Newt has been baking all morning. Dough that had been resting over night is in the oven in a cast iron pot; while he waits on it, he works on another set of dough, ready to be baked tomorrow. It's not so much kneading, more a process of stretching and folding. He finds it useful on darker days; it's repetative and it gives him something to focus on that's not the workings of his own brain.

Rosie walks into the kitchen, and he looks up, smiling.

"Good sleep?"