The morning sunlight streamed through the attic's narrow window frame, casting a slender patch of light across the wooden floor.
Hans opened his eyes, his head aching as though it had been struck by a warhammer.
He struggled to prop himself up, his throat as dry as if someone had stuffed it with a wad of flax.
A clay cup stood on the bedside table, filled with water that had gone cold. A note was tucked beneath its rim, bearing Miri's crooked handwriting: "Drink this when you wake up. I've gone to set up the stall."
Hans picked up the cup, tipped his head back, and drained it.
He had expected ordinary cooled boiled water, but as the liquid slid down his throat, an unexpected sweetness bloomed on his tongue-it was sugar water. Those delicate traces of sweetness washed away the bitterness in his mouth.
He stared at the note, holding the cup, and an emotion he could not quite name welled up inside him.
They had money now, yet this woman was still thinking about earning those few copper leaves.
He rubbed his temples and climbed out of bed. He had drunk far too much last night, and his mind was still a muddle. He vaguely remembered holding Miri and spouting a bunch of nonsense, and... hadn't he seen something important?
Hans shook his head and decided to go help at the pancake stall first.
The morning streets of Minas Tirith bustled with everyday life.
Hans took the lift and soon reached the mobile food cart at the edge of Third Avenue on the first level.
He spotted that familiar figure from a distance.
Miri wore an apron and was deftly spreading batter into a round pancake on the griddle with a wooden rake, her brisk movements almost like