The morning frost had melted off the cabbage leaves along the garden terrace, leaving tiny beads of moisture clinging to the dark earth around the raised beds.
Hajin sat on the low bench beneath the arbor, using a small whetstone to take the rough burrs off a spare skinning knife while the quiet breeze moved through the vine trellis.
The child stepped onto the gravel path with measured care, holding the folded practice scrap against the front of her pinafore with both hands.
Sava followed three paces behind her, carrying an uninked horn pen and a small square of dry blotting felt tucked into her apron pocket.
The girl stopped directly in front of the bench, waiting until Hajin set the whetstone down on the weathered timber beside his thigh.
"Don't open the blue lights yet," she said, her voice steady and clear against the morning chirping of sparrows in the eaves.
