Second Mum

For the Love of a Child

          “Oh, Primmie--you’re all right, and the bairn is all right as well!”

          “Yes--he’s made it this far, and it appears--it appears as if this time he’ll make it further, Esme.  Come, look!”  Primula Brandybuck Baggins carefully relaxed her arms, gently detaching the small being she held from her breast, automatically pulling the loose shoulder of her nightdress up as she revealed the face of her small son to her younger Took cousin.

          The infant appeared puzzled, pursing his lips and turning his face in search of the milk he’d been enjoying but seconds before.  “Nonsense,” his mother murmured, brushing one hand over the soft, dark down atop his head, “you can’t be that hungry, little one, for you’ve been nursing most of the morning.”  She looked up into her friend’s eyes.  “Bilbo said he’d notify your father and you and Paladin and Lanti, and he’d think about letting Ferumbras and Lalia know as well.”

          “When Olo Proudfoot rode up to the farm this morning just after dawn, I was so worried----”  Esmeralda found she couldn’t finish the thought.

          “This time it was worth the worry, for all he came so early,” Primula murmured, looking down on her son.  “Yes, we lost the first two--but we do have one son who’s survived, and who looks to thrive, as much as he eats.”  She looked back to Esme’s face.  “Diamente?  Primrose?”

          “They’re planning to be here later in the day,” Esme smiled.  “And we’ve sent word to Long Cleeve to advise Jade and Morigrin.  How about your family?”

          “Drogo sent a message by Quick Post yesterday morning, shortly after my water broke.  I suspect they’ll be here early tomorrow.  Oh, Menegilda will never forgive me.  She had intended to supervise my labor from before it began--was going to see to it everything was done correctly, she was.”

          A soft noise caught their attention; the bairn Cousin Primula held had screwed up his face, having decided not having his mother’s breast was a mortal insult, and was working himself into a cry.  When it came, however, it wasn’t the loud, shrill, insistent shriek common to most newborns, but more of a soft, almost musical note that nevertheless communicated frustration.

          “My stars--that’s how he cries?”

          The proud mother nodded.  “He’s a most unusual one, and such a wise child.  We’re going to name him Frodo, you see.”

          “Drogo has agreed?”

          “Agreed?  He’s the one who suggested it.  Our wise child--our little star-kissed one.”  She again pulled down the shoulder of her gown, and a drop of milk could be seen at the tip of her breast as she pressed the infant to it.  “And think, Esme, my milk is already in, even if he is so early.”

          “Where’s his father?”

          “Master Gamgee and Daddy Twofoot have dragged him and Bilbo away to the Green Dragon.  They’ve been almost unwilling to let me nurse him at all, the times they’ve counted his fingers and toes and cooed over the perfect shape of his ears!”  Again she looked up to catch the younger Hobbitess’s eyes.  “Drogo was holding my hands as he was finally born, Esme.  At first they couldn’t get him to breathe; when he finally did it was such a relief.  And I was so very weak, but that first little cough he made, that first little noise--almost like a cat, you see--it was all it took to bring me back!”

          They could hear Eglantine questioning Mistress Sandybanks, and Drogo’s older sister Dora answering for the midwife, and Primula giggled.  “Dear Dora has moved in and taken over, she has.  She’s such a one to see things set straight, you know--has horrified Drogo by already sorting out his most worn undervests and nightshirts and consigning them to the rag bin, and last I heard she was complaining about the state of the flatirons.  I suspect that by the time Auntie Laurel and Doncella let me out of bed every curtain in the hole will be laundered, starched, and pressed within an inch of its life, and Drogo will have several new sets of small clothes--not to mention there won’t be a loose button in the wardrobes!”  Together she and Esme did their best to smother their laughter.

          By the time Eglantine had managed to get free of Dora and joined them in the bedroom, little Frodo appeared to have finally sated himself and was pulling away at last from his mother.  Pal and Lanti were themselves newlyweds, working the farm at Whitwell alongside Adalgrim.  “Oh, Primula,” Eglantine murmured, accepting the tiny infant from the older Hobbitess, “he’s so precious!  Paladin and Da Adalgrim have gone off to the Dragon to see to Bilbo and Drogo, and will undoubtedly have a half or two before they drag them back.”

          At that moment the bairn opened his eyes to their fullest and was examining the one who held him, his eyes almost crossed as he did his best to focus them on Lanti’s face.  “Oh!” she said, “I know the eyes of newborns are usually blue--but this one’s are so very blue indeed!  Oh, Primula--he’s such a beautiful bairn.”

          Esme could bear no more.  “No, Lanti--I claim him now.  Let me hold him for a moment.”  And before her brother’s wife quite knew what had happened Esme had taken the bairn into her own arms.  “Oh, little Frodo-lad,” she crooned.  “How very, very beautiful you are.”  When at last Primula insisted her son be returned to her Esme let go of him reluctantly, watching the older Hobbitess lean back with the tiny lad lying between her breasts with marked envy.  If only she, too, could know such joy as she saw in the eyes of her cousin.

 *******

          The farm wagon was turning up the lane toward Bag End when the singing of its occupants was interrupted by a great shriek ahead of them.  It was as they turned fully into the lane they could see the source of the cry, as a substantial figure in fawn skirts and a yellow bodice came storming down the steps from the smial to the lane, then paused at the picket gate to turn back toward the green door, where Bilbo stood with a very small Hobbit child in his arms.

          “And if you can’t control that horrid little faunt,” Lobelia Sackville-Baggins cried at the Master of Bag End, “I’ll give his mother an earful she’ll not forget soon!”

          Bilbo’s face went from apologetic to dark with fury.  “You’d dare, Lobelia, after what Lotho did to Drogo the other day in the market?”

          Paladin had pulled the wagon up just short of where the Sackville-Baggins’s trap stood, alarmed that his wife and sisters might find themselves right in the midst of another battle between the S-Bs and Bilbo enacted right in the public lane.  Esmeralda, however, found herself examining Lobelia closely, and noted red smudges on the neat skirts, and what was plainly a small red handprint on Lobelia’s bodice there on the outside of her left breast.  A quick look upwards at the hands of the tiny lad Bilbo cradled close to his chest confirmed that Frodo had been paddling in Bilbo’s ink again, with predictable results.

          “I won’t hear a word against my son!” Lobelia shrilled, shaking her umbrella at him.

          “Not that he’s a spoiled brat who thinks nothing of hurling pony droppings at innocent passersby, or demanding sweets from all and sundry and spattering them with mud when they tell him they have none?” Bilbo said in a dangerous voice, his face fixed in the Look.  “Frodo’s primary offense was against me, pouring out my red ink and leaving handprints all over the hole.  You have no right whatsoever to try to correct my young cousin and guest within my home as you did, and deserve what you got.  And if you think to bother Primula about it when the ink wouldn’t have been where Frodo could get at it if you hadn’t been in my study without my permission examining my silver inkstand for its maker’s marks, you’ll find out just what getting an earful entails.  Good day to you, Lobelia!”

          With one last wordless imprecation, Lobelia slammed the gate so hard it bounced open again and stalked away to the waiting trap, starting to slap the reins at her pony before she’d remembered to release the brake.  So it was with a jerk Lobelia pulled away from the steps and disappeared down the further lane to the turning back toward the larger way into Hobbiton.

          Esme followed Eglantine and Primrose up the steps, their arms laden with luggage, noting with satisfaction that Frodo’s face, upset a moment before as he’d watched a very loud Lobelia Sackville-Baggins storm out of the smial, now lit up to see her.  “Smee!” he called out.  “Smee!”

          “No,” warned Bilbo, “you’d best not let him touch you before I get him cleaned up.  You saw what he did to Lobelia’s new dress?  Come in and be welcome with you all--the female cousins I rejoice to have visit in the hole!  Come in!  Come in!  Oh, and mind the pool of red ink there outside the study door--I’m not certain how I’ll get the stains of it out of the edge of the carpet there.  The acquisitive busy-body!  Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’ll need to get this one to the bathing room.  Esme, my love, would you mind seeing to the pool while I get this one cleaned and changed before his mother comes back to claim him?  There are rags in the bin behind the kitchen door.  There’s the lass, then.”

          Esmeralda Took was laughing as she went to fetch the rags, watching a protective Bilbo hurrying off to get Frodo bathed, noting there was a neat red handprint on the shoulder of Bilbo’s golden waistcoat as Frodo strained to smile at her as he was carried away down the passage.

 *******

          Primula opened the door to Number Five part way, peering out to ascertain who was knocking at it before opening it fully.  “Oh, Esme, dear lass--it’s so good to see you.  Come in, sweetling!”

          As she passed her older cousin to enter the smial, Esmeralda asked, “Is Lobelia bothering you again?”

          Closing the door behind them, Primula nodded, her expression looking tired for the moment as she reached to take Esmeralda’s wraps and hang them on the hooks by the door.  “Oh, don’t you know it.  She went up the Hill to Bag End the other day and was trying to sweet-talk poor Bilbo; but when he explained that Aramos Millpond and his wife Bachelorbutton were due any second along with the Mayor and Will Whitfoot and cousin Mina from Michel Delving, I thought she would burst all the braces on her girdle at being thrown out before she could have the chance to see the gift the Dwarves left him when they visited him last week.  It’s very beautiful, the silver fountain is, and made to sit right on a hall table. 

          “So she came down here, and when I had to excuse myself to go out and finish hanging out the laundry on the hedge she amused herself by going through my silver spoons.  One was missing, and so I made a point of knocking over her umbrella where it leaned against her chair and, of course, the missing spoon fell right out of it.  Then there was that miserable child of hers, demanding to play with Frodo’s farm animals, and I’ll swear he got away with two sheep and Frodo’s favorite dog figure that his father carved for him.  Of course Drogo can carve another, but that’s neither here nor there.  Like mother, like son, apparently.”

          There were sheets of paper pinned up on the walls all down the passageway to the guest rooms, each with a picture on it.  Esme looked down at one of them, then up at the other Hobbitess.  “Did Frodo do all these?” she asked.

          “Yes.  We had to do something--he’d been digging through the fireplaces for chunks of charred wood sufficient to draw with, and had been scrawling all over the walls, both here and in Bag End.  Dear Bilbo finally went to the marketplace and came home with an absolutely enormous stack of paper for him to draw upon and proper drawing sticks, both charcoal and graphite.  And he’s using them!  At his age, he’s using them, now he knows it’s all right to draw upon paper rather than walls.  And I’m amazed at how good he is for a faunt of just three years.  Look!”

          There were pictures of figures, mostly, and one of what was obviously the green door of Bag End, surrounded by flowers, and the small window above and behind the bench where Bilbo liked to sit after meals and smoke and look out on the Shire.  Esme was heartily impressed.

          She heard soft singing, and peered into Frodo’s room as they passed it.  Drogo was sitting in the rocking chair, Frodo held gently in his lap with the stuffed pony Primula had made for him for her birthday under one arm, one of the wool-work shawls Primmie had made and embroidered with a great dragonfly over him.  The faunt’s eyes were half-closed, but opened fully to acknowledge her as she went by before he snuggled more deeply into his father’s lap, listening intently as Drogo continued singing, “Around the corner there may wait a standing stone or secret gate....”

