Teles flips through his notebook, searching for the tax collector’s name.

There is a section with music notes, a section for town issues, a section for people. Between the dance calls and the dossiers, there are always blank pages.

…
Do lions eat daisies?

Which witch is which? The witches switched!

one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left.

My house is fallen, it’s naught but rubble.
each stone moved is one less trouble.
each stone carried off by a riddle,
one step built for a mind less brittle.

……….

Teles looks up from his notes. “Ah, bonjour Aurien my cousin! Have you seen Cezanne? I think she has my pen.”