Carmin straightened the papers on her desk, separating them into three piles: done, in progress, not yet started. She set her ink bottle in one corner, her pens and cleaning pad below it. Her tea sat in the other corner in a neat, blue cup. She sighed happily and reached for a pen.
A knock at her study door nearly sent her whole arrangement clattering to the floor. “What is it?” She clung to the corners of her desk and grit her teeth.
“Your biscuits, Head Scribe,” a small voice answered.