Margery Rootwise stood at the edge of the market square, watching a man thumb through a dead farmer's field records. The merchant held the pages loosely, like kindling. She knew what those pages meant — three seasons, maybe four, of someone's careful watching. The seller sat on a weathered bench with a name carved across the back. Mendow, it read. Clay jars of preserves lined the seat beside bundled rope. The merchant turned another page, squinting at the numbers, then shrugged. Behind him stood a tall post of ice crystal that threw cold blue light across the stall. The merchant named his price. Two coppers for scrap. Margery moved before the coin changed hands. She pulled her own notebook from her apron and set it flat on the bench between the jars. The pages fell open to her yield charts — carrot depths, frost patterns, three winters of numbers in watered ink. The merchant paused. She pointed to Mendow's records, then to hers. Same columns. Same care. The seller stared at the bench. She bought the records for four coppers and carried them to the glass cabinet near the lantern post. The cabinet had wind guards on the sides and good light from the crystal above. She placed Mendow's pages on the lowest shelf, her notebook on the one above. Two farmers. Two sets of numbers. The merchant walked past and looked twice. A woman stopped to read the charts through the glass. Margery stayed by the cabinet until the light changed. The workshop had no walls yet, but it had begun.