Fern Vastle's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

The next morning, Fern crossed the inn yard before the dew dried. She owed Silas a shelf. He'd handed over his own workshop beam to save Vera's roof, and now his supplies had nothing to rest on. If she didn't fix it today, his whole stock would crash to the floor. Inside the workshop, the problem was worse than she feared. One long shelf sagged in the middle, bowed like a tired back. Cans of oil, boxes of nails, and a coil of rope leaned toward the drop. The far end had already pulled a nail loose. Silas stood in the doorway, flour on his apron, watching. "A beam's a beam," he said, with that warm laugh. "But I gave you my only spare. I've nothing left to prop it." Fern measured the gap. She needed a brace the length of her arm, oak or pine, anything strong. The workshop held tools, paint, and rope, but no board that size. She chewed her lip. "Then I buy one." She walked to the new hardware shop. She hadn't met the owner yet. A cheerful man in a crisp button-up met her at the counter and named her before she spoke. "Fern, the roof-climber. Word's out." His hands were soft and clean, nothing like a builder's. "Elliot Emery. What broke?" "A shelf. I need a brace. Oak, if you've got it." Elliot beamed and swept a hand at his neat shelves of cans and fittings. "Paint, hinges, screws, all sorted. But lumber?" He laughed, a little helpless. "I haven't stocked a single board. Never swung a hammer in my life. I just like knowing everyone's name." Fern's stomach sank. No board, and the shelf creaking across town. Then her eyes caught the coil of rope she'd seen in the workshop, and an idea pulled tight. "Do you sell strong rope? And a turnbuckle?" Elliot blinked, then dug through a drawer. "Turnbuckle, yes. Rope, plenty." She hurried back. Instead of propping the shelf from below, she would hang it from above. She ran rope from the sturdy rafter beam down to each end of the sagging board. She looped it through the turnbuckle at the center and cranked. The rope drew tight. The shelf lifted, inch by inch, until it ran level again. She stacked a can on it and bounced her palm against the wood. It held. Silas tested it himself, pressing down hard. The shelf didn't budge. "Hung it like a swing," he said, grinning. "I'd never have thought of that." "Didn't need your beam back after all." Fern wiped her hands, proud. Elliot had followed her, curious. He studied the rope and turnbuckle with open awe. "You fixed it with my odds and ends." He rubbed his soft palms together. "My shop's got the parts, but not a soul who knows how to use them. Fern, folks keep asking me how to mend things. I keep pointing them nowhere." Fern looked at his full shelves and empty know-how, and saw a hundred stubborn problems waiting.