Alistair smashes together a bit of bread, cheese, and bacon for his own breakfast. There's fresh tea; he lingers over it, sticking to one corner of the kitchens to stay out of everybody's way. With the fires going, it's warm enough to keep him in the present.

(The Fade is a cold, clammy place.)

In theory, he could just stay here until he's ready to write more. In practice, once the kitchen staff begins their ramp-up to lunch and dinner, he knows it'll be much harder to keep from getting underfoot. The springs will serve better.

Once his tea's done, he rinses the cup and steps outside. The shock of cold makes him wince, in spite of himself; Alistair shakes it off and heads for the cells.