Mildly, Scipio looks up from his work. This fresh book is full of pages to be extracted, and the pen-knife, in his hand, is poised for the next careful slice. On the steps beside him, there is a stack of pages resting on a cloth, waiting to be bound up and carried off.

"Work!" he answers, cheerfully. "We are in a great need of paper. This, I have heard."

She looks unhappy, he realizes a moment later. He hasn't yet realized the significance of her choice of color, though beneath the swathes of his own two heavy cloaks, he is wearing the same shade of blue. No: first, what Scipio notices is her unhappy face. Perhaps she is cold? No, but second he notices that she's clutching the book that he just emptied.

He blinks, surprised to see this book returned so soon. "Where did you get that?"