As I lead my motley gang through the maze of streets, I become aware of a silent presence at my elbow. I turn my head to discover Legolas matching my steps. He glances back at the chattering knot of hobbits and dwarf, and awards me a quizzical look.

“Is this wise? I would hate to see you placed in difficulties with Lady Eowyn because of a hobbit’s gossipy tongue.”

“Oh, there will be no problem, since I have no plans to avail myself of any woman’s company tonight, and hobbits are too honest to invent a false tale. This is for everyone else’s benefit, not my own.”

“Nor mine, I fear,” says Legolas with a slight smile, “for I cannot imagine coupling with one not of elven kind, or paying the lady for such a dubious service. I merely intend to observe, though it may make for dull entertainment.”

“Not at all, because there is much to do regardless. The mistress of the house, Melime, prides herself on keeping one of the best tables in the city, so many go there to dine and drink only, or listen to the musicians she employs. And she is fond of good conversation as well, and hires her girls for wit as much as beauty. You may be surprised at the amusement to be had outside the bedchamber.” I give him a sly smile. “But if that is not enough, there are places within the house where you can go and watch, hmm, other patrons’ mating customs if you want . . .”

Legolas looks back at Gimli and the hobbits and visibly blanches while he rolls his eyes. “Thank you very much for branding my mind with visions it will take an eternity to lose,” he snaps.

“You are welcome, my friend,” I grin. It is a rare occurrence, denting that elven impassiveness, and I suspect this evening will present me with more chances to do so. Before I can launch another shot, however, Pippin’s voice calls out behind me.

“Are we there yet, Faramir?”

“Almost,” I reply. “It’s just around the corner right ahead.” I lengthen my stride as we approach our destination, suddenly wondering if both house and ladies survived the siege intact, flinching away from the thought of Melime alone, or dead . . .

We round the corner, and I sigh in relief. There stands the House of Crimson Joys, tall and thick-walled, with only the discreet red lantern shining over the door to distinguish it from its prosperous neighbors that shelter merchants and craftsmen. Chunks of missing plaster mar the white surface, but no other damage is obvious. “There,” I say, pointing at it.

Everyone stares in surprise, clearly taken aback by its unassuming appearance. “That?” says Merry. “Why, it looks like an ordinary house, nothing special at all.”

“But of course,” I laugh. “Do you think the mistress wants to draw attention to herself? Here are folk who might complain if she flaunted her trade openly, and her customers demand discretion too. Far better to save any wealth for inside, and avoid giving offence even if she breaks no law.”

“You speak as if you know Mistress Melime very well,” says Legolas curiously.

I nod, memories returning swiftly, but I shake them off. “Come,” I say. I lead them to the studded oak door and pull the bell rope hanging next to it. I hear muffled noises within, then footsteps. The door swings back to reveal Altallo, Melime’s man-of-all-work, holding himself straight despite how grey his hair now is. He blinks in disbelief before smiling widely.

“My Lord Faramir! Long has it been since you last darkened our steps! What brings you here this evening?”

“The desire to entertain my dear friends with the very best in Minas Tirith,” I reply with a flourish. “May we enter?”

“But of course, how foolish of me, forgive an old man . . .” We file into the hall, the hobbits trying not to stare at everything while Gimli strokes his beard warily and Legolas’ face becomes a smooth mask. Altallo bars the door before giving us all a deep bow.

“Welcome, masters! Any friends of the Lord Steward are our most honoured guests, and shall receive the finest hospitality the House of Crimson Joys can offer you. Please follow me, if you will.”

He leads us down the hall to a pair of carved wooden doors, which he throws open upon the house’s main parlour. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I fetch food and drink from the kitchen and inform Mistress Melime of your arrival.” Another bone-cracking bow, and he vanishes in the direction of the stairs.

The room we find ourselves in is elegantly furnished, with carved wood furniture gleaming in the firelight and fresh flowers sweetly perfuming the air. But I can see that the tapestries’ colours have dimmed, and there are a few worn patches on the carpets beneath the chairs and tables. The others, particularly the hobbits, see only the luxury, not the scars of war, for which I am unexpectedly grateful.