          Esme found herself aching for such love shown her as she saw in those striking blue eyes looking up into those of Drogo Baggins as the Hobbit sang his little lad into his nap.

 *******

          It was Saradoc who met them in the entranceway to the Hall.  “It’s true then?” Esmeralda demanded.  “That Primmie and Drogo have moved back here?”

          “Yes, apparently.  Drogo’s purchased River Place--did you know?  Had intended it as a second home to stay in when they visited Buckland during the summers, but apparently they’re going to live in it permanently, as soon as Bilbo arranges for their things to be removed to it.  Dad’s fit to be tied, of course--he insists that where the smial is it will fill every time the Brandywine floods.  However, Primula’s gone Took-stubborn on us all, insists that they don’t want to live here in the Hall, no matter how much they love us.  Says Drogo needs his privacy, being a Baggins as he is.  And I must say that Drogo does tend to look uncomfortable when one of us decides to look in on them of an evening when he’s interrupted sitting and writing with Frodo or reading him a story.  I suppose she’s right.”

          She could see the concern and the humor in his eyes.  “Took-stubborn, is she, Brandybuck as she was born?”

          “Well, she’s the Old Took’s own granddaughter, after all.  Has more Took in her than I do, for which I’m grateful.”

          Esme found herself smiling back into his eyes, noting how fine they were.

          Then there was a tug at her skirt, and she realized with a shock of startlement that a tiny child stood by her.  “What?  Stars and river water, Frodo dear--where did you come from?”

          “’Lo, Smee,” he said, grinning up at her.  She reached down and scooped him up with her free arm, then turned her attention back to Sara as she and Primrose accompanied him to the parlor set aside for the Tooks when they visited Brandy Hall.

          “But what made them decide to move to Buckland now?  Primula swore to me she’d never seek to make Drogo leave Hobbiton or the West Farthing, after all.”

          “It was his decision, apparently.  When he got home from a trip to Michel Delving with Bilbo and Ponto to see their new wills filed it was to find that one there--” indicating the faunt she carried, “perched on a chair peering out the window by the door, watching for him, and Primmie slouched, white-faced, in the rocking chair in the kitchen.”

          “Was she ill?”

          “Sick with shame, apparently.”

          Esme felt her face grow flushed with fury, and saw the same anger growing in Primrose’s eyes as her next older sister stopped and laid her hand on Sara’s shoulder, turning him to look at her.  “It was that awful Lobelia, wasn’t it?” Primrose demanded.

          With a slow, calculated nod Sara answered, “You have it in one guess, Cousin Primrose.”

          “But what was she saying?”

          “She was saying that Primmie’d insisted on moving into Drogo’s hole with him instead of buying or excavating one elsewhere only to disrupt the succession of the family headship for the Bagginses.”

          Esme was certain her own eyes were as wide as her sister’s.  “And how did she explain that bit of logic,” she asked.

          “Oh,” Saradoc sighed, indicating they should go on as they spoke, “supposedly Primmie was seeking to seduce Bilbo into naming Drogo his heir instead of allowing Otho to inherit as is right and proper as Bilbo’s closest male relative.”

          “Oh,” Primrose fumed, her grip tightening painfully on the cloth bag she carried with the clothing she’d brought with her, “as if Otho and she weren’t enough to make both the Bagginses and the Sackvilles want to write the two of them out of the family books--or the Sackvilles probably would if Otho hadn’t been named their family head by his grandfather once his father was gone.  Poor Longo--somehow managing to produce Otho, of all things.  At least he was spared the shame of seeing how much worse he’s become since he married Lobelia, not to mention what a selfish little brat Lotho is.”

          “While Camellia would never have seen what the fuss was about,” Esme commented as they paused before the parlor door while Sara opened it.  “Camellia Sackville-Baggins had not a brain in her remarkably silly head, I swear.”

          Sara was nodding as they went in and laid their bags on the low table by the door.  “Oh, I agree.”

          Primrose asked, “But who’d repeat Lobelia’s nonsense?”

          “Primmie overheard Peony telling it to one of the Boffins and a Chubb at the tea room in Hobbiton, and heard it told again as she was coming past the apothecary’s stall in the Mersday market.  That Arnica Brownlock is as much a gossip as is Lobelia, as you well know.”

          “Where’s Primmie now?” inquired Esme.

          “In the apartment given to the use of her and Drogo when they’re here.  Which,” he added with a look at the child she still held, “is where I think he’s supposed to be right now.”

          Primrose asked as she took up a sugar cake from the tray sitting on another table and sat on one of the sofas present in the room, “What’s this about Drogo writing with this one?”

          “Well, Frodo’s been drawing obsessively for several months now, and between them Drogo, Primula, and Bilbo have him drawing on paper now instead of walls--remarkably good drawings for a child his age, for you can tell the subject of most of them.  Apparently a few weeks before Drogo felt his wife had been the subject of enough gossip in Hobbiton Frodo there had begun pulling over stools and chairs to climb upon to watch his parents writing, so one evening Drogo pulled him onto his lap and let him try his own hand at writing with the quill he’d been using.  Mostly he does squiggles, but he’s got the idea already one writes left to right, and last night he was copying a couple of letters remarkably well.  And Bilbo swears he’s beginning to recognize letters and certain combinations as he sits on Bilbo’s lap as he reads to him.”

          Esme looked down into the blue eyes of the child she held.  “Are you really writing now, Frodo Baggins?”

          “Yes,” he said, lifting his chin.  “Like to write.”

          “You do?” Esme asked, raising her eyebrows.  She looked to Sara and noted he looked as proud as she felt.  “That definitely sounds like the stories told of Bilbo all over again.  Does he get it from the Baggins or the Took side, do you think?”

          “Oh, that’s definitely the Brandybuck coming out in him,” the Master’s Heir said decisively.  “Well, I’ll take your bags to your room for you if you’d like to go off and commiserate with my beloved aunt.”

          Esme snagged a second sugar cake off the tray, and broke off a piece for the child before taking a bite herself.  “Tell you what, Primrose, you go on and tell Primula I have her son and intend to spoil him terribly, but will be there within the hour.  I’ll help Sara take our bags to our room and put everything away.”

          “All right,” Primrose said, having finished her cake and pouring herself a mug of soft cider to take with her.  “I’ll do that, then.”  Taking her mug in one hand and another cake in the other, she went through the open door, headed back to the Baggins apartments at the back of the smial while Esme and Frodo finished their shared cake.

 *******

          “Hello, Esme,” Primula said as she approached the weeping willow under which Esme was sitting, reading with Frodo.  “So, here he is.  I swear, from the moment you arrive at Brandy Hall if I don’t find my son I can count on him being with you.”  She looked down at the lad.  “I’m going to swim in the river, Frodo.  Want to come with me?”

          Frodo was up in an instant, the book forgotten, his eyes alight with pleasure.  “Yes, Mummy.  It’s hot!  I want to swim with you!”

          Frodo was five and a half now, almost six; and tall for his age, a somewhat slender yet sturdy child with dark curls, a fine, light complexion, and eyes that were always wide with interest.  As Primmie reached out her hand he reached up and took it gladly, and Esme found herself wishing it were her child taking her hand.  But just then Cousin Rory was approaching with Sara and Paladin and Bilbo.

          “I thought we might find you here,” Rory said.  “Almost the first time I’ve been able to see you, Esme lass, since you arrived.  And little Frodo was with you this time, was he?  Usually I find just him and he tells me you just went off to the privy or to visit the Bunces or Carnation or something.  Although I’ve noted that when I can’t find you I can’t seem to find Sara, either.”

          Esme realized that Saradoc was flushing as much as she was.  He might be four, almost five years younger than she was, but he was a fine figure of a Hobbit, and most responsible, after all.  And the two of them had realized in the last two years or so that they had a good deal in common.

          But she’d not truly been aware that Frodo was sending folks off in wrong directions during the times she and Sara were talking, holding hands, or quietly kissing.  She cast a quick glance at the child, and he secretly gave her an impudent wink before reverting to a perfectly innocent expression when his mother looked down inquiringly into his eyes. 

          Oh, Frodo Baggins, she thought as she considered the lad.  Now everyone would think she and Sara were putting him up to covering for them!

 *******

          Two days after the meeting under the willow tree Esme was roused from bed shortly after midnight by Cousin Asphodel.  “Esme--could Sara bring Frodo up here?  It appears that Primmie’s losing another bairn.”

          “No!” she said, sitting up in bed.  “I didn’t even know she was expecting again!”

          “She’d not told anyone as yet save Drogo.  He came hurrying up here a few minutes ago calling for Menegilda and Poppea, although we’ll be taking Beldir down with us as well.  Sara’s going down with us, and will bring Frodo back to the Hall.  But it appears we might need someone to care for him for a couple days while Primula deals with this loss.

          It was slightly over a half hour before Saradoc arrived carrying Frodo.  The child didn’t appear unduly upset, although he was apparently furious that his Brandybuck cousin wasn’t answering questions.  “Auntie Esme,” he said as he was carried into the Took parlor, “Uncle Sara won’t tell me why I have to come up here to the Hall!”

          She reached out to take him into her lap.  “It’s your mummy, dearling,” she said as she sought to settle him against her.  “She--she became ill tonight, and your daddy’s worried and wants to be certain nobody forgets about you as they try to help your mummy get well again.”

          “But she needs me to be there.  She says I always make her feel better!”

          “And you do, sweetling--no question about that.  You’ll most likely go back again tomorrow; but right now they’re doing too much to try to help your mummy, and until it’s past the crisis there will be folk all over the place boiling water and fixing draughts for her and changing bedding for her.  You remember how it was last spring when you ate those eels that hadn’t been cooked properly and you kept throwing up and had all those sweats and all, how many times they had to bring you the chamberpot to be sick in and to change your sheets and blankets and pillowslips, or give you baths?”  At his reluctant nod she said, “It will be like that for your mother tonight, and maybe part of tomorrow--perhaps longer.”

          Frodo was plainly thinking this through.  At last he raised his chin, saying, “I could clean the chamberpot for her.”

          Sara gave a tired laugh.  “I’m certain you could--but your Uncle Dinodas will see to that--he’s had lots of practice at it, after all.  No, you’ll stay here and we’ll see about having Cousin Carnation bring Brendi for you to play with.  I think I heard she wanted to go to the Bridge Market to get some fabric, and that will be boring for Brendi, for you know how long it takes her to decide on fabric.”

          “We won’t have to play with Gomez, will we?” Frodo asked.

          Sara and Esme exchanged glances.  “Not if you don’t want to,” Esme assured him.  “Why don’t you want to play with Gomez?”

          “He doesn’t like to play what we like to play--he likes to boss folks, and so he likes to play with Freddy Oldbuck instead, for Freddy doesn’t mind being bossed.”

          “I see,” Sara said wryly.  “No, I don’t suppose Freddy Oldbuck minds being bossed at all.

