"Uilo! Why is your door locked?" Tancamir rapped irritably on his sister's door. There was no response except a faint scratching sound, as of quill against paper. He knocked again, this time more forcefully. When no answer came, he put his ear to the smooth oak wood. He could hear intermittent humming, and a few frustrated sighs, as well as the rustling of parchment.
Early morning sunlight fell through the coloured panes of the window in the hall. Already he could hear his mother bustling around in the kitchen, and further down the hallway, the door to his father's study was ajar. Uilossiel ought to be downstairs now, or had she forgotten what was happening today? Tancamir straightened his tunic with a frown and rapped on the door again.
"What in the name of Arda has possessed you, Uilo?" he shouted at her door. "If you do not open the door I am going to pick the lock." Finally, he heard slippered feet shuffling toward the door, and the click of the lock being undone. Uilossiel opened the door, clad in a deep blue dressing-gown and her house slippers. Behind her on the desk lay an open journal, several sheets of parchment, her writing-set, and a sputtering candle which appeared to have been burning for several hours. Tancamir sighed. Of course he had forgotten his sister's annoying habit of going into a writing frenzy whenever inspiration struck, this time in the wee hours of the early morning.
"Tancamir? You know there is no reason to shout so, and waken the entire household at this hour." She stifled a yawn and attempted to arrange her hair into something presentable.
"You do remember that you are expected at the winter ball of Bar-en-Vanimar this evening, do you not?" She gave him a blank look, then yawned again.
"Ugh, I swear you are worse than Naneth and Tinwen combined. The ball is hours away, why should I worry about it now?" A faraway look entered her eyes and she stared at the ceiling for a few moments before dashing off to scribble a few lines down in her journal, leaving the door to swing loose and narrowly miss Tancamir's face.
After steadying the door, Tancamir stepped into her room, resisting the urge to shout, throw things, or do something else drastic to awaken his sister from her writing-induced daze. Instead, he attempted a neutral face and asked,
"So, what are you writing? Is it another poem?" He attempted to peer at her writing from behind, but she barred the way and covered her journal with her sleeve. Despite the early hour, there was a fey gleam in her eyes that Tancamir recognized from their childhood.
"Go away, Tyelco. I have three stanzas more to write and you are disturbing the metre of the poem." She swatted him away, steering him towards the door. Tancamir rolled his eyes. When his sister was like this, resistance was futile, so he allowed himself to be shepherded out into the hall.
"Very well then, but do not say I did not warn you when Tinwen and our mother descend upon you armed with dresses and combs and other things," Tancamir retorted. His sister seemed not to have heard, but instead shut the door in his face with a mumbled, "Goodmorning."
He slumped against the door for a moment, long enough to hear her muttering, " What is a good rhyme for 'wrath'?" There was a long silence, and then the sound of pen scratching against parchment once more. Tancamir stalked away down the hall resignedly. In all the time he had been away, at least one thing had not changed - his sister's writing habits. He shook his head. Some archery practice was in order, to steady his mind. And his uniform must be cleaned and presentable for his duties this evening. He would leave her to her writing and hope she would come to her senses before the ball, or else drive the entire house mad.