“This is quite nice, Faramir,” Frodo says as he turns round. “Not at all what I was picturing. You weren’t lying when you said the mistress of the house had good taste.”

“Most certainly she does,” agrees Legolas. The elf folds himself into a chair with his usual ease while Gimli climbs onto a nearby settle with some difficultly.

I motion for the hobbits to sit down. Merry and Pippin scramble up into the depths of a well-cushioned bench next to the fire, their eyes fixed on the doors with barely veiled anticipation. Frodo sits down slowly on the opposite bench from his cousins, still admiring his surroundings. But Sam remains planted before the fire, pure panic etched on his plump face.

“This place is far too fine for the likes of me, Mister Faramir,” he mutters. “I really should go back–“

”No, Sam,” I tell him firmly. I pick him up and plunk him down beside Frodo. “You are as worthy of comforts as any in Middle-earth.” He continues to appear totally discomforted, so I add, “Besides, you like the company of a pretty woman as much as anyone, yes? What is there to be nervous about here?”

“Nothing whatsoever, little master. Have no fear, for the only rule of my house is pleasure.” The woman’s voice is rich, musical, and full of laughter. I pivot around and smile at the figure standing in the doorway.

“Melime! It has been too long since I have seen you.”

“Indeed, my Lord Steward, but that is perfectly understandable.” She steps forward and I take her hands in mine as I study her afresh. Except for a few more curves and some silver hairs among her black tresses, she looks unchanged, her beauty still sparkling like a dark diamond, shown off perfectly by her black silk gown dusted with silver embroidery. She leans forward and offers me a kiss of greeting; as her lips brush mine, the memories of my first night here come bubbling up . . .

It was my sixteenth birthday when Boromir dragged me here, scandalized that I was a virgin and swearing that it would not be his fault if I remained one by the end of the evening. He insisted on paying for the night’s entertainment, clapping me on the back and declaring it the finest present he could give me. On his command, Melime summoned all of her ladies for me to make my choice. My natural shyness only worsened as I struggled to choose among the beautiful, and experienced, girls, frightened of the act to follow and how I might perform; convinced I would fail and be laughed at to my shame. Finally, I turned to Melime, drawn to her warmth and sensuality despite the fact she was older than any of her charges, and murmured, “If you would so honour me, Mistress?”

“What, the chief mistress?” Boromir exclaimed. “You are surprising, little brother.”

Melime gave me a smile to heat the blood and took my hand, ignoring Boromir’s jibe. “I would be honoured, my dear lord. Now come with me . . .” She led me to her bedchamber, and there I learned just how splendid a part of life sexual pleasure truly was, a lesson I never forgot. Nor did I forget my first teacher; no matter whose beds I sampled later, it was Melime’s bed I returned to most often, even after she had officially retired.

Melime’s eyes shine brightly, and I realize she too is remembering. “You are looking well, my lord. You have recovered now?”

“I have, thank you, and am very glad you too are well after the siege.” I clear my throat. “Please, let me introduce you to my friends, all members of the great Fellowship of which you have heard.” I begin to lead her around the circle of curious faces; her curtsey to each of them is deep and poised.

“Legolas Greenleaf, of Mirkwood.” Legolas’ bow is cool but respectful, with the politeness that is second nature to elves. His eyes survey Melime closely, as he tries to take the measure of a woman so different from any he has met before.

“Gimli, son of Gloin.” He climbs to his feet clumsily, yet the way he takes Melime’s hand and kisses it would do justice to the most mannerly of knights. She lets her hand stroke his beard swiftly, and he blushes a brilliant scarlet.

I fight not to laugh at the dwarf’s discomfiture, and guide Melime to where the four hobbits stand and stare. Only Sam, his mouth open, seems embarrassed; the other three boldly show their appreciation of her beauty as they look up into her face or, in Pippin’s case, into her creamy breasts.