          “But for now,” Esme said, “we’d best go back to bed so you won’t be tired when Brendi joins us in the morning.”  She yawned widely, and was amused to see how quickly Frodo did the same.

          When Frodo went back to his parents’ smial the following evening, it was after the word had gone through Brandy Hall that indeed Primula had managed to lose a third child, another son.  Esme, watching from the door where she stood with Sara beside her, his arm around her shoulder, saw how Frodo walked beside his father as the two of them went back down toward River Place together, how they were obviously talking, until Drogo reached down and lifted the child onto his shoulders.

 *******

          No one was surprised when, a month after Saradoc Brandybuck came of age, he and Esmeralda Took were married, or that Frodo Baggins carried the flowers before the bride at their wedding.  That Primula Baggins and Eglantine Took both attended the bride while Drogo and Paladin attended the groom was a bit more of a surprise; but all knew how close the Whitwell Tooks and the Master’s family were to the Bagginses.  Menegilda shone with satisfaction, and as old Rory saw the laying together of their hands he was plainly proud.  But meanwhile Thain Ferumbras watched between Adalgrim and old Bilbo, apparently not certain whether he ought to be relieved not to have to perform the wedding or insulted not to have been asked.

 *******

          “I tell you, Esme--I won’t go back there again or allow Frodo anywhere near Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, the old cow!  That she could say such a thing!”

          “I should hope not, Primmie.  To noise it about that Frodo is really Bilbo’s son----I ask you!”

          Frodo burst into the parlor of the apartment where his family stayed when they visited Brandy Hall, Brendilac behind him.  “Mummy, Uncle Bilbo’s arrived and says he’s got her back and she won’t say such a thing again.  But we’re not going back now, are we?”

          “Certainly not, Frodo.”

          “Good.  I don’t want you to cry like that again, and every time we see her she does her best to make you cry.”

          Esme was impressed by the lad’s caring for his mother’s feelings.

 *******

          The flood when Frodo was eight years of age was particularly troubling, especially as it was this time generally known that once again Primula and Drogo Baggins were trying for a successful pregnancy.  All were relieved when the spotting the night the flood drove the Bagginses out of River Place led to nothing; it was more of a shock when a few days later once again Primula miscarried, just when all looked as if this time Frodo would gain a brother or sister at last.

          Esme came to the smial that night to assist Drogo, Bilbo, and her young cousin Isumbard who’d come with Bilbo to care for Primula, who was heartbroken to have lost still another child--a daughter this time, and Frodo, who’d fainted away on seeing how white and still his mother was and how she was doing nothing but shedding silent tears and holding her husband’s hands as she lay in their bed.

          Esme sat by Frodo’s bed that night, stroking the child’s dark hair when he grew restless in his sleep, with Primula’s soft words echoing in her heart, “But we only wanted another.  As delightful as it has been raising Frodo, it would have been so wonderful to have a second.”

          A year later it was Primula who sat by her bed, come from the new Baggins hole in Whitfurrow, stroking Esme’s hair as she wept, having lost the first child she’d conceived.  Primula’s face was pale but compassionate, and there was no question in Esme’s heart or mind that the older Hobbitess knew exactly the grief and disappointment Esme herself felt.  And two years later, when Esme lost her second child, it was again to Primula Brandybuck Baggins she turned for comfort as Frodo brought her flowers he’d gathered and drawings he’d done. 

          But Esmeralda was going Took-stubborn herself--she’d try once more at least, until she had a living child to hold in her arms--that she was determined on.

 *******

          Esmeralda looked back toward Frodo’s room.  “You’re certain you don’t want me to stay with him this evening?”

          Primula sighed.  “Whatever for, Esme?  We’ve done this dozens of times, and will be back in three hours at the most.  We’re only going to drift down the Brandywine from north of the Hall to the bay where we all go to swim just south of it, after all.  And it’s not as if he were a faunt needing watching all the time--Frodo’s a most responsible lad, you know.”

          “I know.  But it’s worrisome to think of you out there right now, what with the reports of some odd creature having been seen along the river bank.”

          “But look who reported it--Deloc Oldbuck, who hasn’t taken a sober breath in years.  You don’t really think he saw a strange Hobbit-like creature in the water last week under a quarter moon, do you?”

          Esme shook her head.  “He certainly didn’t act drunk this time, Primmie.”

          “We’ll be fine, Esme.  And you know Frodo will be fine as well.”

          “All right, if you’re certain.  You’re going out to the dock to meet Drogo then?”

          “Yes--he went ahead to take the pillow and rug and blanket, and make certain the rowboat is dry.  I almost have him convinced to try one last time for a little sister or brother for Frodo.”

          “Primula!”

          But the older Hobbitess only laughed as she drew her younger cousin out of the Baggins apartments and closed the door behind her.

          The next morning Frodo came to first breakfast alone, a distracted air to him.  Esme smiled at him as he took his place at the children’s table next to Brendilac, who was also old enough now to sit apart from his parents when they ate in the communal dining room rather than in their own apartments.  Apparently his parents were having a lie-in, she thought indulgently.  Maybe they were actively working once more on producing that new little brother or sister for the lad.

          But instead of reaching for the bowl of porridge, Frodo was talking intently to Brendi, who looked startled and appeared to be advising him on some subject.  Then the two of them were standing up and heading for Marmadas.  Marmadas shrugged and appeared to be placating the lad, and at last reluctantly accompanied Frodo and Brendi toward where Merimac was entering the dining hall.  Mac, however, looked anything but placating once he’d listened to Frodo, and he turned the lad toward the table where Esme and her husband sat side by side, shepherding Frodo with an expression of concern on his face.

          “What is it, Mac?” Esme asked.

          It was Frodo who answered, “It’s my mum and dad--do you know where they are?  Did they get up early and go out to the ponies?  Dad was speaking of getting me a pony from the stable here so I can learn to ride.”

          Esmeralda could feel the tension fill her husband even as she fought not to sound too alarmed and frighten her young cousin.  “I’m not certain, dearling.  I think we’d best speak to the Master and Mistress and see if they know.

          Rory’s face went white, and Menegilda looked stricken.  Rory looked at his younger son and his cousin.  “Did they speak to you about looking over the ponies this morning, son?” the Master asked Mac.

          “No--Drogo asked if he might speak with me this afternoon.  And Primula was hinting when we visited them in Whitfurrow last month that I ought to perhaps be looking for a pony for Frodo.”

          All the adults looked at one another as Rory rose, setting aside his napkin.  “Ask Dodinas and Dinodas to assemble the river wardens,” he directed.  “Who was on door ward duty last night, Marmadas?”

          “Brendi’s father here; but they would have come in the south door last night as they usually do after one of their floats under the stars.”

          Rory was exchanging looks with Mac and Sara, and Esme felt her heart grow cold.  She rose and came to Frodo’s side, laying her arm about his shoulders.  “They’ll send folks to look for them.  We’ll go into the Master’s parlor and have your meal sent there.”

          “But I’m not hungry, Aunt Esme--I want my parents!  Do you think anything is wrong?”

          She wanted to say No, but knew from long experience that she must not lie to Frodo, that he’d see through a lie right away.  “I don’t know,” she finally answered.  “It’s not like them not to be there for you in the morning.  But we’ll find out--I swear we’ll find out.  Now--to the Master’s parlor.”

          Reluctantly he allowed himself to be led that way.

          It was somewhat after an hour that Marmadas came in, his face white and strained and leaned down to whisper in Gilda’s ear.  Frodo, who’d been sitting on the hearthstone staring into the empty grate of the fireplace, turned and looked at him, and was noting as well as Esme did how pale his aunt had gone.  “I’ll come--there may be something we can do,” the Mistress was saying.  But he was shaking his head. 

          With no word to anyone else in the room they swept out together, and after a moment Mistress Poppea the midwife hurried in.  “Frodo, you are to remain here, do you hear?  It’s the Master’s and Mistress’s orders.”

          Frodo had already risen and had his hands clenched at his sides.  “What is it?  Did you find them?  Are they all right?”

          Poppea looked uncertainly at Esme, who approached her young cousin and knelt before him, taking his wrists in her hands.  “Frodo--I don’t know for certain, and I doubt Mistress Poppea does either; but it appears there may have been an accident of some kind.  They’re going to be very busy, you realize--very busy indeed.  They can’t worry about you and do what needs doing.”

          “What kind of accident?  They might have fallen in the river?  But my mother can swim like an otter--everyone knows that!”

          “But your dad can’t, and everyone knows that, too.  If they’re stranded on the little island south of the Hall....”

          “But I can handle a rowboat--I could row out and get them!”

          “No, you couldn’t,” Poppea argued.  “Not if they’re that far south, lad.  The current by the island is very quick and strong, and it takes a grown Hobbit with some experience to row out to it, this time of year.  Now, you stay here where you’re out of the way and we know where to come with word--once we’re certain what’s happened.”

          It was a time longer before Saradoc came in with his mother, both of them obviously filled with grief.  They gestured Poppea to them, and Esme and Frodo could both hear occasional words--boat, empty, petticoats.  They heard Poppea’s cry of grief, and at last the two of them came to where Esme stood with her arm protectively around Frodo’s shoulders.  Saradoc sank onto the arm of the chair nearest them, his shoulders slumped, but he looked the lad in the eyes.  “I’m sorry, Frodo.  We don’t know how, but somehow----”  He stopped and swallowed, then tried again.  “Somehow the boat turned over.  We found your mother, down in the bay where the boat always fetched up, near the boat itself.  The boat was upside down, and your mother--she was washed up on the little beach there.  She--she drowned, Frodo.”

          “She can’t have!” the lad said, disbelieving.  “She can’t have--she knew how to swim!”

          “It appears she came up under the boat and struck her head, Frodo.  She was stunned, and there’s no question she drowned.”

          Frodo looked to be a statue made of white chalk, his face with no color at all.  At last Esme asked, “And Drogo?”

          Sara was shaking his head.  “We haven’t found him yet.  We have no idea where he is--not yet.”

          “The island....” Frodo whispered.

          “Dodinas is heading there now, lad.  We’re looking for him.”

          But it was late the following day, an uncommonly hot day the end of April, before Mac came running up to the main door to the Hall from the south with word for Rory, and an hour later before the party could be seen far to the south carrying a litter amongst them.

          Menegilda went out, turning to Mac and some of the older lads.  “Make certain Frodo doesn’t go outside.  This isn’t something a lad this young should see.”

          Frodo was furious when they wouldn’t let him go meet those who were coming, but after Mac ordered him to go back to the Master’s parlor he went pale and quiet.  He turned obediently, but as he left the room he grabbed Brendilac’s shoulder.  Esme watched after.  “Good, then Brendi will help keep him calmed down. 

          Mac looked at several of the older Hobbits present.  “Make certain he doesn’t go out.  If Drogo was in the water all night, he won’t likely look at all like himself.  We don’t want Frodo horrified.”

          Those standing about nodded.  “We won’t let any of the children go out if we can help it,” agreed one of the fathers who’d joined the group.

