Quatre rolls his eyes slightly, amused, as he grabs onto the ladder and heads up.

The hayloft is pretty typical, or would be if Quatre knew anything about haylofts. There are stacks of medium-sized bales of hay, and some pitchforks in the corner nearest the ladder; the close slat floor is quietly hollow to walk on, muffled by the covering of bale-leavings.

It's empty, and warm, and musty-smelling. Quatre, near the middle of the loft, smiles.