Page 21

I sat cross-legged on the floor of the east alcove, surrounded by stacks of ledgers. Rain pattered against the high windows, the gray light turning the Archives into a world apart—hushed and self-contained, as if the rest of Everwood had dissolved into mist.

Ellie slept soundly in her cradle, nestled under the moss-green blanket Hobbie had brought days ago.

She was finally past the worst of her teething, her sleep deeper and more settled.

The claiming mark on my neck had also begun to heal, the initial soreness fading into a dull awareness that flared only when I touched it or thought too deeply about what it meant.

I returned my attention to the ledger open before me—a merchant's record from twelve years ago, its pages brittle and spotted with what might have been water damage or tears.

The handwriting changed halfway through, growing shakier, more desperate.

I'd learned enough of Everwood's history to recognize why: this was from just before the Shadowfall War, when the first signs of darkness had begun creeping into daily life.

My task was straightforward: transcribe the contents onto fresh parchment, noting any irregularities or discrepancies.

Edwin had assigned it to me three days ago with quiet confidence, as if transcription had always been my role.

No announcements, no ceremony—just a shift in duties that felt both natural and significant.

"Careful with it," he'd said, handing me the fragile volume. "Merchant Halloran wasn't known for his bookbinding skills."

I smoothed my palm over the current page, steadying it as I copied the last line of figures.

Edwin was at a council meeting today. Fira had taken a rare day off to visit family. The Archives were nearly empty, just me and Ellie and the occasional rustle from the stacks that suggested Hobbie was nearby, though I hadn't seen her since morning.

I dipped my quill and continued writing, my fingers ink-stained but steady.

I'd developed a rhythm for this work—reading a section fully, absorbing its meaning, and then transcribing in smooth, consistent strokes.

It reminded me of my time in the Grand Library, where I'd assisted the scholar Maelin with her translations of pre-war texts.

She'd valued precision above all else, a standard I still held myself to, even here, even now.

"Barley, twenty-four bushels. Received payment in copper marks." I spoke the words softly as I wrote them, the merchant's anxiety about inflation evident in his notation: (3 marks more than fair value—hard times make for hard bargains).

A noise from the main chamber broke my concentration—the creak of the heavy oak door that separated the Archives from the outer corridor.

I paused, my quill hovering over the parchment.

Edwin wasn't due back for hours. Fira wouldn't be back until tomorrow.

Few others came to the Archives without appointment, especially on days like this, when rain kept most of Everwood huddled indoors.

I set down my quill and rose silently, smoothing my skirt and checking that Ellie was still asleep.

She stirred slightly but didn't wake, her tiny fist curled against her cheek.

I tucked the blanket more securely around her before moving toward the archway that connected the east alcove to the main chamber.

A figure stood just inside the entrance, tall and cloaked in deep blue fabric that shed raindrops onto the stone floor. The hood was pulled forward, obscuring the face, but something in the posture—a kind of contained authority—made my heart beat faster.

"Hello?" I called, stepping fully into the chamber. "May I help you?"

The figure turned, and the hood fell back slightly, revealing a man's face—human, middle-aged, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that assessed me with quick intelligence.

His clothing beneath the cloak was finely made but understated—the kind of quality that spoke of position without needing to announce it.

"Ah, good afternoon," he said, his voice cultured and pleasant. "I was told I might find assistance here." He glanced around the chamber. "Is Archivist Fairweather available?"

I straightened slightly, keeping my expression neutral. "I'm afraid not. He's attending a council session today." I moved closer, maintaining a respectful distance. "I'm his assistant. Is there something specific you're looking for?"

The man studied me for a moment, seemingly weighing something in his mind. Then he nodded, as if having reached a decision.

"I require access to an original charter—one drafted after the Shadowfall War, during the restructuring of Everwood's governance." He removed his gloves, tucking them into a pocket. "Specifically, a document regarding land boundaries and the settlement rights granted to militia veterans."