          Esme herself went out with Mac as the small procession came up toward the lawn before the Hall, arriving at her husband’s mother’s side just as the litter bearers came within hailing distance.  She looked at the litter and felt sick, for Mac had been all too right about what would be seen.  The body was badly bloated, and nothing could be seen of just how handsome Drogo Baggins had been in life.  Clutching her fist to her mouth to keep from retching, Esme turned away--to see Frodo coming from the north end of the smial, followed closely by Brendi.  “Did they find my----” he began, then stopped by her side, looking with shock at the contents of the litter. 

          His face went beyond chalk--was grey, his mouth open with the last unsaid word, his eyes wide and staring.  He appeared to be having trouble breathing; his lips went blue; and as his eyes rolled up Frodo Baggins collapsed in a heap at her feet as Menegilda shrilled, “Who let the child through the doors?”

 *******

          Esme sat by the pallet fixed for Frodo in the Master’s office, near the open door to the Master’s parlor, listening to the argument raging between Menegilda and Bilbo.  Frodo, who’d been given a sleeping draught by Master Beldir, was deeply asleep, hopefully unaware of the heated words passing between the Mistress of Brandy Hall and the Master of Bag End.

          “You had no business taking the lad to the burial grounds, Bilbo Baggins.  Who knows how far you might have set him back.  He has a whispering in his heart--Beldir’s told you and I’ve told you.  The shock of seeing his father’s body that way was more than he could bear--it almost killed him!”

          “I’ve been speaking with Laurel Chubbs in Hobbiton about hearts--she’s worked with the Boffins for years, you know, and is quite aware of how the heart can fail.  She says that it’s likely not that bad, and shouldn’t be permanent.  She says it’s not uncommon in children early born, but that they usually outgrow it by the time they’re eighteen or so.  But I’ll wager that you and Esme and probably some of the others present were also on the verge of fainting or retching--or both, until the shock of seeing Frodo do so first snapped you out of it!”

          Esme found herself almost smiling, for she knew that Bilbo’s last supposition was all too right.  Certainly the first thing Frodo had done on regaining consciousness had been to lose the entire contents of his stomach, not that he’d eaten all that much to begin with; but no one else had followed through on their own impulses to do likewise.

          He’d been quiet over the last few days, but had appeared at the door when the family gathered to go to the burial grounds neatly dressed, ready to accompany them.  Menegilda had explained he would be staying in the Hall with Mistress Poppea and Willow and his Uncle Dodinas, and wouldn’t be attending his parents’ funeral.

          “But they’re my parents!” he’d begun, but his aunt shook her head.

          “They’re your parents, but right now you are our responsibility, and you’ve already suffered one major shock--we won’t see you suffer another.”

          Bilbo was apparently delayed at the Bucklebury Ferry, and Esme hoped that once he arrived he’d agree to stay in the Hall with the lad and distract his attention from what was happening in the burial grounds.  However, not long after the last of the family arrived from the Brandywine Bridge and all was ready to begin, there was a stir from the area closest to the Hall as Bilbo made his way through the crowd with his arm about Frodo’s shoulders.

          Frodo had remained quiet and filled with dignity as he saw the wide coffin that had been made to hold both of the married couple carefully lowered into the grave, and as their closest family he went forth first with his handful of earth and a wreath of flowers he’d been weaving that morning.  Bilbo followed after, ignoring the glare Gilda gave him as she and Rory stepped forward to honor Primula as he was honoring Drogo.  Then it was Dora who came forward with Dudo’s arm about her while Amaranth and Dinodas also made their tributes followed by Asphodel and her family.

          Frodo had remained quiet throughout the meal that followed the funeral, and agreed both to retire early and to accept Beldir’s draught; and now the long-delayed storm had broken.

          “But it’s my right and duty as his family head of name....”

          “Face it, Bilbo--you’re not a young Hobbit any more for all you still don’t look a day over sixty.  You can’t be expected to keep up....”

          “Nonsense--I cared for him as an infant and changed his nappies....”

          “...needs a mother’s hand....”

          “What do you mean a mother’s hand?  You don’t think you can keep up with him any better than I could?”

          “...And there’s the matter of reputation to consider....”

          “No one of any sense listens to Lobelia’s twaddle!”

          “No?  Then why did Drogo bring Primula here from Hobbiton?”

          “They’d have done better to have remained and brazened it through, you realize.”

          “Well, it’s not twaddle that you left the Shire without a word and were gone for a year and a day, Bilbo Baggins!”

          “So what?”

          “We can give him so many advantages....”

          “And you think I couldn’t provide for him properly?  Really, Menegilda Goold!”

          In the end Gilda won out, but only under condition that Bilbo be allowed to visit frequently and take Frodo along on his rambles throughout Buckland and the Marish, and that he be allowed to send what he wished to Frodo and the lad be allowed to receive it.  And the ones chosen to serve as Frodo’s foster parents would be Saradoc and Esmeralda.  “At least I know they’ll be more concerned with his happiness than with trying to wrap him up in wool batting--try that and you’ll most likely kill the boy.”

          Esmeralda looked back at the child lying on the pallet and brushed an errant curl from his forehead.  He was hers now, for the next few years, at least.  Her first child now.  And one day there’d be another, one of her own, to be as little brother to him.

          But what a way to find herself a mother, at the loss of one of her favorite cousins, the cousin all had loved so dearly.

          “Oh, Frodo-mine,” she whispered, “I’ll do my best to see to it that nothing ever hurts you like that again,  I promise dearling, upon all that’s good and right in this world.  Never again should you suffer.”

          And as he lay there, he seemed to shine somewhat in the growing dark in the room.  A special one to whom she’d be a second mother.  Again she stroked his brow, smiling at him.

The Biddable Child

          “He’s so biddable,” commented Jade North-Took as she accepted a mug of tea from her younger sister.  “Morigrin was commenting on that earlier today, you know.

          Esme, who was still surprised to see her oldest sister and her husband visiting from Long Cleeve in the North Farthing, nodded as she offered a plate of spice cake.  “Yes, Frodo’s very quiet and will do almost all that’s asked of him with little argument.  But I find I miss the spirit he used to show before his parents’ deaths.”

          Jade looked out the window to where Frodo was watching two of the younger Hall children as they played at hoops upon the lawn.  They were having tea not in the Master’s parlor but in one of the sun rooms at the front of the Hall where they could watch out the window.  “You say he’s quite intelligent?”

          “Oh, no question.  He reads everything that comes to hand, and remembers almost everything he’s ever read.  Bilbo’s even managed during his visits with the lad to teach him some Elvish words.  He is supposed to walk some each day, and Master Beldir has also indicated it would be wise for him to swim also as the days grow warmer, both for the excellent exercise he says it will do his heart and to keep him from coming to fear water and the river.  I’ve been walking with him down by the river, and the other day we watched first ducklings hatching in the sedges in the flats, and then a dragonfly breaking out of its chrysalis case and spreading its wings for the first time.  He was enchanted.  He came home and wrote a letter to Bilbo asking for books on how insects make chrysalises.  And, knowing Bilbo, he’s probably writing to the Elves asking for books on just that subject now.”

          “What jobs do you have him do?”

          “He helps some in the kitchens--lighter things such as washing dishes and setting tables, and he watches the younger children a goodly bit.”

          “You don’t have him working in the gardens?”

          “Oh, no--we don’t wish for him to become overly stressed, after all.”

          “And what’s stressful helping with the gardens?”

          “Leaning over pulling up weeds or trundling barrows?  It could possibly be a strain on his heart, you know.”

          “Nonsense, Esmeralda--I doubt that working in the gardens could be overly stressful on any child.  Has he never done such work?”

          “Well, with his mother he often did--but the gardens about River Place and the smial in Whitfurrow were nothing to the ones here, you understand.”

          “I didn’t say to give him the entire garden to care for daily--just allow him to assist in their care.  It would do him a world of good, I’d think.  Does he ride yet?”

          Esme flushed.  “Not yet--Mother Gilda is worried that he might have difficulties with a pony and hasn’t given permission for him to learn to ride.”

          Jade shook her head in amazement.  “Here you have some of the finest ponies in the entire Shire, and you can’t find a nice steady cob to teach the lad to ride?  Every gentlehobbit ought to know how to ride, you know.  How about roopie or golf?”

          “He’s played a game or two of golf with Da Rory, but isn’t allowed to play at roopie--too much running.”

          “Does he fish?”

          “Mother Gilda is concerned about him being too long under the Sun....”

          “Moon and stars, Esme--don’t those who fish along the Brandywine wear hats or fish under shade?  What’s stressful about fishing?  And I thought that Rory loved to fish!  Certainly he was bragging last night about how he’d caught most of the fish we had for dinner.  And there’d be no more Sun, I’d think, than walking along the river bank or playing at golf.

          “Really, Esme, you must remember he’s a very pretty lad, with that slender build and that fair complexion and those striking eyes of his.  You don’t wish for the other lads to see him as too good to play with them, or they’ll begin to abuse him.”

          “They wouldn’t dare!”  Esme was surprised at the vehemence she felt.

          “You think not?  Think again.  You can’t keep him ever under your gaze, you know; and the moment you’re not around they’ll be there to abuse him--mark my word.  Didn’t we see that there in Whitwell and during visits to the Great Smial--look at how Adelard was treated when we were children.”

          “It’s not the same.”

          “Oh, no?  His mother thought he was far too fine to play with the other lads and dressed him up always in those very fancy clothes, and see where it got him!”

          “But he used to always be in fights, and won more often than not.”

          “That was after he got used to it.  When I was younger he was always getting beaten upon, until he learned to fight back and defend himself.  But that wasn’t until after almost six years of always being beaten that finally Ferdinand started fighting at his side and teaching him to do it properly.  It wasn’t until he was a tween he got enough courage to tell his mother he didn’t want to wear such fancy clothes.  Once he started seeming just another lad they finally started treating him as such.”

          Esme thought on what Jade had said, and began seeing to it that Frodo was dressed much like the other lads, just to be certain.

          *******

          She looked into his room one night to find Frodo was out of bed, standing and looking out at the stars.  “Can’t you sleep, dearling?” she asked.

          He turned around, almost guiltily.  “It’s not that, Aunt Esme--I just had that dream again about the moving water, only this time it was night time and the stars were magnificent.  So I woke up and couldn’t sleep again, and came over to look out the window at them.  Some nights we used to go up and sleep atop the hole there in Whitfurrow, my dad and me, and he’d show me the stars the way he said Uncle Bilbo used to show them to him when he was younger.  And my mum would come up, too, and we’d tell the stories about them and make up more.”

          “You have this dream about moving water often?”

          He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I’ve had it a few times--when I was a little one once, one time when we were visiting with Uncle Bilbo; not long before we moved out of River Place; maybe once in Whitfurrow when Uncle Bilbo was visiting us; a few nights before--before Mum and Dad--had their accident.”

          “Then the moving water is the river--the Brandywine?”

