Mischief

It was rare, and delicious, and when they saw that it was to be served at the banquet (to which they had not been invited), they began to plot how to get some of their own.

Boromir (as usual) would provide the distraction, while Faramir made the snatch-and-grab.

“Don’t be underfoot, my little lords, we have too much to do here today." The normally unruffled Mag seemed unusually frazzled. "Take some sugared almonds, and run along, that’s a good lad. And some apricots for Faramir, too. Now be gone, please.”

“Who’s at the banquet? What did you fix? Do you fix our kinds of food, or foods from other lands? How do you know what they like? Have they ever gotten into a fight because they didn’t like the food?” With every question Boromir moved further away from their quarry, as Faramir slipped closer;no one ever suspected him of trouble. But Faramir knew the secret signal, and was ready …

“A mouse!” Boromir cried. “I just saw a mouse fall in the sauce! It was running along the dish-shelf, there, and it fell right in!”

"What?"

With howls and shrieks and clattering of pots and pans Mag, the assistant cook, the two cook’s helpers, the baking boy, the two kitchen wenches, and the two scullery maids dashed toward the sauce pot. Boromir neatly sidestepped the frenzied mob, then slipped out the kitchen door.

Quick a mouse himself, Faramir dashed to where the cook’s helper had been readying the desserts. Grabbing a half-full serving pot and two spoons, he scurried out the scullery door.

Boromir was waiting at the rendezvous, under the monkey-puzzle tree in the far corner of the north garden of the Houses of Healing.

“Well done, little brother!” Faramir beamed with pride. “Lemon ice! There’s nothing as wonderful in all the world. When I am Steward, we shall have it for my birthday, and your birthday, and whenever we want it. That’s the good thing about being Steward – people have to do what you want. It’s almost as good as being King.”