a little flushed, and I made a mental note to check her temperature later—but for the moment, she seemed content.

I was halfway through a particularly challenging paragraph when I felt the weight of eyes on me. Glancing up, I caught myself looking toward a shadowed corner between two tall shelves. Nothing was there—at least, nothing I could see. But I couldn't shake the feeling.

"Hobbie?" I whispered into the darkness.

"Oh, good. Talking to shadows now. Excellent sign."

I turned to find Fira standing nearby, a stack of leather-bound volumes in her arms and her usual sardonic expression firmly in place. The dwarf's braids were unusually tidy today, woven with silver beads that caught the light when she moved.

"Should I warn Edwin you’ve finally lost it," she continued, "or are we still pretending you're normal?"

I felt my cheeks warm. "I was just... thinking."

"While staring into empty corners? Fascinating thought process." Fira set her stack of books on the table with a solid thunk. "Your neck looks like you lost a fight with a bear, by the way. Subtle."

My hand went instinctively to the claiming mark.

It was still tender, the bruising around Uldrek's bite darkening rather than fading.

I hadn't attempted to hide it—partly because of what it represented and partly because, in the privacy of my thoughts, I found I rather liked the visual reminder of that night at the Broken Spoke.

"It's meant to be seen," I said simply.

Fira snorted. "Clearly." She began sorting through her books, separating them into neat piles. "Edwin wants these cataloged by region, then subject. Think you can manage that without getting distracted by the fascinating emptiness of the archives?"

I nodded, grateful for the change of subject.

We worked in companionable silence for a while, the scratch of quills and the gentle rustle of turning pages the only sounds beyond Ellie's occasional soft noises.

I caught Fira glancing at my daughter more than once, her expression softening before she caught herself and resumed her usual scowl.

After an hour or so, Fira reached into her pocket and produced a small cloth bundle. Unwrapping it revealed a honey biscuit, golden-brown and still faintly warm.

"Brought this for later," she said, eyeing it with apparent indecision. She glanced toward the shadowed corner I'd been watching earlier, then very deliberately placed the biscuit on the edge of the table.

"For the record," she added in a low grumble, "I'm not feeding imaginary creatures. But if someone eats that, they'd better not touch my tea cakes. Those are sacred."

I bit back a smile. "Of course."

Fira narrowed her eyes. "Don't look at me like that. I have a reputation to maintain."

"Which is?"

"Terrifying, obviously." She gathered up her completed work. "I'm going to deliver these to Edwin. Try not to hallucinate any more invisible friends while I'm gone."

As she walked away, I noticed she took a deliberately circuitous route, giving the corner with the biscuit a wide berth. I pretended to focus on my work but kept the edge of the table in my peripheral vision.

Sure enough, a few minutes after Fira left, a small hand darted out from behind the shelf and snatched the biscuit. No sound. No figure. Just that quick motion and then nothing.

I smiled and continued working, feeling strangely comforted by the knowledge that we weren't quite as alone in the Archives as I'd thought.

By the time I returned to Tinderpost House, the drizzle had turned to a steady rain, blurring the lamplight and slicking the cobblestones underfoot.

I kept Ellie tucked close under my cloak, her weight heavier than usual against my chest, her breath warm through the linen layers.

She hadn't fussed, not really—but she'd gone quiet again, the kind of quiet that set off alarms in the back of my mind.

Gruha barely looked up as I stepped through the door. Just grunted, "You're late," and slid a towel toward me across the small hallway bench.

“Edwin asked for extra sorting,” I said.

Gruha gave me a look—not unkind, just sharp—and nodded toward the back. “Soup’s still warm. You’ve got chamomile upstairs.”

I paused. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she muttered, already turning back toward the kitchen. “Just eat and get some sleep.”

In our little room upstairs, I laid Ellie down gently on the bed, then crouched beside her, brushing damp curls off her forehead. She stirred, restless, letting out a soft, tired whimper.

I pressed my palm to her skin. Still warm. Warmer than she should’ve been.

Just teething , I told myself. Or too many layers under the cloak.

Still, I lit the candle by the bed, then reached for the chamomile Gruha had mentioned—already steeped, I realized, waiting on the little side table. I poured the tea and took the warmth into my hands, listening to the rain tap against the shutter.

Ellie shifted again, letting out a small cry—thin, unhappy.

I lifted her against my chest, rocking her gently, feeling the heat of her seep through my shirt.

“You’re alright,” I murmured. “Just a long day. A long week.”

But my gut was starting to tighten.

When I looked down, her eyes were closed again. But her breathing was shallower now, her skin too hot against mine.

I stood carefully, holding her close, and went to open the shutters.

Just a crack.

The street below was quiet, puddles shining under the guttering lamps. The rain had eased to mist again. But the city felt… watchful.

I closed the shutters again. This time, I slipped the latch into place.