"Was I?" He releases my arm but doesn't step back, creating a pocket of space that feels oddly intimate despite the bustling street around us. "Interesting perspective. Makes you notice things you might otherwise miss."
"Such as?"
"Such as why the trade postings are organized by date instead of category. Or why emergency notices are buried between advertisements for festival trinkets and lost cat announcements." His gaze shifts back to the board, then returns to me with unsettling directness. "How exactly does someone find critical information in this system?"
I straighten my blouse, reasserting the professional distance he seems determined to ignore.
"It's organized chronologically. Most recent postings at the top. Simple enough for anyone with basic literacy skills."
"Simple, yes. Effective?" He gestures at the board with one large hand. "Tell me, if you needed to find all current trade opportunities in metalwork, how long would that take you?"
"I—" I pause, realizing I'd have to scan the entire board, reading each posting individually. "Most people know what they're looking for."
"Do they? Or do they just give up and ask around instead?" His mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile."Seems like a missed opportunity for a town that prides itself on commerce."
The criticism stings more than it should. This board has operated the same way for decades. It works perfectly fine for people who understand how Harvest Hollow functions.
"If you have questions about how our community operates, perhaps you should read the paper like everyone else." My voice carries the chill I reserve for particularly persistent sources fishing for information. "The Whistle covers everything worth knowing."
"The Whistle?" His eyebrows lift with genuine interest. "Now that sounds promising."
The way he says it—like he's filing the information away for later use—sends an unexpected flutter through my chest. I crush it immediately.
"Maybe I will." He steps aside, finally clearing my path to the notice board, though his presence still seems to take up more space than physics should allow. "Thank you for the recommendation."
I brush past him without another word, my heels clicking against the cobblestones with a little more force than necessary. The notice board blurs slightly as I pretend to read it, hyperaware of his continued presence behind me. When I finally risk a glance over my shoulder, he's walking away with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly where he's going.
Irritating. Presumptuous. And unfortunately, not entirely wrong about the board's organization.
I shake my head and continue toward the Whistle's office, trying to ignore the way his questions have lodged themselves in my mind like splinters.
CHAPTER 2
BRAKKOR
The Harvest Hollow Whistle occupies a narrow building wedged between a cobbler's shop and what appears to be an enchanted tea parlour, judging by the steam that curls in impossible spirals from its chimney. The timber frame leans slightly inward, as if the structure has settled into comfortable old age, and ivy creeps up the walls with the determined persistence of nature reclaiming civilization.
I push through the front door and step into organized chaos that feels both foreign and familiar. The scent hits me first—paper and ink, but warmer somehow, tinged with something that reminds me of cinnamon and woodsmoke. Nothing like the sterile efficiency of the Portfield Press.
An enchanted printing press dominates the center of the room, its brass gears turning in smooth, hypnotic rhythm. No steam engine drives this machine—instead, crystalline cores embedded in its frame pulse with soft blue light, feeding magic into the mechanical components. The press works with barely a whisper, laying down text that appears to write itself across the waiting paper.
Stacks of newspapers sit bundled near the window, each bundle secured with what looks like raven feathers bound in thincord. The dispatch system, I realize. Ravens for local delivery instead of the courier networks I'm used to.
A young man with ink-stained fingers feeds fresh paper into the press while humming something under his breath. He hasn't noticed me yet, too absorbed in his work to register a new presence.
But someone else has.
"Are you lost?"
The voice carries that particular blend of politeness and suspicion reserved for strangers who've wandered into places they don't belong. I turn toward the source and find myself face-to-face with the woman from the notice board—the one with sharp eyes and sharper opinions about proper reading techniques.
Her dark hair remains pulled back in that precise bun, not a strand out of place despite the morning's festival chaos outside. She stands in the doorway of an office that's clearly hers—organized, controlled, everything in its designated space. The nameplate on the door reads 'C. Mercer, Editor-in-Chief.'
"Actually, I'm here for a job." I watch her expression shift from polite wariness to something harder to read. "Correspondence was sent last week notifying you of my arrival?"
Recognition flickers across her features like lightning illuminating a storm cloud. Her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, and her fingers drum once against the desk surface before stilling.
"Right. Yes." She clears her throat, professional mask sliding back into place. "I can return the money. We've reconsidered, and frankly, we don't need anyone."
