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They slipped into the garden unseen, scaling the high wall with the
ease of long practice, then slid into the long glasshouse. The
air was warm and fragrant, enticingly sweet.
Elrohir hovered cautiously by the door. “Are they ready
yet?” he whispered.
Elladan darted forward, and parted the dark leaves. The berries
were plump and ripe, and glistened mouth-wateringly. “Yes!
Come on, El!”
Kneeling between the neatly-tended rows, they began to gorge – until a
tall shadow suddenly loomed over them. “Elladan!
Elrohir! What are you doing in the strawberry beds?”
Elladan looked up, red-stained and sticky. “Strawberries?
What strawberries, Erestor?”
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