          He shook his head.  “No--not the Brandywine.  In my dream it’s all around me, and you can’t see any land no matter which way you look--except at the end sometimes, just before I wake up, I’ll see land far, far away, ahead of us.  Only the water isn’t flat like the Water at Hobbiton, or moving in a line like the Brandywine.  It’s bumpy, and the bumps go up and down; and when you see fish they’re usually enormous, some of them as big as the rowboat.”

          He went quiet at that, and she noted that his expression was filled with that combination of anger and great grief that had become so common to him.  She knew that the former subject was now closed, at least as far as Frodo was concerned.

          She looked around the room, here in the quarters given to the Master’s Heir, that was now his.  It wasn’t overly large, nor particularly small.  There was room for the rather wide bed, a desk that came from his mother’s things, the matching chair, a couple shelves for books and his goods he wished to be able to look on, a more comfortable cushioned chair in the corner with a small table by it, a small dresser near the single small round window, and the great wardrobe his father had carved for him with scenes taken from Bilbo’s tales--a flying dragon on one door, a Man with drawn bow on the other, a Dwarf on the left side and an Elf on the right, a great primula blossom as the central boss over where the two doors came together, and the Wizard Gandalf carved into the door handles.  Yes, a good room for the lad, she thought.  Just enough from his family’s apartment in the Hall to make him feel comfortable, but not more than he could bear. 

          Gilda and Sara had gone, driven by Mac, to Whitfurrow to close out the smial there, and they’d bring back most of the lad’s possessions and the family pieces that would mean the most to him when it came time for him to set up his own household.  Esme found herself wondering where that might be--already she sensed that it wouldn’t likely be here in Buckland.  No, once Frodo Baggins came of age he’d want a home of his own, but not here so close to where his first great grief had come to him.  Somewhere, she thought as she joined him in staring out the window with her hand on his shoulder, where he could see the stars clearly.

 *******

          “We won’t be going to the Free Fair?” demanded Frodo, his expression disbelieving.

          “Not this year, lad,” Gilda pronounced solemnly.  “After all, it’s the first one after....”  She didn’t bother to finish, and didn’t need to.

          Esme noted how the lad drew in on himself.  She knew that the Free Fair in Michel Delving had been an outing as eagerly anticipated in the Baggins household as it was in Bag End or the farm in Whitwell.  Drogo had always taken rooms in the inn within the village for himself as a young bachelor, a practice he’d kept up once he’d married.  He’d always displayed at least one piece of the furniture he’d carved and joined in the past year, and Primula’s woolwork and embroidery had captured many a ribbon.  The last two years running Frodo’s own pictures had been entered, and one had won a third place last year.  Drogo and Frodo had both taken part in the races and games, and for the past three years Frodo had won first place in the distance race for lads his age every time; and when father and son had run together in the three-legged race last time they’d come in second.  They’d always stayed for the whole of the Fair, and Frodo had always stood by his mother with shining eyes to watch when his father and Uncle Bilbo and Cousin Paladin stood up amongst the menfolk to dance the Husbandman’s dance.  Once when that was over Drogo had slipped the band a silver, and they’d played the Bounder’s Jig, and Drogo and Frodo had danced it side by side, with all clapping and laughing and many tossing the requisite coppers or brasses that traditionally rewarded those who’d performed that dance.  Drogo had given all of it to Frodo, who’d found Esme and Saradoc and had treated them proudly to some of the Broadbelts’ famous pheasant and mushroom pasties.

          And the three of them for years had taken part in the singing that closed the evening of Midsummer itself.  Frodo would be heartsick not to go, Esme realized.

          Looking at the unhappy face of the lad, she found herself wondering if perhaps Mother Gilda might just be wrong about how stressful going to the Fair might be for Frodo.  Or perhaps, she thought, she might be right.  If only she herself was as knowledgeable about other Hobbits as was Mistress Menegilda.

 *******

          “You won’t be keeping him away from the Free Fair this year?” Bilbo asked, looking at Esme somewhat sideways.

          “No, I promised him we’d not keep him from it again,” she answered.  “Really, I felt that Mother Gilda ought not to have banned him from going last year, for he had been so looking forward to it.  He was far, far too quiet the whole week the others were gone, and when he greeted Brendi when the wagons got back I felt it was far too forced.  He never said a word about it, but I got the strong feeling he felt betrayed.”

          “Naturally,” the old Hobbit sniffed.  “A tie to his life with his parents withheld from him that way.  Menegilda had best watch out, or she’ll make an invalid out of the boy or worse.  He won’t bear coddling.”

 *******

          When Gilda found Merilinde and Lavender in charge of the six faunts she’d set Frodo to minding she’d gone white.  “Where is Frodo?” she demanded.

          “He went with old Bilbo,” Lavender answered her.  “Bilbo asked us to watch the little ones for an hour and a half so as Frodo could get a break and see some of the fair on his own and mayhaps do something as he’d like to do by himself.  He swore as he’d not allow him to come to any mischief or harm.”

          “That interfering old--bachelor!” the Mistress snorted.  “Esme, go and make certain the lad’s not trying to get into the day’s races.  And you,” she added to Ivy Boffin’s young daughter who stood watching them with her eyes wide, “would you know Frodo Baggins?”

          “Mother Gilda,” Esme said, staying her errand to intercede for the lass, “that’s Narcissa Boffin--she often visits the Hall when we’re there for Yule.  Of course she knows her cousin Frodo.”

          “Do you have any idea where he might be about the grounds?”

          “No, mum,” the lass replied, her tone rather defensive.  “I’ve not seen him since Uncle Bilbo brought these two to take over for him for a bit.”

          Menegilda gave a great sigh.  “I don’t wish to lose the lad through overmuch concern he’s not having as much of a lark as he’d wish.  Well, child, go off and see if he’s at the grounds for the races and games.”

          Esme gave a nod and dutifully set off on her errand.

 *******

          “Mistress Esme!” panted Gomez Brandybuck as he pelted into the great open parlor where Esme was aiding those who were dusting the room, “Come quick!  There’s been an accident, there at the beach.”

          Terrified at what she might find, Esme called out to one of her helpers, “Lavender, go and fetch Mac and Saradoc, and have them see to it towels and blankets are sent to the bay where the children swim.  And send Master Beldir and any of the other healers who might be about.

          She herself grabbed up the old blanket that she’d spread over the sofa as she’d been dusting the chandelier that hung over it, and hiking up her skirts in one hand she raced out the open door, down toward the bay south along the Brandywine.

          What she found was not what she’d expected, for it wasn’t Frodo lying face-down on the ground but Fred Oldbuck; Frodo was kneeling over him and bringing his hands up behind him to force the water out of him, then turning him over to breathe down into his mouth, having pinched the other lad’s nose closed, to get him breathing again.  Three breaths, and then the next breath was taken by Fred himself as he began to cough almost convulsively.  Frodo had him turned on his side in an instant, and after another minute the coughing finally abated as the last of the water was expelled.

          She was quickly by the rest and was helped by Frodo to wrap Fred with the dusty blanket she carried.  “I’m all right,” Fred kept trying to assure her, but Esme merely shook her head.

          “No, child,” she said, “you may be all right now, but when the healers get here they’ll have my head if I let you up before they have the chance to check you over, you know.  Now stay still.”  She looked up and around, then smiled back at him.  “They’re almost here, you see.  Good enough then.”

          In moments Master Beldir was moving in on the child, and she gave way gladly enough, pulling Frodo away with her when he would have waited by Fred’s side until he was certain the other lad was indeed as well as could be expected.  Meanwhile Sara and Mac, having supplied the healer with a couple more warm blankets and a length of toweling for the lad’s head, were gathering details of the incident.  Seeing one of the blankets brought had been set aside, she now wrapped it about Frodo, who was clad in the short trunks usually worn when the lads were swimming together.  He was quivering slightly, but not with shock.  Indeed he appeared remarkably calm, and his major concern was for the lad who sat now on the ground, growling with growing discomfort in answer to Beldir’s questions.

          “And then suddenly Frodo was swimming out, beyond the bay, and grabbed Freddy by the hair and pulled him up to the top.  He got his one arm about Freddy’s head and sought to swim back, although it was a job one-handed against the current.  At least it brought him closer to the bank, and we larger lads could make a chain and he got Gil’s hand and we hauled them in.  And Mistress Esme saw as how Frodo got the water out of him, for he was just doing that as she got here, and Frodo breathed into his mouth as Mr. Mac taught us, and at last he started coughing, and now he’s all right.”  The older lad’s explanation now finished, all looked at Frodo.

          Frodo was a year younger than Fred Oldbuck, but was as tall, if only two-thirds the weight.  However, he had been an accomplished swimmer for some years, having been taught by his mother and Saradoc.  That he’d been able to save Fred from the current somehow seemed just right to Esmeralda Brandybuck.  She put an arm about his shoulders and pulled him close to her, smiling into his beautiful blue eyes, so reminiscent of those of his mother.  “Your folks,” she whispered to him, “must be so very proud of you.”

          He searched her face, his eyes alight with some emotion she couldn’t name, then smiled, that brilliant smile she hadn’t seen for so long.  And an unrecognized knot that somehow lay just behind her heart unraveled.

 *******

          Bilbo came for their joint birthday, bringing a great pad of drawing paper, charcoal drawing sticks, a new stick of graphite, a box of colored chalks he explained he’d purchased from the Dwarves of Erebor, who said they’d brought them from Dale, a few balls of gum, three bottles of colored ink, several quills, and three books, one of them indeed about the habits of insects.  It was written in what Esme knew was Tengwar script but heavily illustrated, and Frodo was fascinated by it.

          “And it’s mine to keep?” he asked.  “You aren’t going to have to send it back after copying it?”

          Bilbo was beaming as he shook his head.  “No, lad, you won’t have to give it back.  The note that came with it from Lord Elrond indicates this came from another Elvish realm, the Golden Wood, where the Elves feel they owe me a debt of gratitude for helping remove the threat of Smaug from their kinsman’s realm of Mirkwood.  It was sent as a free gift to me, and I’m thrilled to share it with you, Frodo.”

          Frodo leafed through the pages, pausing at a colored picture of dragon- and damselflies so realistic that Esme almost expected them to lift off the page to fly out through the garden toward the shallows of the river.  He shifted his gaze from the picture to the graceful lettering, his expression thoughtful.  “It’s too bad I can’t read it,” he murmured.

          “Well, that can be rectified,” Bilbo said, settling down on the bench beside Frodo and leaning his head over the book alongside the dark curls of the younger Hobbit.  “Now, this here....”

          Esme watched the two of them together, Frodo’s gaze almost dancing over the page, Bilbo’s steady and expressing much experience.  She no longer listened to the talk, merely watched how Frodo took it all in, nodding as each little fact was absorbed and fit itself into his understanding of what was on the page.  My brilliant first lad, she thought.  She watched his mouth shape an unfamiliar vowel, utter an exotic word, the amused shake of Bilbo’s head as he corrected the pronunciation, heard the quick self-deprecating laugh as Frodo realized his mistake and tried again.  Oh, she thought, how right this is for him, our Frodo lad.

