It finally smells like proper autumn. The horses are happy, at least; though clearing their grazing of giant oak leaves is more of a chore than I'd have thought. Seems they're just falling all of a sudden. Was it this bad last autumn
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[The following appears in the morning, barely past dawn. Someone is drawing on this page, in careful dashes and swirls of ink: an image of a curled-up dragon emerges. The margin is spotted with ink by the time he's done.]