“And these are the valiant hobbits of the Shire, most gallant of those who fought the Dark Lord. This is Meriadoc Brandybuck, heir of the Master of Buckland and knight of Rohan, and his cousin Peregrin Took, heir to the Shire’s Thain and squire of Gondor. Samwise Gamgee is the faithful companion of the Ringbearer, and here,” I place my hand on Frodo’s shoulder, “is the Ringbearer himself, Frodo Baggins, of whom I need not speak, for I am sure you know of his magnificent bravery.” I can feel Frodo bridle a little under my hand; he hates what he views as excessive praise.

“Indeed I do, for all Minas Tirith echoes with his name and that of his valiant kin and friends. Accept this kiss of peace as a small token of my respect.” Melime bends over and drops a soft kiss on each hobbit’s cheek. Sam looks like he might flee, Frodo and Merry both appear startled, but Pippin clearly wants more; he tries to return Melime’s salute with a full kiss on the mouth, but she pulls away gracefully with a low chuckle and shakes her head.

“Not yet, my dear Master Took, we have other appetites to satisfy first.” Even as she speaks, Altallo reappears at the door leading three other servants, all bearing trays laden with food and wine. The hobbits’ eyes light up eagerly, and I finally burst into open laughter.

“Food really is your chief pleasure in life, isn’t it?” I grin as four abashed hobbit faces turn towards me. “All of you ate enough earlier to carry you for several days, yet here you are, ready to eat again!”

“Of course we are,” Merry says with dignity. “We never know when we might be back on short rations, after all.”

“And we wouldn’t wish to insult a beautiful lady’s generosity either,” adds Frodo, as he gives Melime a little bow.

“How kind of you to say so, my dear little master! Now please sit and refresh yourselves.”

We all sit once more around the fire and begin to partake of the refreshments crowding the low table. I pour wine for myself and Legolas while Frodo’s attention is drawn to a silver bowl full of fruit.

“Strawberries out of season? You are a miracle worker!” he says admiringly to Melime.

“But what’s this dark stuff next to them, Miss Melime?” asks Sam. He touches the surface with a fingertip and carefully lifts it to his lips. His eyes widen in amazement as the taste registers with him.

“Ah, you have never seen chocolate? I am not surprised, for it comes from the distant forests on the Umbar coast, and even here in Gondor it is not common. Here, eat it as it was meant to be eaten . . .” Melime dips two strawberries in the chocolate and hands them to Frodo and Merry. As they exclaim over the rich sweetness, she reaches for another berry, but before she can drop it into the dark pool, Pippin catches her hand.

“May I taste it from the tip of your lovely finger, Mistress?” She nods, amused, and Pippin carefully dips her index finger and then places it between his lips, slowly drawing it out. The ardent look he gives her no longer amuses me; I stir in irritation, feeling a faint prickling of possessiveness I did not expect.

“Saucy little rascal,” I mutter under my breath. Despite my low voice, Legolas hears me and whispers back, “That is an understatement.”

The next hour passes pleasantly enough, however, for the hobbits quickly concentrate on eating and Melime artfully steers the conversation to include everyone. I admire afresh her evergreen skills as a hostess, for under her prompting, Sam ceases to stammer and even Legolas thaws sufficiently to speak of a great spider hunt in Mirkwood he organized.

At the end of Legolas’ tale, a lull descends upon us. Melime glances around our group as her eyes sparkle. “Well,” she says, “I think it is time to present the other residents of my house.” She steps over to a long bell rope and pulls it six times. She returns to her chair beside me, and murmurs, “Did I guess right that the recently betrothed Lord Steward does not wish to indulge tonight?”

“Right you are, and thank you for your tact . . .” I squeeze her hand where it rests on my sleeve, but before I can speak further, the double doors are thrown open again and Melime’s girls slip in, as sinuous as cats on the prowl. They form a half-circle behind Frodo and Sam; Melime crosses over to them and begins to make the formal introductions.

