The door banged open, and in tore Boromir, covered with flour.

"Did you have fun with Mag?" I asked, smiling at him.

He rattled excitedly about scones while I washed his face. For once I was glad of the aridity of Minas Tirith - at home, the air was often so heavy that the flour would now be a paste in his hair.

I noticed that Boromir was clutching something in his hand. "What have you there?"

"A consumate work of art!" He displayed the smiling scone proudly, and I choked down a laugh, wondering where he'd heard that phrase.