The Paper Mill – Part 1: Watermark

"Don't rush," said Rosa. "Lift it like you're lifting a sleeping child."

"That's a lot of pressure."

"It's a lot of paper."

Silvia lowered the wooden mould into the vat, tipped it, and raised it slowly through the milky water. A thin skin of pulp clung to the mesh, shimmering and perfect, and the water drained away in silver threads. In the mould's lattice a faint watermark glimmered, a tiny leaf. She gasped.

"Yes," said Rosa. "That."

The mill was a stone building beside a rushing stream in the hills of the Marche, with great wooden presses, racks of drying sheets and tall windows full of green. The air smelled of damp cotton, river water and sun-warmed paper. Rosa, thirty-three, the papermaker, wore a canvas apron, rolled sleeves and a cheerful frown of concentration. Her family had made paper in the mill for five hundred years.

Silvia, thirty-seven, a calligrapher from Florence, had come to choose paper for a book of poems. She had expected a catalogue. She had not expected to spend three days in an apron up to her elbows in pulp, laughing, learning, failing, trying again.

"Your sheets are too thick," said Rosa, kindly.

"They're rustic."

"They are bread."

Silvia flicked water at her. Rosa flicked back. In the sunny stone workroom, with the stream thundering outside, they laughed until they had to lean against the vat.

"I'm supposed to be professional," said Rosa, wiping her eyes.

"I'm supposed to be choosing paper."

"Silvia." Rosa's laughter faded. "I would like to say something that is not about paper."

"Please."

"I would like to kiss you."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Deckle Edge.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Deckle Edge.