          A late butterfly fluttered erratically away from the dahlias and chrysanthemums and circled the two Hobbits bent over the Elvish book about insects.  Esme smiled at the way it seemed somehow more full of color as she saw it momentarily backed by Frodo’s shining curls.

          “Wilwarin,” Bilbo said, his own attention drawn from the text by the flight of the butterfly.  “That’s the Sindarin word for butterfly, my lad.”

          Wilwarin, she thought.  Yes, a good word, a proper one for her lad.

 *******

          “But why can’t I go out and sled with the other lads?” Frodo asked  “I promise I’ll wear my scarf and keep my jacket properly buttoned and my cloak about me.  Oh, Aunt Esme, I’ve not been out for weeks.  It’s more than I can stand to have to stay in all the time when the weather’s no worse than it’s ever been in my life!”

          “Your Aunt Gilda has forbade it, Frodo.”

          “But it’s not fair!”  His tone was filled with frustration and barely suppressed fury.  “Fred’s barely over that cold he had a week ago, and his mother isn’t making him stay in away from all the fun.  And I’ve not even been sick.”

          “I need you to help decorate the Great Hall for Yule, sweetling.”

          “I’m not your sweetling!” he seethed.  “I’m nobody’s sweetling.  And no matter how you may want me to help decorate the Great Hall you know as well as I do that Aunt Amaranth will do it all, as she always does, and she’ll not agree to let you and me do anything but hand her things and maybe place a few sprigs of greens.”

          He was right, of course.

 *******

          She found him in the library, not reading, but sitting not in front of one of the great windows but to one side of it, somehow, peering out of it obliquely.  His expression was bleak.

          “Is there anything troubling you, dearling?” she asked quietly.

          He shrugged, but didn’t answer.

          “Your Uncle Rory has engaged a new lessons master.  He’s Tumnus, Sadoc’s third grandson.  He’s been serving as tutor for the Longbottom children in the far South Farthing, but they’re beyond it now and he’s decided to come home to Buckland again.  He ought to add a good deal to the studies you’ve done already.”

          He gave her a quick glance, then looked away again.

          She tried again.  “You’d been complaining that Bodridoc wasn’t teaching you anything.”

          At last he responded in low tones, “He wasn’t.  I’d been through all those lessons with my mum and dad and Uncle Bilbo.  And his writing and spelling were horrid.”

          “Well, I suspect you will find Tumnus an improvement.”

          He shrugged, but failed to look away from the greyness beyond the window.  She reached for his hand, but he pulled it away. Not knowing what to do or say, she pulled another chair near him and sat in it, hoping that just her presence would be enough.

          They sat thus for quite some time, until she’d almost decided she’d get nothing from him, before he said, again in low tones, “Uncle Dodinas wouldn’t let me help him bring in the wood.  Gomez and Brendi, yes.  But not me.  Aunt Mantha wouldn’t let me climb the ladder to hang the mistletoe.  Hawthorn won’t let me help wring out the clothes from the boilers and hang them from the airing racks in the old kitchens.  Willow allowed me to help knead the bread until Aunt Gilda came in and glared at her, and then I was sent off with the admonition to go wash my hands well and perhaps see to the younger children.  But it’s naptime, and the faunts are all in their own rooms with their mums or older sisters looking after them.

          “Why won’t anyone let me help, Aunt Esme?  I used to help my mum and dad all the time.  But here--here I’m not good enough to help.”  She could see a slight tremble to his lower lip and the sparkle of unshed tears in his eyes.  “I’m no good for anything.”

          “That’s not true, Frodo.”  She reached out to lay her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it away.

          “Then why won’t they let me help?”

          “You’re a special lad, dearling....”

          “Too special to help?  Too special to do anything worth doing?  Too special to go out and sled with the other lads or build snow smials or play at snowball battles?  Oh, I can mind the little ones, but not really help.”

          “What other lad your age even understands the word admonition, Frodo?”

          He gave a growling laugh with no humor to it.  “Good enough to know words, I am.  But what use is that to just living, Aunt?”

          Suddenly he rose and went out of the room, but when she followed after him, she couldn’t find him.  She searched throughout the smial, and didn’t find him anywhere.  He didn’t come to tea or supper.

          Finally as late supper was nearly ready she checked his room one more time, and found he was there, sitting in his chair much as he’d been doing in the library, staring obliquely again out into the dark of the winter night.  He had no candle or lamp lit, was sitting there in the dimness of his room, watching the first flakes of a new snowfall beginning to drift down, illuminated by lights in other windows.  He didn’t turn as she opened his door and looked in, didn’t respond to his name or her questions.

          It took Sara’s command to finally draw him out of his room to Master Rorimac’s office where the lad stood, his face stony as his uncle and his cousins all three examined him.

          “Why didn’t you come to tea and supper, Frodo?” Rory asked.

          “I wasn’t hungry.”

          “You’ll become ill if you don’t eat properly, lad.”

          Frodo shrugged.

          “Where did you hide all this time?”

          Again Frodo shrugged.

          “Late supper is ready.  You are to go in to the dining room and eat a decent meal.”

          “I’m not hungry.”

          “How do you think you’ll be able to do anything if you don’t eat?”

          Finally Frodo actually looked into his uncle’s face.  “Do anything?  Since when am I allowed to do anything, Uncle Rory?”

          Esme, sitting in the corner behind to her husband’s father, watching, saw the frustration and hurt in the lad’s eyes.

          “Go to the dining room.  Now, Frodo.”  Rory’s voice was soft, even gentle.  Had he ordered Frodo loudly, Esme suspected the child would have just stood there; but at this unexpected gentleness Frodo again looked into his uncle’s eyes and his lip trembled some, and a single tear escaped to run down his cheek.  He turned his head to wipe it against his shoulder and his sleeve, and without saying anything more he went out.

          At the meal he sat at the children’s table, although he ought now to be sitting at the teen’s table, as tall as he was getting.  He shook his head when Brendi tried to talk to him, and sat with a single chop upon his plate and a small spoon of potatoes and half a slice of bread.  She couldn’t tell that he was eating anything.

          Sara saw him to his bed while she went to the Master’s parlor to answer questions from Rory and Mother Gilda.  Dodi and Dino and Asphodel all sat nearby, their faces as troubled as Esme’s own.

          “From what I can tell,” she finished, “he’s feeling as if he isn’t wanted.”

          “Of course he’s wanted!” insisted Menegilda.  “What on earth could make him feel that?”

          Dodi took his pipe from between his teeth.  “Maybe the fact that every time he offers to help anyone with anything we all tell him, no, that’s a good lad now, instead of either explaining or allowing him to assist us.”

          “We can’t let him become too stressed, Dodinas Brandybuck.  You saw him collapse when they brought his father’s body back.”

          “And you think refusing to allow him to do anything worth doing isn’t stress enough, Menegilda Goold?” he asked, his tone acid.  “The lad’s growing a good deal, and he’s fully capable of carrying in a few sticks of wood now and then, you know.”

          Gilda snorted.  “A few sticks of wood?  Considering you bring in unsplit logs for the fireplaces, I certainly wouldn’t refer to it that way.”

          Esme commented, her tone carefully neutral, “He said that when you came through the kitchens while he was helping knead bread dough you glared at Willow sufficiently that she sent him off almost before you’d gone out again.  And he doesn’t understand why he can’t go sledding or playing in the snow with the other lads.”

          Asphodel commented, “From what I can tell, he only wants to feel properly useful.  He’s bored----”

          Rory interrupted, “Well, all the children will start getting proper lessons again next week when Tumnus gets here and has the school room set up properly.  That will give him something to look forward to.  Bodridoc certainly wasn’t giving the lad much of a challenge, not when Frodo knows more words than Bodri does and can spell much better, and has read far more books in his thirteen years than Bodri has in sixty-two.  We need a properly qualified lessons master with Frodo around, you know.  And you could begin to work with the lad on his artwork, Delly.  Stars know he appears talented enough.”

          Rory’s sister shrugged.  “I’m willing, but no one had asked, and last time I suggested such lessons it seems to me I was openly discouraged.”  She gave Gilda a significant sidelong look, causing her brother’s wife to look away, slightly embarrassed, as Saradoc entered.

          “He in bed now?” asked Rory of his older son.

          Sara nodded.  “Yes, although he barely murmured good night to me.  I hate to see him pining like this.”

          Menegilda sighed.  “It’s for his own good, Sara, you know that.”

          Dino shifted in his seat and reached for his mug of ale.  “Seems to me Frodo’s the only one who doesn’t appreciate it’s all for his own good.  Maybe if you were just to tell him what you and Beldir have noted....”

          Gilda was shaking her head.  “Would you want to know if it were you, Dinodas?  We don’t wish to convince him he’s dying, you know.”

          Esme heard Dino mutter, “No, we won’t convince him of that by treating him that way, will we?”  She didn’t think Menegilda heard it, though.

 *******

          When Bilbo arrived unexpectedly on First Yule Frodo’s sadness appeared to be immediately forgotten, particularly when he insisted Frodo bundle up warmly and took him out for a ramble over the snowy landscape of Buckland.  They weren’t gone terrifically long, returning well within an hour, and as Frodo went off to his room to change to more festive clothes for the meal and parties to come Bilbo sought out  Esme.

          “What is this, Esme?  He’s far too thin.”

          “He’s been growing rather quickly, Bilbo.”

          “You’re evading the point, Esmeralda.  He’s also far too pale.  And he became markedly cold shortly after we went out.  I’ve taken him on rambles through the snow often enough over the years to know that’s totally unlike him  Haven’t you folk been allowing him to go out and play with the other lads?”

          Esme could feel herself flushing, and Bilbo’s lips thinned.  “I see,” he said slowly.  “So, he’s being made to stay in and kept from overtaxing himself still, is he?  Didn’t you notice that last summer he braved the current of the river and managed to save a lad almost half again as heavy as himself?  Doesn’t that tell you perhaps he’s not as fragile as Menegilda likes you all to think?”

          Esme felt stung.  “You didn’t see him when he collapsed, Bilbo, there when they brought his father in.  He didn’t just go pale--his lips were blue, truly blue.  I’ve seen several individuals faint, and never saw one go blue before.  And when he pulled Freddy out of the river he didn’t do it alone--the other lads formed a chain so he could grab Gil’s hand at the end closest to him and they could help haul him and Freddy in, you know.”

          “But you yourself told me, child, that he didn’t appear particularly winded or upset, more excited than anything.”

          “True....”

          “I keep trying to get through to you folk here--you can’t coddle him--it will hurt him, truly hurt him, if you do.  He’s far stronger than you seem to appreciate, and he needs that strength recognized and respected.”

          At that moment Frodo came back, his eyes sparkling as he called to ask if Bilbo would like to see his newest drawings.  As the old Hobbit walked away to join Frodo, Esme found herself glad he hadn’t been here a few days earlier to see how Frodo had looked then, staring morosely out at the snowy landscape he wasn’t allowed to enter.

