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Vairë Was a Weaver, or, Real Men Wear Corsets  by Celeritas

Merry pushed the door open to the guesthouse, still shaking his head, and found Frodo and Sam, side by side, picking up sheets upon sheets of paper.

“Ah, Merry!” said Frodo, looking up.  “Aren’t you back early?”

“Pippin wanted me to look in on you,” said Merry.

“That’s odd,” said Frodo.  “He should know I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

Merry and Sam both gave little coughs.

“At least I am when the lodestone for all things evil isn’t hanging round my neck.  Which it isn’t, so my point stands—good heavens, Merry, what are you doing?”

Merry had put his hands beneath his waistband to remove the offending paper from its hiding-place.  He held out the paper by way of explanation.

Sam gave a little sigh and turned back to Frodo’s fallen notes, as if to say that his father had foretold this exact fate for him as soon as he started mixing with his betters, and maybe Sam should have listened.

Frodo took the paper from Merry.

“You probably don’t want to know,” said Merry.

“Actually, in this case, I rather think I do,” said Frodo, and he unrolled the paper to see what was there.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” he said, rolled it back in place, and handed it to Merry.  “I do hope you’ll wash your hands!”





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