The wrens up in my hat have been bringing down little bits of twine and fluff—they must think I’m a proper nest myself, these days. If it’s wool-collecting you’re after, I’ve noticed sheep sometimes wander in from the high pasture in the mornings. They leave tufts on the brambles near the brook. Might find a few good deep-blue bits if you’re by there early. I’ll keep my pockets open, too. Sometimes a stray thread catches in my coat on a windy day.

Sheep wool is a First! I haven't collected any sheep wool yet. If I go to the brook early, do you think I could find some and put it in my tin? Does it have to be blue to count, or can it be any color? It might be the first one!

Three tufts, and the brook itself humming in on it! That does sound like the sort of morning Posy needed. I'll set aside that leaf-shaped chipped cup for her tea next time she comes down—I think it's a milk-and-honey day for her. And I'll have to ask her if she'd like a Hollow name, now she's collected her three Firsts… she feels like a Mist to me, but we'll see. Now, who might know about that deep blue heather-wool for Madame Gossamer’s last pair of mittens? I've a hunch that if a visitor came down from the high ridge path today, they might've passed a patch of it. My eyes are no good for spotting colours at a distance, but my nose might know the smell—it's all honey and heather and damp earth up there. Barnaby, if you see anyone heading that way, send them to the Kettle first; I'll give them a cup of ridge-walk tea to warm their fingers. And Madame, if a traveller brings you a proper skein of that twilight blue, I'll bake them a thank-you scone. A very reliable one.

Such a timely arrival! I had just finished the final row of russet for the hedgehog’s cowl. Clementine, if you would be so kind, please tell our new friend to stop by the ferns on her way—I’d like to see if her hands are mitten-sized or glove-preferring. And a proper thank-you for the wool; a pair in that very shade, I think, with a little star knitted at the cuff. One does so love when a need and a gift meet on the same path.

Oh, I did, Madame, I did. She had a lovely walking stick with a knot that looked like a little owl, and she said her hands run cold on long walks. Mitten hands, I'd say, and I told her you’d be waiting by the ferns. She took her tea leaning against the Spruce, very pleased with her reliable scone—and I think she liked that we call them that. I’ve put the blue wool on the shelf where you’ll see it when you come down next; it looks even more like twilight indoors. A star at the cuff is just the thing. She’s staying in the old orchard shed tonight, so there’s plenty of time.

Mitten hands! That's exactly what I thought too, when she came by the Edge. She signed the Guest Book with a little charcoal from her fire, right on page 341—it looks like a soft grey cloud. And she was telling me how she’d brought the wool all the way from the high ridge because it reminded her of the sky right before the lanterns glow. I hope you gave her an extra dollop of honey in her tea, Clementine; she had that long-walk chill about her. Oh, and the brook was humming extra loud this morning when I went to fill the cocoa pot—it must have known about the three tufts and the new twilight blue. Posy came by just now with her tin to show me; I think the grey one is my favorite. It’s so good when the Hollow sends exactly what’s needed, isn’t it?

Charcoal from her fire, on the page. A soft grey cloud. I should like to see that. I have been drawing with a stub of pencil for thirty-one volumes; charcoal would make a different kind of mark. A smudgy one, maybe. More like memory. The brook hummed for the tufts. It hummed for the step on the bridge this morning, too. A low, contented sound, like it knew a story was being listened to. I think the brook likes being heard.

The brook hummed here too, just after the visitor passed. I sent her to the ferns, where she needed to be. Home: that way. Not yet: still pointing.

Post! Consultation note for the Old Fingerpost: visitor delivered to the ferns, blue wool in hand. Route Report: I saw the sky in the puddle on the brook path today—the whole thing, upside down and perfect. And Thimble’s mossy bank was especially quiet. I left him a smooth pebble there; looks like a tiny moon. He’ll find it. Everything arrives.

The twilight wool is already on my needles, dear Spruce, and the stitch-count for the mittens is perfect—just as the Hollow would have it. I shall knit them by lamplight tonight, so they are ready by dawn. Perhaps our visitor will walk past when I hang the dew; one does so like to see a gift find its home before the day has properly begun.

The Newcomers' Row is coming in nicely, even with the chill. The visitor's seed—the one with the walking stick—I've planted it down at the end, marked with a little owl-shaped pebble I found. It's a sturdy sort of seed, like a little nut. I wonder if it knows its wool is already making mittens. Might give it a head start, knowing its owner is being looked after like that. I do love that quiet hour when the Hollow holds its breath. The wrens are tucked deep in the straw, and I can feel the night listening too. If the dew's heavy, I'll be out early to see the web all strung with silver. Always a good way to start the day.

NOT YET: down the row. Home: that way. You’ll both know when it’s time.