“Lotiel has been here the longest, and is from Dol Amroth.” She is tall and slim, and could be my kin with her raven hair and dark grey eyes; clearly older than the rest, she remains very lovely, even with a touch of sadness in her face. She gives us all a smile of exceptional sweetness before sitting beside Frodo in a swirl of amethyst silk.

“Ettelie sings very finely and plays the harp.” I note that her ripe curves are showing to great advantage in an extremely low-cut blue gown. She is pretty, rather than beautiful, but her uptilted nose and dark curls suggest a lively time will be had with her. After her deep curtsey, which gives us all a clear view of her physical charms, she makes a beeline for Merry and Pippin and plants herself between them. From their expressions, a sharp competition will be in the offing.

“Vandiel can tell your fortune, if you wish.” This one is short and plump, but with an exquisite face topped by a mane of auburn hair and lit by vivid green eyes. She grins at us and saunters over to join Ettelie, Merry, and Pippin. By now, Pippin’s face is a study in pure bliss, while Merry looks like a tomcat ready to pounce.

“Nyerelle enjoys baking, and prepared some of the sweets you have eaten.” Tiny, with a flawless figure and a long brown braid, she hardly appears that domestic. As her hazel eyes survey us thoughtfully, a small voice pipes up.

“Please, Miss Nyerelle, won’t you join me? I love to cook, too, you see, so we can talk about that.”

She laughs happily and runs her fingers playfully through Sam’s hair as she sits beside him. “Gladly, little master, for I rarely have that pleasure.” Sam blushes as Frodo stares at him with amazement.

“You are getting the knack of it now, aren’t you, Sam?” Frodo asks.

“He learned it from me, you know,” Pippin chimes in smugly. I see another verbal skirmish brewing and gesture for silence.

“Please, do let our kind hostess continue.”

“Thank you.” Melime turns to the youngest women there. “This is Ailin, and she has joined us very recently—only two months ago, in fact.” I feel a pang as I gaze at her, for she is the shadow of Eowyn. Long blond locks flow down her back, while her blue eyes dominate her face. She seems both eager and anxious as she tries to decide where she to sit. She hesitantly perches on the settle next to Gimli, who takes her hand and kisses it; her eyes widen in surprise.

“I did not know your kind were so very gallant, Master Dwarf!”

Gimli practically grows several inches as he straightens up in his seat. “Oh, yes, we are, my dear Mistress Ailin . . .”

“The beginning of a splendid friendship, I see.” Legolas’ low tone sounds more than a little disbelieving. I smother another laugh as Melime draws the last woman over to us.

“Ravenne is a graceful dancer who will perform for us later.” She has a carved perfection of face that is startling, with no feature out of place. She kneels down before Legolas and I and comes back up with a suppleness that shows her dance training. Melime whispers in her ear, and she immediately pulls up a chair and joins Legolas, her black hair brushing his shoulder. He, as ever, is nonplussed but polite.

Melime claps her hands. As the servants bustle in with more wine and ale, she smiles seductively. “There you are, my dear gentlemen, all the flowers of my household. Let us drink and get to know one another better, shall we?”

As the wine begins to flow and chatter rises on all sides, Legolas leans over and hisses, “This is going to be an interesting evening, is it not?”

“Oh, yes,” I reply weakly, as I watch Pippin slide one hand over Ettelie’s thigh as the other hand strays towards Vandiel’s breasts. “That too is quite an understatement, my friend, don’t you think?”

Two hours later, I swing a booted leg over the arm of my chair and contemplate the scene before me in genuine shock as I take a deep swallow from my glass. “Amazing,” I mutter. “Absolutely, utterly amazing. I never thought . . . is this what women want? Not a one of them taller than our waists, but the ladies do seem quite charmed, don’t they?”

“To say the least. Of course, it is possible that they are making an especial effort in the hope of more coin, I suppose.” Legolas drains his wine and stares at the others, his face a study in bemusement.