 *******

          “You told me he was intelligent,” Tumnus Brandybuck commented to old Rory as they met after dinner in the Master’s apartment with Sara, Esme, and Asphodel, “but you didn’t tell me he’d been studying Elvish.”

          “Well, it’s not been a particularly regular study of the subject,” Rory said slowly, “just what Bilbo’s had time to share with him during his visits first to his parents’ home in Whitfurrow and later here.”

          “So, it’s true that Bilbo Baggins has indeed met Elves?”

          Sara nodded.  “Oh, yes--he’s constantly receiving packages of books from them.  He copies them out and often translates them, then sends most back to Rivendell.  He has Frodo fairly besotted with the idea of them, I think.  The lad’s read almost all the Elvish tales and histories Bilbo or old Gerontius ever sent here in the past, and we brought several more volumes back with us from his parents’ hole in Whitfurrow.”

          “And he’s familiar with the language, also?”

          Esme traded glances with her husband before saying, “I’m not completely certain how much he really knows, but he does know some words and has a couple books written in their writing.  Bilbo says it’s called Tengwar script.  I couldn’t begin to read it, of course, but Frodo’s practiced it a good deal, especially since last September.”

          Tumnus reached into the bowl of sultanas that sat on the table by him and popped a few into his mouth, chewing meditatively.  “I’ve read many of the basic stories--Túrin and the Dragon, Beren One-hand, the fall of Númenor--although that’s more about Men rather than Elves, strictly speaking.  But it sounds as if young Frodo’s probably far more conversant with the subject than I am.  What does he know about the Shire’s own history?”

          Rory glanced at his older son and his wife, then back at the teacher.  “I’m not completely certain.  Probably a fair amount as Bilbo’s been much involved with setting his education.  Bilbo’s scoured our records here and in the Great Smial, you see.  If you let him get started on the subject he’ll go on for hours.  He was furious to find there’s no longer the original charter granting the Shire to our people’s occupation still around, and even the copies are damaged, he says.”

          “It’s been years since I last spoke with the old fellow,” Tumnus said consideringly.  “Sounds as if he’s become a walking library.  What does the lad know of crop management?”

          “I’m not certain,” Sara said slowly, “for he’s never appeared particularly interested when I’ve spoken of it around him.”

          “Breeding lines of your ponies?  Laying records of the poultry?”  As those who were around him shook their heads he gave a nod to his own.  “So--a starting point--practical knowledge.  One can be conversant in Elvish, I suppose, and still starve to death if one can’t cultivate a simple garden.  By the way--does Bilbo know anything of cultivation?”

          “Yes,” Rory said.  “He has a gardener--Hamfast Gamgee.  But when old Holman worked for him he was always out puttering about as well--developing new strains of roses, bringing in Elven lilies, certain herbs he learned of on his journey.  Used to do his own pruning of the trees in his orchard.”

          “Then at least old Bilbo can be used as an example of how one needs to be well rounded in ones knowledge.  What about his family trees?”

          Esme smiled.  “He knows his Tooks back five generations.  I used to play games with him when he was younger to teach him it all.”

          “So, I’ll need to find out what he knows about the Brandybucks and the Bagginses, and perhaps some of the auxiliary lines such as the Goolds, Chubbs, Goodbodies, Bolgers, and the like.  Who taught him to read and write?”

          “I’m not certain anyone actually sat down and taught him those,” Rory said.  “Seems there was never a time when he didn’t know.”

          “His da started teaching him to write when he was three,” Esme said.  “He’d been sitting on laps while folks read to him all his life, and was recognizing letters from the same age.  Certainly he was reading on his own by the time he was five.”

          Tumnus took another handful of sultanas.  “Well, I must say that this will be quite the challenge!”

 *******

          “What is it, Esme?”

          “I’ve been having some cramping off and on all evening is all, love.  I doubt it’s anything to wor--Oh!”

          Sara searched her eyes.  “Oh, what?” he asked, alarmed.  But then he felt it--a spreading dampness near his hips.  He sat up in the bed.  “Then it’s time?”  He was up immediately and, with his eyes on his wife he scrabbled blindly for the dressing gown hanging from the bedpost.  “I’ll go fetch Mum and Poppea,” he said, his voice distracted.

          Once the wave of pain was over she took a look at his agitated face and gave a short giggle.  “You’d think you were having this bairn rather than me.  Best hurry, I think, love.”

          As he hurried out of the room, leaving the door swinging further open after him, she noted he’d put his dressing gown on inside out.  But she was glowingly happy.  This time she’d kept the child, and it was only a week and a half shy of when it was due.  Within a few hours she could well be holding that little brother or sister she’d been wanting for Frodo in her arms.  Certainly since they’d told him this one was coming he’d forgotten his frustrations of the winter in anticipation for the coming birth.

          Some hours later as Poppea wiped her forehead, Esme came briefly to herself, hearing Menegilda at the door admonishing, “Well, have Tumnus or someone get him away.  Hearing the cries will only terrify him--we can’t have him becoming frightened.”

          She could hear Sara, obviously frustrated, answering, “But I’ve tried--and tried!  I can’t keep him out of the apartments, it seems.  I thought last time he was gone for good until it was over, only to find he was sitting on the floor behind my desk with a book in his hands, although I doubt he’s truly reading it.  I won’t force him, Mum.”

          Another wave was taking Esme as she heard her husband’s mother say, “Well on your head be it, then, Saradoc Brandybuck!”

          Then, at Esme’s cry of pain Mother Gilda was back, leaning over her and checking.  “It won’t be too much longer, dearling--sweet water and stars, it’s coming now.  Poppea!”

          And soon afterwards she heard with delight the lusty cries of a newborn as her own body gave its final relieved shuddering.

          She was just delighting in lying still on clean sheets, feeling calm and eased and cleansed as it seemed she’d not been in ages, with Menegilda leaning over her with a gently triumphant smile on her face to place a tiny blanketed bundle in her arms when the door burst open.  Somehow she wasn’t surprised to see the first one through it was a young teen with dark curls about his pale but shining face rather than her husband, although she couldn’t help noticing Sara was almost treading on Frodo’s heels as he followed.  “Well,” she managed, “are the two of you ready to see Frodo’s small brother-cousin?”

 *******

          She walked through the grounds of the Free Fair happily, pushing a currently empty pram of woven wicker before her.  The stiffness of the birth had faded swiftly, and it was good to feel alive and at one with the world.  She looked to her right at where Frodo walked, a blanketed Meriadoc in his arms, softly singing some song in Elvish he’d learned from Bilbo as he walked, his eyes returning periodically to the little face that peered up at him from the midst of its swaddlings.  She couldn’t help noting that every time he met the eyes of the bairn he carried he seemed to glow a bit more.

          Esmeralda herself was glowing with satisfaction as she felt her beloved Sara slip his arm about her waist.  They exchanged joyous smiles and then a small but still satisfying kiss.

 *******

          Yule was coming on, and as the bright days of summer had been displaced first by the cooler fall weather and the increasingly brittle days of winter Frodo had again become increasingly quiet and somewhat withdrawn.  However, the other children had learned that Frodo, as was true of his Uncle Bilbo, was a veritable fount of tales; and whenever Esme saw Frodo’s expression grow distant she had but to give a nudge to one or another of the little ones to beg him for a story to see the discontent give way to growing animation as he sat with a circle of children about him, sharing his stories.  She blessed Bilbo for having given the lad that gift to share, and she equally blessed the Creator for the gift of her son.  Three things that gave Frodo joy that could ever put his doldrums to flight--telling a tale, the company of Bilbo Baggins with his sheer delight in the life given him and the world about him, and the smile of little Merry, whose own face lit up as much as that of Frodo when they saw one another anew.

 *******

          “Aunt Esme--that new farmhand, the one who came from Bree--I don’t get a good feeling from him.”

          “What do you mean, Frodo?”

          “He’s angry all the time.”

          “Nonsense, Frodo.  Albro Greenman seems to do nothing but smile.”

          “Look to his eyes, Aunt--the smile never reaches there.  And when he goes past me it’s--it’s all I can do not to pull away.  He’s angry, and his wife and children are frightened of him.”

          “I’ll speak with your uncle.”

          He nodded, his brow furrowed as he looked over his shoulder to follow Albro Greenman’s progress as he walked through the gardens toward the toolshed, knuckling his forehead to Aunt Amaranth as he passed her.

          That evening it seemed no one could sleep.  The weather was getting ready to change, Esme judged, and as she looked out the window of her bedroom she saw reflections of light from a number of windows further down the Hall off the trees and shrubs of the surrounding gardens.

          One person was deeply asleep at least, she realized as she leaned over Merry’s cradle and saw he had one chubby fist to his mouth.  Sara had gone off to his study a bit earlier, worried his own restlessness would keep her awake.  But she, too, felt unable to settle.  She pulled her dressing gown about her and headed for the privies, pausing to give a glimpse into Frodo’s room as she passed.

          His bed was empty, and she realized he was sitting somewhat sideways in his cushioned chair, looking out at the night.  “Are you having difficulties sleeping also, sweetling?” she asked.

          He turned toward her, and from the dim light filtering in from the passageway she saw his face was quiet and thoughtful rather than discontented.  “I slept for a time, but woke from a dream.”

          “A bad one?”

          He shook his head.  “No.  The moving water.  I hadn’t had that one for so long.”

          “Were you looking at the stars again?”

          “No--it was daytime, and it was raining.  The rain was beautiful, somehow, like quicksilver beads all around me.  And in the distance I could hear singing--beautiful singing.”  There was a distant flash; westward over the Shire proper apparently a storm was raging.  A time later they heard the echoes of distant thunder.

          “Well, it shall be raining here soon, I’d think,” Esme said.  “I wonder if you should close your window.”

          “In a minute--it’s been so close today that the storm will be welcome, Aunt.” 

          She nodded, and he turned again to look at the world outside.  After a moment she found herself saying, “My Grandmother Blossom used to say that when you dream the same dream over and over it can mean it will come true some day.”

          “Really?” he asked.

          “Would you like this dream to come true, Frodo--to go upon the moving water?”

          He shrugged.  “But why would I want to do that?  Although the singing was so delightful....”  She could see the soft smile on his face.

          Suddenly he stiffened.  “What is it, Frodo?”

          “Something’s wrong.”  He sat as if listening, at last murmuring, “I can’t tell....”  Then he went absolutely rigid, his face horror-struck.  “Greenman--it’s Albro Greenman--he’s hurting someone, Aunt Esme--we need to go stop it!”  And he was up and past her, snatching up his dressing gown as he passed the chair by his desk, pulling it about him as he sped out the door, hurrying for the far precincts of the Hall where many of the hands and servants had their quarters.

          She started to follow him, but couldn’t keep up.  Besides, if there was trouble it would be better....  She turned back and ran toward Sara’s study, bursting in to find he was sitting there with Mac and Dodi, their pipes in hand and a mug of ale before each.  “Sara--Frodo’s run off toward the hands’ quarters.  He says there’s something wrong at the Greenman’s apartment.”

          “Some dream?” Sara asked, rising.