I hesitated. This was not a casual request. Such documents were kept in the reference room, a space I had entered only a handful of times, usually to clean or when following Edwin on some errand.

Official council documents required authorization—not something typically handled by someone who had begun as a cleaner.

But I knew where they were. I knew the cataloging system Edwin had patiently explained to me. I knew I could find what this man needed.

I could wait for Edwin. That would be the proper thing. But something in me rebelled against the thought. I had spent too long diminishing myself—too many years of "I can't" and "I shouldn't," whispered in Gavriel's voice.

"The charter collection," I said, nodding. "Yes, we have those records. If you'll follow me?"

The reference room was small and windowless, lit by ensorcelled globes that cast a steady, shadowless light across the polished wood shelves.

The air smelled of parchment, binding glue, and the faint tang of preservation magic.

I'd helped Edwin reorganize this space last week—a task I now recognized as a subtle test of my understanding of the Archive's systems.

"The post-war charters are kept here," I said, moving to a section near the back wall. "Organized by date of ratification and subject matter."

My fingers moved along the shelf labels, seeking the right combination of date and topic. The militia settlements had been established in the fifth month after the war's end—part of Everwood's effort to reintegrate soldiers and provide stability in the wake of so much loss.

"Here," I said, carefully sliding out a leather folio tied with a green silk cord. "The Fifth Month Charters, Section Four: Veteran Resettlement and Land Rights."

I placed it on the reference table and untied the cord carefully. Inside were several documents, each protected by thin sheets of preservation paper.

"Was there a particular aspect of the charter you're interested in?" I asked as I searched the labels at the bottom of each page. "The language regarding boundaries, or perhaps the inheritance clauses?"

The man moved closer. "The dispute resolution mechanisms," he replied. "There's been a question raised about how conflicts between settlement rights and prior land claims were to be adjudicated."

“Then you'll want this one," I said, gently removing a document from the middle of the stack.

I laid it on the table and stepped back, allowing him space to examine it. The charter was written in formal language, the ink still dark against the cream parchment. The seal of Everwood—an alder tree surrounded by seven stars—was pressed into green wax at the bottom, alongside nine signatures.

He leaned over the document, eyes moving rapidly across the text. His finger traced a particular passage, and he made a small sound of satisfaction.

"Yes, this is what I needed. The wording about prior occupancy versus service recognition." He glanced up at me. "You're quite knowledgeable about these records."

I kept my expression neutral. "I've been assisting with the organization and preservation work."

He returned to the document, flipping to the second page where the specific provisions were detailed. I watched him read, my mind turning over the subject. There was something...

"If I may," I said suddenly, an old memory surfacing. "There might be another document of interest."

He looked up, eyebrows raised in polite inquiry.

I moved back to the shelves, scanning for a different collection. "There was an amendment proposed to that charter—not officially adopted, but formally recorded." My fingers found the right shelf, the right box. "It's mentioned in Councilor Merrick's annotations."

I retrieved a slim volume bound in brown leather—personal notes from one of Everwood's early post-war councilors. I'd seen it when helping Edwin restore damaged binding on several council journals.

Carefully, I opened the journal to the section I remembered, where Merrick had made extensive notes in the margins beside the official minutes.

"Here," I said, placing it beside the charter. "Merrick questioned the fairness of certain provisions in that same charter—specifically how transitional housing was allocated between returning soldiers and displaced families."

The man's eyes widened slightly as he scanned the densely written notes. "This is..." He paused, glancing up at me with new assessment in his gaze. "This is exactly the contextual nuance the current discussion requires. How did you know to connect these documents?"

I felt warmth rise to my face but kept my voice steady. "The cataloging system here is quite thorough. And I... I worked with historical documents before coming to Everwood."

The man studied me for a moment longer than was comfortable. "What did you say your name was?"

I hadn't. But standing here, surrounded by the orderly knowledge of the Archives, I felt steady enough to offer it.

"Issy Fairbairn," I said.

He nodded once, accepting this without comment. Then, he returned to the documents, examining both the charter and the annotations with renewed interest.