“Maybe—but I think not. They are enjoying themselves far too much to be pretending.” I drink more wine and shake my head. “And to think the entertainment began, well, sedately . . .”

It did begin relatively sedately, with Ettelie singing ballads sweetly as she accompanied herself on her harp. Melime summoned her other musicians then, who played for Ravenne as she danced one of the old courtly measures some claim were brought from the West long ago. She made a pretty picture as she skillfully trod out the pattern, stately and dignified, her trailing sleeves fluttering around her. She finished with a low bow and much applause.

Vandiel’s turn came next, as she began reading palms. Only Merry and I declined, both of us still carrying uneasy memories of our last encounter with a fortune-teller at the spring fair here. She succeeded in persuading even shy Sam and aloof Legolas to let her do a reading for each of them, though it was obvious from his raised eyebrow that the elf was, to say the least, skeptical.

She deliberately saved Pippin for last; as she took his hand and slowly stroked it, he gave her a look that was remarkably knowing, especially compared to his boyish face.

“And what do you see?” Pippin asked in a low voice. “Am I doomed to be alone tonight?”

Vandiel traced the lines in Pippin’s palm with a delicate fingertip; he made a small noise deep in his throat as she continued the caress. “No, I think not,” she said, her smile both mocking and alluring.

“Then shall I meet my true love instead?”

“Perhaps.” Their eyes locked above Pippin’s hand, green meeting green in open sexual challenge. Everyone seemed to catch his or her breath for a moment, taken aback by the sudden shift in the air. Then Melime smiled and turned with studied nonchalance to Ravenne.

“My dear, would you be so kind as to change your gown? Then you can dance for our guests again, perhaps in the style of Harad this time.” She gave Ravenne a wink.

As Ravenne drifted away upstairs, Ettelie began singing again. This time her songs were lively, but they quickly became bawdy. Merry and Pippin egged her on, and then they took turns singing the Shire’s earthier lyrics. They claimed they were merely teaching them to Ettelie, but it soon was obvious they were staging a little contest to see who won Ettelie’s company for the evening. I knew Merry could sing, but Pippin was even better, with a clear tenor he used well. But between songs, he continued to flirt with Vandiel, and a sudden suspicion entered my mind.

“By Eru,” I muttered, “that reckless little rake means to bed both lasses, if he can!”

“Surely not,” Legolas shot back. “Not even Pippin could be that spirited, do you think?”

“Oh, yes, he is,” I declared. “Watch closely, now . . .”

Alas for Pippin’s fancies, the cousins’ singing contest ended with Ettilie kissing Merry soundly and pulling him into a dark corner behind their bench. Pippin allowed himself the luxury of a very brief pout at his failure before redoubling his efforts with Vandiel.

Now, I find myself gazing at several pairings that are, to say the least, unlikely. Unlikely, did I say? Mind destroying might be a better choice of words. I remember Legolas declaring earlier that it would take an eternity to wipe certain images from his mind. I appreciate his sentiment now that I have come to share it in part.

Frodo is stretched out on the bench with his head pillowed in Lotiel’s lap. She is feeding him sugared grapes as they converse softly, punctuated by an occasional kiss. Lotiel’s hand keeps straying across his chest, though she has yet to slide it under his shirt. Given how tender her expression, however, I suspect it will not be long before matters proceed further.

Sam is sitting on the floor with his back braced against the same bench and Nyerelle snuggled along his side. A tray of sweets sits at their feet; they exchange tarts and cakes as they carefully pass judgment on each flavor. Of course, they also are carefully licking each other’s fingers as they do this, not to mention kissing various crumbs away, and Sam’s face is more than a little rosy.

Gimli has glued himself to Ailin; each compliment he pays her earns him a fresh round of laughter. As he assures her she is the most charming, beautiful, and desirable woman in all of Minas Tirith—nay, in all of Gondor—Ailin leans towards the dwarf even more, her eyes glowing. The one thing that keeps me from being amused at Gimli vigorously courting a duplicate of Eowyn is the spectacle the last two members of our party are creating.

