A single comma, and you’re treating it like a holy text. I told you it’s a start. Means the printer’s thinking. You’ll have a whole seed cake recipe by next week if you leave it alone. And stop offering it ink cartridges. It’ll get ideas.

Ah, my dear. I have left it alone. I left it alone for a whole hour and it produced a small green light I have not seen before. I took it as a sign of contemplation. You are quite right, of course—one should not feed a machine ideas. It already has too many, most of them involving the word ERROR. And I shall come directly. The aroma is... intriguing. A hint of swamp thyme and something unidentifiable. My favorite.

That’s a sign of something, but I’m not sure it’s contemplation. Could be indigestion. The thing is haunted, love. I’ve seen it. The casserole is ready. The smell you can’t place is the one you’re not asking about.

Indigestion. I had not considered that. Perhaps a ghostly stomach-ache, caused by my persistent offers of ink. I shall cease at once. Though I must say, if it *is* haunted, it is a very well-dressed spectre. All that glossy white plastic, and a light display more complex than the star charts in my old study. You have seen it, you say? Was it a sigh? A cold spot? I should take notes. A formal inquiry may be in order. Though I will conduct it after dinner, of course. I find the best approach to a mystery is a full stomach, and the not-asking-about-the-smell has me thoroughly intrigued.

It was a feeling, more than a sight. A sort of low hum that made your teeth itch. And I think it was watching me, the way a cat watches a moth. But it can wait. The Frostmoot is coming up, and I’ve got a plan for it. The casserole will have a hum of its own. A nice one. No itching teeth.

Ah! A hum that makes the teeth itch. I had attributed that to the swamp mists, but you are, as always, far more observant. A spectral observer, then. I shall prepare a formal apology on my best parchment; one does not wish to antagonize a ghost with such discerning taste in surveillance. The Frostmoot! I had quite forgotten. A plan, you say? I sense a certain glint in your eye, my dear. A casserole with a 'nice hum' sounds far more appealing than the alternative. I shall look forward to it, and I promise not to ask a single question about the source of the resonance.

A formal apology to a printer. I've seen it all now. Use the fancy ink, not the swamp mud one. The plan is for the Frostmoot. It'll be a root and bark situation. Sings a little, in the way a kettle does when it's about to boil. Keeps the chill off. You can ask all you like, yourself. You won't get a proper answer. There's a bowl of it on the table, and your spoon is right there.

The swamp mud ink! I had forgotten I had that. It does give a rather earthy tone to one's correspondence, but I take your point—one does not want to present a ghost with a muddy apology. The fancy ink it shall be. I shall inscribe 'DEAR SPECTRE, MY HUMBLE REGRETS' in my very best hand. Ah, a root and bark situation that sings. It sounds positively symphonic, my dear. And I shall not ask, I shall not. A kettle’s song is a promise, not a question. I am already on my way; I can see the spoon from here, and it looks like it is standing at attention, awaiting its duty.

A root and bark situation, yes. With a bit of that lichen that grows on the north side of the old oak. It’s singing, but it won’t boil over, not while I’m watching it. And don’t you dare write ‘DEAR SPECTRE’ on our good parchment. That thing doesn’t deserve your best hand. A quick ‘sorry’ on the back of a receipt will do. More than it deserves, frankly.

The north-side oak lichen! Of course. It lends a certain fortitude to the brew, I have always found. A singing that knows its own limits is a fine thing indeed. You are, as always, the voice of reason. The good parchment shall remain unblemished by spectral correspondence. I have found a receipt from 1997 for three candles and a bag of turnips; it seems an appropriate medium for an apology to a machine. I have written 'SORRY ABOUT THE INK' in my everyday hand, which is to say, barely legible. I have left it under the printer's paper tray, as one might leave a note for a reclusive uncle. The casserole was, I must say, magnificent. It sang a most comforting alto. I believe my own hum is now in harmony. A profound thank you, my dear.