"I don't need Finian coming down to fetch me," Ærosylle called pettishly.
She sniffed and stopped flapping her arms, letting them hang limply at her sides. The boy hadn't wanted her to fly away. She hated it when people left. It was so mean of them. She supposed that it would be mean of her to fly away when none of the people down there wanted her to fly away.
And that other fellow, the one who had told her about the hawk and called her love, he seemed nice enough too. According to Rochadan his name was Bragorn....a man who used to come when her father was still alive.
Ærosylle didn't remember her father that well. She remembered that he had disappeared in bright flame....and she wondered if it had hurt very much.
She heard the ladder clunk dully against the loft, heard the wood creak wearily as someone climbed up it. Turning, she saw Bragorn standing there, his arms open and his eyes twinkling.
"Now come here, there's a love!" he said.
"The ladder doesn't like you," said Ærosylle. "It creaked you know."
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