For Merry is sprawled out on a carpet near the fireplace with Ettelie lying beside him, her head cradled in the crook of his elbow. Their low murmurs form a counterpoint to Merry’s caresses; his strokes slide along her curves, and his free hand wanders down between her legs occasionally. Ettelie’s posture is relaxed and more than ready; as Merry’s hand glides down again, she shifts her hips slightly to hold him in place.

And Pippin? He sits astride Vandiel’s lap as he kisses her with energetic ardor. He discarded his coat and weskit a while ago, and his shirt is open to the waist. His hands rove over her with a startling degree of practiced skill; the youngest of the hobbits he may be, but he clearly did not exaggerate his level of experience. He rubs her breasts again, causing her nipples to swell still more as she moans softly. I know Vandiel is a courtesan well trained in the art of pretending desire, but the hot blood in her cheeks and the writhing of her body proclaim her to be truly aroused. She slides a hand behind Pippin’s head to deepen their kiss, her tongue intertwining with his. At this, Legolas stirs impatiently.

“It is time to take the lady upstairs and find a room, I think—shall I make the suggestion? As I told you before, I have no real desire to watch . . .”

“Not quite yet, I think,” Melime responds coolly. She turns to Ravenne, only recently returned and sitting negligently next to Legolas. “My dear, would you dance again?”

“Certainly.” The musicians, who have been playing in the background all this while, hurry forward and move the table as Ravenne advances to the center of the room. Her new attire, if one can call it that, consists of colorful silk veils draped and tucked around her figure; I realize it will take very little movement to send them tumbling off.

The drummer and flutist sit cross-legged before the fireplace as Melime raises her voice. “Gentlemen, your attention, if you will! I apologize for interrupting your revels, but Ravenne has kindly agreed to perform once more. She dances in the style of Harad this time, and I believe all of you will find it pleasurable, to say the least.” She gestures to the drummer, who strikes up a wild beat redolent of desert nights and barbaric rituals. The flutist adds a keening descant that vibrates with longing.

Ravenne stands stock still, her face turned upward and her arms above her head. As the drum’s insistent rhythm pounds on, her hips sway and her shoulders roll, making her arms ripple through the air. Her stomach pulses up and down, and she begins to turn round slowly. Rainbow silks swirl around her as she picks up speed. She stops suddenly, arms and hips moving as they did before, and then she twirls the other way while a veil flutters to the floor. Faster and faster she spins, and another veil falls, and another, and still another . . .

As the drum gives a final resounding thump and the flute’s last notes wail sharply, Ravenne flings herself to her knees, her body arched back over her feet, her head touching the carpet, and her arms extended. She is totally naked but for a gold chain about her hips and another dangling between her quivering breasts, and her skin glistens with sweat. Her every physical attraction, even the most intimate, is displayed for our delectation. I mop my brow, for it is much warmer in here now beyond question, and glance at Legolas. His ear points are a glowing red and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair as he drains his wine glass again.

“Got to you at last, I see,” I whisper, the chance to twit him too good to pass up.

“Well . . .” he says thoughtfully, “she is rather well-endowed, is she not? And she is a very skillful dancer, too.”

“Which means she undoubtedly moves equally well in a more private space, I imagine.”

Before Legolas can retort, Ravenne straightens up and bows to all of us on one knee, her hand on her heart. We applaud loudly, while Pippin and Merry add a few cheers. She does not veil herself, but walks back to her chair and sits down in all her exposed glory. She leans over and gives Legolas a quick kiss on one of his ears. Her smile is definitely that of a cat drinking cream.

“You enjoyed that?” she purrs to the now rather unnerved elf.

“Yes, I did,” he replies. “You must have trained long, to have such skill at the dance.” He lifts her hand to his lips, and when he lowers it I see his mask reform, his blushing ears the only hint of what lies beneath.

I hear boots clumping, and Gimli advances towards Melime with Ailin. “Very fine, very fine indeed, but Mistress Ailin and I wish to speak together in more privacy. I promised to teach her some dwarven poems few have heard. If you will excuse us, Mistress?”

