Sava cleared a wide strip of parchment offcuts from the corner of her cutting bench, anchoring a spare piece of smooth slate with two heavy iron pins.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the high cellar windows, illuminating the motes of fleece dust that drifted whenever the carding combs were lifted from their boxes.
The child stood beside the stool with the blank registration form held firmly under her elbow, her eyes tracking the jars of walnut ink and the assorted reed pens arranged along the tool rack.
"You can sit," Sava said, turning a crate on its side so the girl's feet would have somewhere to rest off the cold floor.
"Is that where people write names?" the child asked, pointing toward the slate with a cautious, uncurled finger.
"That's where people practice before they spoil expensive paper," Sava answered, offering her a stick of soft river chalk that had been whittled down to a comfortable point.
