The gate had stopped creaking for the moment, but its complaint still hung in the air like a question that hadn't yet decided whether it wanted an answer. I washed my hands slowly, watching the light move across the room, letting the day settle into its small, domestic rhythm. I filed the day's lessons away in my head the way I filed scrolls: with care, with a small, private order, and the faint hope that no ink would be spilled on anything today.
Outside, the lane carried the low murmur of late afternoon—Mrs. Corbett winding rosemary into bundles, a pair of children arguing about marbles, the distant clop of a cart. For a while, the world seemed entirely ordinary.
Then the cart pulled up.
It wasn't anything showy—no heralding trumpet, no painted banners. Just a compact wagon, neatly stacked, its canvas rolled back to reveal rows of bound books, small bottles of ink, cloth-wrapped parcels of thick paper, and odd implements that smelled faintly of cedar and dust. The man who stepped down from the wagon looked like the sort of merchant who could tell immediately whether a buyer loved paper for the right reasons—and whether they'd wasted a good quill recently.
He wore a plain coat, practical boots, and a hat that had seen long roads. His face was open, the kind of friendly that made people lower their guard; his eyes, though—those were precise. Measuring. The sort that noticed more than they revealed. He scanned the lane with the casual attention of someone who had traveled enough to remember faces and forget nothing of consequence. I had the odd impression that he'd remember if the last piece of parchment I'd used had been slightly damp.
Mrs. Corbett noticed him first. She straightened and called over the fence.
"Good seller! A new face in the lane—books, you say?"
He smiled and inclined his head. "Books, inks, and paper, madam. Useful things for useful days."
"Useful days?" Mrs. Corbett laughed. "I've three useful days and four useless ones—do you sell sympathy for the useless ones?" She winked, and they fell easily into pleasantries.
His voice was smooth, the kind that could sell a quill and leave the buyer feeling grateful for the opportunity. But his eyes kept moving—mapping the street, tallying windows, counting children, noting roof slopes… perhaps even the exact angle of Mrs. Corbett's hat. He nodded, just slightly, at things most people never noticed.
When he asked about the house with the neat courtyard and the slightly crooked gate, Mrs. Corbett's fingers paused mid-tie.
"Ah, the Verne household," she said comfortably. "Teacher, scholar. Two children—one a whirlwind and the other a statue who moves like a shadow."
The merchant smiled politely. "Is that so?" He lifted a small corked bottle, pretending to test its scent. "Curious things, families. One day ordinary, the next… something else."
"You've seen that before?" Mrs. Corbett asked, curiosity sharp and well-practiced.
He shrugged. "A hundred lanes. A hundred faces." He let the words rest. "Sometimes a pattern repeats."
It was an ordinary answer, and yet it made the back of her neck prickle. She muttered something about living in interesting times and turned back to her herbs—but the sound of her voice carried, and even the hens paused to listen.
The wagon rattled forward. The merchant stepped onto the lane and moved toward our gate, arranging his parcels with deliberate care. A few townsfolk nodded as he passed. He had the easy confidence of a man who had practiced courtesy until it became indistinguishable from charm.
When he reached the gate, he lifted a hand.
"Good afternoon. I carry books, inks, and paper—useful things for a scholar's household. May I trouble you for a moment?"
I had been watching from the doorway, drying my hands on my robe. I'd half expected the wagon—new paper always tugged at some scholarly nerve, and at the small, shameful part of me that compared paper grain the way a cat chooses sunbeams.
"You look to be a traveling bookseller," I said, offering a polite bow. "We always have need of good paper."
His eyes brightened. "Ah—Master Ilyas Verne. I wondered if this was the Verne residence. I've heard of your school." He said my name as if it had been neatly entered in a ledger. "May I show you a sample?"
Before I could answer, Avaris appeared briefly behind me—a shadow at the edge of the room. She didn't step outside. She only watched, fingers folded at her waist, calm and unreadable. After a long heartbeat, she slipped back inside as if she'd only adjusted a curtain.
The merchant noticed. His gaze flicked to the doorway, then away.
"Your wife won't join us?" he asked mildly.
"Not today," I said before Avaris could speak. It felt as though I were speaking for the house itself—an arrangement long settled. "She prefers to supervise from inside."
He grinned. "I see."
He set a small wooden box on the gatepost and opened it, revealing folded sheets the color of bone, smelling faintly of reeds. He tapped the paper lightly—no showmanship, just confidence in good craft.
That was when Arin burst forward, spoon raised like a banner.
"Books!" he declared. "Do you have books about strategy? Or heroic generals?"
The merchant studied him for a heartbeat longer than necessary—not with fondness, but with assessment.
"We have books on many things," he said. "Some about war. Some about paper. Both are useful."
Lysa approached more quietly, hands folded, eyes already evaluating. She measured spines, cuts, leather—the efficiency of her movements made my chest tighten with something like pride and unease all at once.
The merchant took them in—Arin's enthusiasm, Lysa's precision—and something flickered across his face.
"Your children resemble you," he said softly. "Not just in the face. There's a similar… presence."
The words settled heavily.
"They're mine," I said, a little too quickly. "Children resemble their parents."
"True," he said, but his voice lowered. "I've seen that presence before. It returns."
Before I could respond, he closed the box and offered me a roll of fine paper, still warm from pressing. A small mark was stamped on the wrapper—a circle, crossed and contained.
"For teachers of the young," he said lightly. "And ink that doesn't run near tea."
From inside, I saw Avaris's fingers still. Her eyes narrowed just enough for me to notice.
Later, when the merchant finally departed and the lane returned to its familiar quiet, I lingered at the gate. I traced the symbol on the paper with my thumb and made a note in my book:
Odd merchant. Ledgeri symbol. Children noted. Neighbor interest—quiet, but present.
That night, after the children slept and the house grew still, I opened my notebook by lamplight. My brush moved absently—lines, columns, names I'd written a hundred times.
Only when I paused did I notice it.
In the corner of the page, drawn without memory or intention, was the same symbol.
A circle.
Crossed.
Contained.
I frowned.
"When did I draw that…?"
I closed the book and told myself I needed sleep.
From the doorway, unseen, Avaris watched—not me, but the notebook in my hands.
And for the first time in many years… she looked uneasy.