[Nurumaiel]

It could not be said that Falco Headstrong was generally an early riser, but neither could it be said that he was a late riser. He rose when he felt like it, and what he felt like highly depended upon the events of the previous day. Perhaps it was odd that he rose at first daylight the morning after a party, but it was not unusual of him. Sleep was not something he could easily take and hold when his toes were still tapping and his mind still turning over and over the excitement of the day.

Little Marigold was always an early riser. She never wanted to miss a moment in a day, she said. A day was such a lovely thing, full of surprises just waiting around the corner. What if she slept late and one of the surprises came? She would miss it entirely, and that would never do! No, it was altogether best to get up early and miss nothing, absolutely nothing. Besides, the world looked so beautiful at first light. The rays of the sun were soft, golden, and mellow... not at all the kind of sun that beats down with no mercy to burn little noses unprotected by a hat. As Marigold skipped out of bed that morning she paused in front of the little mirror that hung by her bed and touched her nose. Yes, there was some red on it. No wonder! She had been out in the sun all day. But was there ever a day where the sun didn't find her skipping under his rays?

The only bad things about mornings, Marigold reflected, was getting out of bed. You had been snuggled down under the blankets for hours and hours, and then you had to get out of that warm shelter. But when the day was so sunny as this, where did the cold come in? It was banished to sulk with the darkness until night, when the both of them would come creeping up. And besides, that flannel night-gown Buttercup had fetched out of the old chest was so warm and snug! And the ruffles around the neck were too dear. Almost like her old night-gown at home.

Her little feet touched the floor, and she pattered across the wooden boards to the window. The curtains were drawn aside, the window opened, and the sunlight let in. Marigold leaned out and down, dropping her head to kiss the flowers good morning. Her tangled golden curls fell about her flushed and rosy cheeks. A young hobbit lad, walking up the road, saw her, and reflected that she was the perfect image of childhood... healthy, happy, bright-eyed, smiling... with that inexpressible charm that is in all children.

Marigold spent a few minutes by the window, drinking in the morning, and then she turned and went to the little set of drawers by her bed. She had stored her few little belongings there the night before. The comb was brought out, and she sat on the edge of her bed, patiently working through the tangles. Her eyes studied the ribbons lying across the tabletop. Buttercup must have left them there the night before. Buttercup was such a kind, sweet hobbit. Marigold plaited her hair behind her, tying a pretty bow at the end, and looked at herself in the mirror. Her little cheeks were pink, her eyes were sparkling, her lips were turned up in a smile, and her hair was tied neatly back, with only a few wisps of curls escaping around her ears. Perhaps she was not tall and slender and gorgeous like Zimzi, she reflected, but she wasn't so very bad-looking.

She met Falco Headstrong in the hallway, for they both left their rooms at the same time. His face was sour and his teeth set. There was no logical reason why he was in a bad mood, for clearly he was... he must have merely 'got out on the wrong side of bed' that morning. Marigold paused. Or did you 'get up from the wrong side of bed?' Ah well, it didn't matter. Falco Headstrong had done it, anyway. She would have to cheer him up. But he spoke before she could bid him a cheery good morning.

"You're wearing the same clothes you wore at the party," he said, rather sternly.

"I don't have any others," said Marigold, "except for my muddy clothes. When those are clean again I'll wear them."

"You shouldn't have only two dresses," said Falco. "It's not right. I'll go buy you some clothes today."

"You don't have to," said Marigold, with a little flash in her eyes. She was only a little girl yet, but young and old succumb to that thing called pride, that thing that bids them receive no help from others.

Falco's eyes softened somewhat, though his face was as stern and set as ever. "Well, well, my girl," he said, "I must pay you in some way, for you lent me your father's whistle."

"I don't want to be paid for it. I didn't do it for reward."

"But," said Falco, with a brief flash of a teasing grin, "I don't accept charity either. Now!" He took her hand, which she didn't mind too much, even if he were very grumpy. "Let me take you down and get you some breakfast."