[Ealasaide]

Bragorn's smile faded slightly as he gazed thoughtfully down at the ladder. Then, he swung himself on to the edge of the roof, where he sat with his legs dangling over the side. "Is that what the ladder said?" he asked gravely. "Are you sure it didn't creak out of petulance for being left out in the sun all day? If so, that would be Rochadan's doing, not mine." He looked down at the ground where the stablemaster stood watching them. The lovely serving girl, Kannah, stood beside him, holding the poker she had menaced Bragorn with earlier. Rochadan must have handed it over to her at some point after the two of them had joined her outside. Behind them were the sad, scarred little boy and his companion, and beyond them, closer to the inn's front door, a small group of other onlookers who had come outside to see what the commotion was about. Bragorn gave them all a happy wave, then lay back against the warm surface of the roof, tilting his head upward to see Ærosylle, who remained perched at the roof's peak.

"Usually I have a way with ladders," he said mildly.

Ærosylle did not reply. Instead, she squatted down where she was and wrapped her thin arms around her knees, watching Bragorn with wide, interested eyes.

"Stairs, too," he continued after a moment. "Now, doors, on the other hand, doors have always had it in for me. Like the front door of my father's house in Gondor. All I have to do is crack the hinges open for it to squeal as though it's been wounded. For my sisters? - I have five of 'em, you know, a jolly bunch, every one of them - but for my sisters, the door doesn't make a sound. They can bang in and out of it all day and not a peep. I can't help but think the door doesn't like me."

"Perhaps you've done something to offend it," suggested Ærosylle.

Bragorn nodded. "Perhaps so, though I can't imagine what. After all, it was Prudence who put the big scars in the door's frame when she tried to run into the house holding a butter churn crossways across her body. Of course, it didn't fit and she flipped over the top and landed bang on to the floor. Buttermilk went everywhere." Bragorn chuckled softly at the memory. What he neglected to tell Ærosylle was that he had been chasing his sister at the time, threatening to put a field mouse down the back of her dress. He had been twelve years old and his sister had been eight at the time. "We had a jolly good laugh over it, but I'm sure the door was none too pleased. Our mother was quite angry."

Ærosylle crept a few inches down the roof toward the man. "Why was your sister running with a butter churn?"

"She was afraid something bad would happen to the butter if she left it outside, so she was trying to carry it inside." Bragorn laughed again, reliving the incident in his mind. "Honestly, though, I wouldn't have done anything to the butter."

"So you were chasing her!" cried Ærosylle triumphantly, intuiting what had truly happened. "Of course, the door is angry with you. The gashes are all your fault. I'm sure the door would forgive you if you would apologize."

Bragorn nodded solemnly. "I shall do that." After a moment, still lying flat on his back on the rooftop, Bragorn reached out and placed his booted foot idly on the top rung of the ladder. "In the meantime, love," he continued to Ærosylle. "what shall we do about the ladder?"