"It's snowing!"
Sanna turned her head and said to Gwivelle.
She joyfully tried to catch the dancing snowflakes, feeling the cool, thin touch melt in her palm, which made her giggle.
Gwivelle sat at the desk, holding a pencil—crafted by Roman specially, made of graphite and clay then baked into a crude lead stick, wrapped in a sleeve of leather so as not to dirty the hands—focusing on copying those words onto the pristine pages.
When she heard this, her little face immediately scrunched up.
"I know it's snowing, but can you keep it down!"
Curse this damned fisherwoman!
Gwivelle was filled with resentment.
She was grounded, having not met Roman's requirements.
She had agreed with Sanna that when facing Roman's assessment, they would advance and retreat together.
