Jude doesn't know why he's always so softly surprised by the demand for paper. He'd started making it at a single request, and really, for himself--but it disappeared off the shelves at the inn, and he got requests from plenty of people he's met. Maybe if the three he has in mind don't take too much work, he'll keep making journals out of what he can find for binding.

The observers, whatever people call them, are something he tries not to think about. Taking control of one small supply has helped. "I make it for everyone," he says, in case that wasn't clear. Holding the door another moment until she could slip inside, he leaves it to open and close on the breeze, heading deeper into the house.

Before he hunts a mug for the tap, he takes a moment to stir the pot again. The water is slowly boiling off the sludge of broken down plants and sheets, until he can spread layers of it on the screens from collapsed houses. "I've got some here, and when you run out, I leave it at the Inn's storage when I finish a batch."