Sent by overnight owl to the Docklands with a note reading, "Sorry you didn't get this yesterday. The jam is from Clara and the rest. She'll say she made it, but don't believe a word. It ran into some kind of trouble over France, so if it tastes of spells, that's because they suspect I'm smuggling dragon blood or something in jars of preserves. Which I am of course, but not in these particular ones. The other of the books I left with Pansy, but she was asleep at the time. Write small. Happy birthday. C."
Three jars of preserves: plum, blackberry, cranberry. Clara forgot to label them.
One leather-bound book, about the size of C's hand (but not Attie's). It's linked to the one on Pansy's bedside table. What is written in one shows up in the other, but there are only twenty pages. Ink only, no erasing, water-proof but not fire-proof.