Sir Humphrey dismounts with the sort of confidence available only to men who have not yet looked down. He leans across the trestle table. The table groans. Three documents escape immediately, spiralling off toward Midden-on-Sogge like fugitive parchments making a break for freedom. Reginald makes a small, wounded sound. "That one," says Humphrey, pointing with purpose at a sheaf. "That is the list of approved ribbon colours." "Ah." He picks up another. "That is a receipt for the welcome pastries. From six years ago. I have no explanation." Together — and this word is being used in its loosest possible sense — they search. Reginald mutters in the key of bureaucratic grief. Humphrey reads upside-down with complete confidence. Documents accumulate on the wrong side of the table. Goodwife Thripp drifts closer with magnificent inevitability, needles clicking, in the way of someone who has correctly identified where the entertainment will be. Then, from somewhere in the satchel's fourth internal pocket, Reginald extracts a roll of very small and aggressively official print. "...Hm," he says. Which is the most portentous thing he has said all afternoon.