“But of course.”

“Wait a moment . . .” Ailin leans down and whispers to Melime, who gives her a quick nod. Ailin smiles and takes Gimli’s hand. “Come, Master Dwarf!”

They walk out of the room as Gimli looks up at Ailin with an expression that can only be described as besotted. No sooner do they vanish into the hallway than Sam and Nyerelle are climbing to their feet.

“We go to the kitchens, to fetch more food and my recipes,” says Nyerelle brightly.

“I see.” Again, a whisper to Melime and an answering nod. Hobbit and girl depart hand in hand, their faces radiant.

Lotiel helps Frodo off the couch where they have been sitting. Concerned, for he is pale and openly weary, I begin to stand up. “Are you ill?” I ask.

Frodo waves me down. “Just a little tired, that’s all. Lotiel promises a very hot bath and a long back rub, and that should set me to rights soon enough.”

Melime joins the two of them and gazes at Frodo with deep compassion. She whispers to Lotiel, who slips an arm around Frodo’s shoulders.

“Come, my dearest Master Frodo. Let me ease your hurts for a while, I beg of you.” They walk out slowly, Lotiel’s head bent solicitously towards the hobbit, her expression full of tender affection.

A hand tugs at my sleeve; I discover Merry has sidled up to me while Ettelie confers with Melime. “I just wanted to thank you for bringing us here, it’s a glorious place, truly. You don’t think she might start something like this in the Shire, do you?” he says, shooting Melime a covert glance.

“You are very welcome, and as to the other, I do not know. You will have to ask her yourself later.”

“I will.” He grins at me, and I grin back, reflecting again on how much Eowyn and I owe him. Ettelie strolls up then and embraces him.

“And so to bed, now!” she says gaily.

“There’s no place like it,” replies Merry. They wrap their arms about one another; in Merry’s case his hand is perfectly positioned to cup one of her breasts, and he does so as they amble away.

Ravenne looks at Legolas expectantly. He clears his throat and takes her hand again. “My dear lady, you are lovely and charming beyond anything I have met in this city. But, alas, I must forego any more of your company on this evening.” He looks at Pippin, entangled again with Vandiel, and a smile more mischievous than any I have seen from him crosses his face. “There is one favour you can do for me, however, and I will gladly compensate you if you are willing.”

“What is it?” Legolas whispers into Ravenne’s ear; her brows arch up as he continues.

“Are you quite sure?” she asks warily.

“Oh, yes. It would make me very happy, believe me.”

She shrugs, gets up, and walks over to Pippin and Vandiel. She sits beside them and murmurs quietly; Vandiel laughs in delight and Pippin’s face lights up joyfully.

“Most certainly I can share! There’s more than enough here for both of us!” Vandiel chuckles as I look at Legolas in astonishment.

“You sent her to join Pippin?”

“Why not? He wanted two, and here is his chance.”

Melime smiles broadly and goes to speak to the two ladies, while Pippin hops off of Vandiel’s lap and stands in front of Legolas and I, a lunatic grin spread over his impish face.

“I won’t forget this, Legolas! You’re the most generous friend any hobbit has ever had. She is so very beautiful—are you quite sure about this?”

“Yes, I am sure. Lovely she may be, but I am not particularly comfortable with this sort of arrangement. Better for you to savor her company and Vandiel’s, and knowing you are brings me contentment.”

“And you!” Pippin turns to me. “Did you do this to pay me back for helping to save your life? If you did, it’s the very, very best repayment I could possibly get. Two pretty women all to myself, and from the Big Folk, too!”

I find myself smiling broadly, all previous emotions washed away by Pippin’s unabashed glee. “No, this is not repayment, but if you wish to treat it so, that contents me too.”

Before Pippin can speak, Melime lays a hand on his shoulder and bends down to his ear. I cannot hear what she is saying, but Pippin, if it is at all possible, looks even happier.

“Really?” he asks Melime.

