40. Saige
Saige
More than anything, I want to duck out to the Copper Kettle while Archer’s gone to look in on Yevna and Raven, but I can’t leave the Confluence alone here, nor should I be traipsing around town with it.
So I stay put at my workstation, studying the magical tome with increasing concern.
I can feel its energy vibrating on my desk; I can see glimmers of light slipping from its weathered pages.
It’s beautiful and terrifying all at once, a mountainous task that I can’t believe has fallen to me.
I unroll my tool wrap, taking out my awl and curved needle—
“This place suits you—”
I shriek and nearly jump out of my skin. “Triad save me, General. Don’t do that to a mortal woman!” Hand on my pounding heart, I turn to find him fully clothed and holding a parcel of food.
He has the good sense to look sheepish. “Sorry.”
“My forgiveness depends on what you’ve got in that bundle there.” Whatever it is, it smells incredible and hot, just what my empty belly is craving.
“Fried fish.”
“You went all the way to the docks?”
“Well, I’ve enough sense not to purchase seafood from anywhere inland. Hungry?”
I glance back at the Confluence, my curiosity getting the better of me for a moment.
“If you collapse again, I want to know it’s not from malnourishment. Where are we eating?” Archer says.
“Will you judge me if I say the floor?” With so much of my research and work taking over the available surfaces in the shop, I’d taken to having my meals on the rug in front of the wood burner.
It wasn’t ideal for an aching back after a hard day’s work, but there was something simple and comforting about it that I liked.
“You heathen.” But there’s a smile in his voice, as he goes to the front of the shop and settles himself cross-legged on the faded rug, unwrapping the food. “Is it Raven you usually share your meals with?”
It takes me a moment to join him, struck by the bizarre sight of the Black Flame on the floor of my shop, picking up a piece of fried fish straight from the baking parchment with his fingers.
“If we want company, yes,” I tell him, lowering myself to the ground.
“But we both work long hours and sometimes, we both just want to be alone. We understand that about each other. When Leo was alive, it would be him, Yevna and Raven here on nights when we finished early, Grim too. But Leo was the chef of the group. With him gone, it’s not quite the same. ”
Archer pushes the wrappings toward me. “Thank you for telling me,” he says. “I like hearing about your life. About the bindery and Leo.”
“You make me like talking about them.” I suppress a moan as I bite into the fish. It’s phenomenal—battered and fried, crispy on the outside, light and almost fluffy on the inside. “Holy shit.”
“Can’t have you fainting on me again. You scared the life out of me,” he mutters around his own food.
When we are finished eating, Archer cleans up, all the while throwing glances my way, monitoring my wellbeing.
“I’m fine,” I tell him at last when I catch him looking again. “Let me show you around, you’ll need to be familiar with this place if you’re going to help.”
He nods. “If you’re well enough.”
“I’m sufficiently fed and watered, thank you for your concern, General.”
Archer nods to himself and begins roam the shop, running his long, ringed fingers over the back of the worn armchairs, before he pauses at the rotating display. “Are these your creations?”
I don’t know why, but I suddenly feel shy as I nod. “I know they’re not much compared to what you’ll have seen in the Azkari lands, but—”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Diminish the value of your work,” he says, reaching for a brown leather-bound notebook with robins illustrated on the cover. “It’s beautiful. They all are.”
“Thank you,” I reply. “At first, I just used them to practice my technique, but then I discovered I loved making them, trying out new styles, perfecting the more challenging methods. It was Leo who suggested I start to sell them here. They do quite well.”
Archer hums. “I’m not surprised.”
I think about all the imperfect attempts that came before.
The notebooks with uneven cover boards, pages warped by too much glue, misaligned signatures and binding that’s too loose.
There’s a collection of them in a box under my bed.
A graveyard of wasted materials and time.
But Leo told me to keep them. For any attempt is better than nothing at all.
Make bad art, fail… for there is no mastery without failure.
I show Archer around, pointing out my workstation, and Leo’s, where his chipped mug still sits untouched.
“These are our desks, and where we keep the binding and finishing presses.” I motion towards the back door.
“There’s a courtyard we share with a few other businesses and shops through there.
It’s got a well with fresh water, it’s where Yevna and Leo used to go to smoke their pipes.
But on a cloudless night, it’s a good spot to see the stars. Do you want to see if they’re out?”
“Not tonight.”
Leo’s book press with the brass handles looks small compared to Archer as he traces its solid base with his fingers. Archer’s presence in the bindery changes something in me. I feel different. Like I’ve been sleepwalking for all this time, and now I’ve finally woken up.
“That’s helped bind just about everything from royal histories to family journals,” I volunteer, moving closer. “It’s nothing fancy, at least that’s what Leo told me. But I think it’s beautiful, and reliable. It’s always been here, you know?”
“And this?” Archer asks, pointing to the monstrosity in the corner near the embossing bench.
I smile fondly. “That’s our type cabinet. Each drawer is nearly overflowing with lead type—letters that need to be set by hand with tweezers. It’s been here since before I met Leo.”
“I’ll bet these pieces have seen a lot then,” Archer ventures.
“Just about everything, ever since the bindery was opened by Jon Bergmunn, Leo’s great, great grandfather.
They’ve witnessed the quiet mornings, the lulls in business, the peaks in season, and the people who have come and gone.
” A wave of nostalgia washes over me, and my grief for Leo clings to me as the rest goes out with the tide.
That ache never completely fades but being back here… it’s like a soothing balm over a wound.
“What’s this?” Archer stands before a wrinkled flyer that Leo pinned to the wall long ago.
“A poster for the Guild of Artisan’s Convention. It was a dream of ours to go together, to celebrate our name days and put the Awl and Cradle on the map.”
“But you never went?”
I shake my head. “The convention doesn’t allow women artisans to partake. It’s always been the way.”
I motion for Archer to follow as I start to climb the stairs to my flat. “This is where I sleep. It’s not much, but it’s home.”
Archer takes in the small space, having to duck his head as we enter the loft-style quarters. “More dead plants, Grayson…”
“Raven thinks I over-watered them.”
But Archer has moved on to my shelves, scanning the array of books there with a raised brow. “What’s this? A trophy collection?”
“Just about,” I allow, a smile spreading across my face. “These are my first edition babies. My pride and joy.”
“Tell me more,” he requests quietly.
“Well, on the odd occasion, Leo and I would go to the Underhill Exchange—which is… shall we say, an unlicensed marketplace. Every now and then, we’d come across a first edition of something incredible, but the condition was so bad that we’d get it for a steal.
We’d then work on restoring it together.
Leo used the opportunity to teach me new techniques and to instill in me the lesson of making things slowly.
Eventually, he said he was too old to be gallivanting around the Underhill Exchange, but I kept going with Raven and brought back books to work on with him until the day he died. ”
“The student became the master then.” Archer runs his fingertips along the spines.
“If I’m half as good as Leo was, I’ll consider myself fortunate.” I pause, relishing the softer moment between us, not wanting to break the spell.
He stares at me with longing burning in his eyes—a fire so different from those black flames he wields. But he fights it with every ounce of willpower, I see the battle in his pained expression. Warmth spreads throughout the rest of my body as a new realization hits me.
I could fall for the Azkari general… if he’d let me.
But he straightens. “I’ll take one of the armchairs and keep watch down here. You should get some sleep.”
Disappointment blooms in my gut. “Are you sure? I can make room—”
“I’m sure,” he cuts me off. “Goodnight Grayson”.
I watch him as he leaves the workstation, a yearning yawning wide in my chest.
I wish he’d call me by my name.
I wish I was brave enough to give it to him freely.