“Yes, indeed, they are most honoured to do this.”

“They don’t want to charge me anything—how wonderful!” I feel my jaw drop, while Legolas appears to have just been clubbed. “This is the best place I have ever visited! Thank you so much, Faramir!”

“Go, and enjoy yourself.” Melime says, her smile indulgent.

Vandiel and Ravenne flank Pippin on either side; he reaches up and slips his arms around their waists, and the three of them set out for the doors. The two ladies’ bodies sway alluringly, while Pippin definitely struts a bit as his hands slip downward. I struggle to blot out what this salacious trio intends to do this night . . .

The doors clink shut, and I stare at Melime. “You’re not making him pay?”

“Oh,” she says serenely, “I am not taking money from any of them, if the truth be told. None of my girls want to, partly since they are such heroes, but also because they are so gallant.”

“Not even the dwarf?” Legolas demands in a strangled voice.

“Especially not Master Gimli! Ailin is so taken with him, I am worried she may depart and go with him to his mines! And the little halfling gentlemen are so very enchanting, too—I am sorry now that I have given up entertaining my callers privately. They are quite winning, aren’t they?” She beams at me.

“Yes, they are, but I suppose I did not realize how much,” I said cautiously.

“Very much, I will tell you. I am curious now to see this Shire of theirs.” She grows thoughtful. “If all of the menfolk there are like your dear friends, I might persuade some of my women to help me start a new establishment there. I gather from what they say that there are no places such as mine in their home?”

“No, no, there isn’t,” I say, feeling dazed.

“I wonder too what the Shire ladies are like. Perhaps I should go exploring and see if any hobbit lasses might wish to work for me. If they are as pretty and charming as these lads, they would be a great success here!”

I suddenly see images of petite, curly-haired hobbit girls flocking about the men of Minas Tirith, smiling and sweet, offering to do . . . No, I tell myself. Don’t think about that, or you will go mad. I choose to be diplomatic. “I do not know, my dear Melime. Hobbits who belong to the fairer sex are beyond my personal knowledge.”

“Something to plan for then, I think. Now, if the two of you will excuse me, I must speak to Altallo before I go to bed.” She kisses me full on the lips. “Thank you for bringing your friends.” With a swish of her skirts, she leaves us.

Legolas and I drink more wine in a stupefied silence. Finally the elf speaks.

“I said it would be an interesting evening. It has been that, and highly educational as well. Did you know women of your race would like hobbits and dwarves so much?”

“I had no idea, believe me,” I tell him. “I daresay it sounds petty, but I usually had to pay . . .”

“Obviously, you need to be shorter and hairier,” Legolas says, his mouth curling up. “Did I make a mistake in declining Mistress Ravenne’s invitation, or would I have not received the privilege since I am tall?”

As I contemplate his words, and mentally review what I have seen tonight, the humor of it all strikes me forcibly. The laughter bubbles up in me, and I cannot stop.

“You find my idea amusing?” Legolas asks dryly.

“I find this entire night to be amusing! Those canny little devils! All of those women for free! Can you believe it?”

“We must.” He pauses. “And as Pippin said, he did help save your life.”

“Yes, only to see him outclass me where it truly pricks the ego, let me tell you.” I shake my head as I keep laughing.

“Shall you tell Eowyn about this?”

“I doubt it, though she might find it funny too. But I prefer not to gamble on that, thank you.” I fill our glasses. “And I am not sure that learning Merry and Pippin may be the future whoremasters of the Shire would warm her heart.”

Legolas chuckles. “Another picture to haunt the mind. You are right, I suspect. But you do not really think the two of them would be interested in such a business, do you?”

“I wouldn’t be the least surprised, especially Melime wants to explore her opportunities in that direction. Brace yourself.”

“Indeed!” He lifts his glass. “I give you another toast, my Lord Steward. To lusty hobbits and crimson joys—may they never end.”

“I’ll drink to that. I just hope we can claim a share of the proceeds, because we will never be short of coin again!”