          “No, he was awake, also, and looking out his window.”

          “Did he see something?”

          “No, it was more like he heard something, although I couldn’t hear it.  He said Albro was hurting someone.”

          “Hurting someone?”  He looked at his brother and his uncle.  “I can’t see how he could know something like that, but apparently we need to go check it out.”  He gave a nod to his companions, who set down pipes and mugs, rose, and followed him out into the restless silence of Brandy Hall.

          It was an hour before they returned as the promised storm finally let loose its fury over Buckland, Mac propelling a disheveled Albro Greenman before him, Dodi with his arm around Frodo, who was pale and had a bruise to his left cheek, and finally Sara shepherding Greenman’s wife and three children.  The Hobbitess had a blackened eye and a split lip, while the oldest of the three children had a bruise the size and shape of his father’s hand on his cheek and wore a ripped nightshirt.

          Two days later Albro Greenman was officially escorted across the Brandywine Bridge and told never to return to the Shire, and his wife and children were being given a cottager’s place in the midst of the Marish where they’d never again be in danger of being abused by the brutal Hobbit.

          Three days later when a fishing dory overturned on the Brandywine River Frodo swam out and saved the fisherman and his young son, bringing them to hold onto the boat and somehow propelling the capsized craft over to fetch up at the island south of the Hall.  There they lost the boat, but he was able to get the two of them onto the small eyeot and keep them calm until Mac was able to get a boat to them and bring them ashore to safety.

          Esme found herself considering her young nephew with a worrisome combination of pride and concern.  How did he seem to know?

Fifteenth Summer

          Esme was leaving her consultation with Willow and the rest who worked in the kitchens regarding the meal planned for Master Rory’s birthday when pangs hit her and she found herself rushing to the nearest privy, the one most commonly used by those who worked in the sculleries and kitchens.  There were partitions between the three stools that served those who used the room, with partial doors to offer a modicum of privacy; Esme, as was her usual habit, sought out the furthest stall as that was least likely to be pushed upon by those coming into the room, latching the door with relief.  Ever since little Merry’s birth she’d been experiencing such difficulties whenever she’d eaten tomatoes, and she realized she might need to remain in here for some time yet.

          She felt she was nearly able to leave again when she heard the outer door open and the voices of at least two Hobbitesses entering the room.

          “...And it’s too bad for the wee lambkin, if’n you ask me,” one was saying as the speaker entered the middle stall and pulled the door closed after her.

          “And who are you calling ‘wee,’ Marigold?  He’s the tallest lad of his age in the Hall, you know.  Taller’n some of those a year or two older’n himself, he is, too.”

          “But he’s so thin, he is.  It’s not natural for a lad of his years to be so thin.  He come in and asked if’n there was aught as he could do, and I had him helpin’ to pare the taters until the Mistress comes in, and then if Willow didn’t tell’im to get along with’im, makin’ him leave the tater as he was peelin’ behind along with the knife for me to finish up.  Now, if’n it had been that Gomez, he’d of done a bad job of it from the start so’s to get Willow angry at’im and mayhaps send him on his way; but not young Master Frodo--doesn’t waste the tater itself, he doesn’t, but if he don’t do a right job of gettin’ off all the peel!  And as sweet a child as one could hope for, he is.  But the other lads, they treat’im somethin’ awful when none of the grownups is lookin’ their way.”

          “Maybe if he wasn’t such a mam’s lad----” began the second voice, but Marigold cut her off.

          “If’n that Frodo Baggins is a mam’s lad, it’s certainly not his choice,” Marigold’s voice said stiffly.  “Give’im his head and he’d be all lad, you just watch’n’ see if’n I’m not right.  Oh, I’m not sayin’ as he wouldn’t still be a’readin’ all them books and a’tellin’ of his tales to the little’uns--that’s but his nature after all--loves faunts, he does--always has.  But he was always the best one for a’runnin’ in the races back in Whitfurrow afore his parents died, he was.  And a worker?  Was always a’helpin’ his folks about the hole.  He’d help his dad carry in lumber for his chests and wardrobes, would polish the windows and the doorknob, would trundle the barrow through the garden for his mum and carry water for her flowers and vegetables, would fetch things from the market. 

          “And he was always doin’ nice things for us as lived thereabouts, he was--helpin’ the farmlads stone the birds away from the fields, helpin’ the older lasses fetch the clothes back if’n the wind come up and blew’em off the hedges or lines, carryin’ gifts of food for them as was ailin’.  He taught my little brother how to blow a tune through grass stems, and used to help me fetch in the three milk cows as we had and get the first in the stanchion.  Used to help the Goold lass sweep their dooryard and fetch in the wood for the fire, and old Widow Sweetwater--he come twice a day to fetch in her water, he did, for she was too bent over with achin’ joints to do it for herself no more.  My brother Nick does it now, he does--my dad sees to it.  Says as if’n young Master Frodo felt as it wasn’t beneath him, least as we could do would be to help other folks as need a helpin’ hand.

          “But here?”  Her voice was becoming scathing.  “I hate to speak ill of the Mistress, for she’s among the finest as is in most ways; but this insistence on not allowin’ Master Frodo to do aught as might be hard is just too bad.  I’m tellin’ you as it goes completely against his nature.”

          Esmeralda heard the water bucket left by the stool in the next stall being hefted and poured in to rinse things away, then the latch being released as Marigold went out to refill the bucket at the privy pump and replace it again by the stool.  Then she heard water being poured into the basin on the marble-topped dresser.  As Marigold scrubbed her hands and arms she resumed, “He loves his aunts ’n’ uncles and all, but if’n they don’t stop tryin’ to protect him from life itself he’ll waste away.  That’un was born to help folks, not to be served as if he was a prince in a storybook.”

          With that she finished her scrubbing, and a minute later she could be heard pouring the contents of the basin into the waste bucket, which later in the day would be carried out to pour over the closest flower bed.  Then the door opened and closed once more as the other two went out.  To make sure they didn’t realize she’d overheard them, Esmeralda remained in her stall for at least five more minutes, thinking deeply.

 *******

          “Ooh--look!”  Esme and Dodiroc stopped their trimming back of the rose bushes to listen to what Gomez was saying.  “If it isn’t the mam’s lad actually doing some work for a change.”

          Boridoc, eager to follow Gomez’s lead, leapt in.  “What happened, Frodo?  The Mistress let you off her lap today?  And what are you doing there to that flower bed?  You think as you know the difference between pill bugs and ladybirds?”  Several lads laughed at that sally.

          “What’s wrong, orphan?” taunted Gomez.  “Or has your loving auntie forbade you speaking any more?”

          Esme wasn’t certain what Frodo said in response, but it sounded as if Bilbo had taught the lad some particularly rude words in Dwarvish.  She found herself smiling slightly.

          “What was it as you said, Baggins?  Or are you afraid to say it in plain words as we can all understand?”  Gomez’s tone was threatening.

          “I said that you have the manners of a troll, Gomez Brandybuck.”  From the tone of voice, Esme judged that Frodo must have stood up to face the other lads.  His tone was wary, but not fearful.

          “You want as I should remind you what happens to mam’s lads here about the Hall, orphan?  Seems as if having your head stuck down the privy last week ought to have taught you a lesson on how not to speak to your betters.”

          Esme straightened in fury and started to turn, only to have her shoulder grabbed by Dodiroc, who served as the main gardener for Brandy Hall.  “No, Mistress Esmeralda,” he said in a soft voice.  “Young Frodo won’t thank you for interfering--it will make it appear he can’t handle things himself.”

          “But I can’t let them stuff his head down the privy!” she hissed back.

          “Do you want him to lose all pride in himself, Mistress?  It’s bad enough he’s not allowed to help do much of anything most days.  Better fifty times with his head in the privy than to look as if he needs to have a lass fight his battles for him!”

          “But----”

          “You think I don’t know how he feels, Missus Esme?” he whispered between stiffened lips.  “Fifteen years ago, that was me.”  He let go of her shoulder and turned back to his own pruning, giving her a last warning look.

          Dodiroc was anything but a handsome Hobbit, being among the plainest of all the Brandybucks.  For the first time Esme, who’d spent most of her own childhood on the farm in Whitwell, began to appreciate what it was like for those dwelling in the great smials who lived on the fringes of society, and found herself feeling ashamed.  Still she strained her ears to hear what was happening the other side of the hedge, but it appeared the lads had all gone off and forced Frodo to go with them.

          She was sitting in his room when Frodo finally came in, his hair wet as if he’d held it under of the pump in the stable yard, his shirt badly stained, with at least one button missing and the collar torn, a smear of filth still clinging to his left temple.  He stopped at the sight of her sitting in his cushioned chair, his expression wary.  She examined the state of his shirt, then asked, “Is that what happened to your brown shirt that’s missing from your wardrobe, Frodo?  You threw it away after they tried to put you down a privy?”

          He gave her a sidelong look and then turned away.  “It’s my affair,” he said as he pulled his braces from his shoulders and began stripping off his filthy shirt.

          “How many times have they done this, Frodo?” she asked.

          He turned to look at her, and she could see a bruise on his shoulder and another, older one on his upper right arm.  “I won’t have you telling on them, Aunt Esme,” he said quietly and with a surprising amount of authority for a lad of fifteen.  “If you do, it will only make things worse--much worse.  It will look as if I’ve tattled on them and begged to be rescued.  I have to settle it myself.”

          “But when there are so many against just the one of you....”

          He suddenly gave a partial smile.  “Not just me, this time.  Freddy Oldbuck came along from Kingsbridge and Brendi with him, and they made them stop.”

          The Oldbucks had purchased a dry goods shop on the square near the Brandywine Bridge with quarters behind it for their family to live in, and Fred spent three days a week there helping in the shop, and the rest of the week at the Hall where he continued in his studies under Master Tumnus, learning how to keep a ledger and write out bills and receipts and a proper letter.  After all, one day that shop would be his.

          Esme considered.  There had been a time when Freddy Oldbuck would have done anything suggested by Gomez Brandybuck, but apparently that had changed, at least in part, since Frodo had saved him from drowning a few years ago.  That Freddy would stick up for the lad who’d braved the current and kept him from being swept away by the Brandywine was heartening; and there was no way that Brendi would side with anyone against Frodo, who remained his best friend.  “So, being helped by other lads is acceptable, where it’s not if it’s by the grown Hobbits, eh?”

          He gave a slow nod.  “That’s right,” he said quietly.  “When it’s other lads we’re all equal.  If I had you or Uncle Sara or the Master and Mistress settle it, it wouldn’t really be settled, you see.”

          “All right--I won’t interfere, not this time, Frodo.  However, I need to know if it happens again.  Allowing folks who tend to bully to continue to do so only makes it worse in the long run, dearling.  I’ll promise not to take it any further as long as it appears that with Brendi and Freddy’s support things are indeed getting better.  But I won’t allow them to hurt you--or anyone else.  Do you understand, Frodo Baggins?”  At his reluctant nod she added, “And I do need you to agree to tell me if they do it again.  I need that promise, Frodo, for if they’ll do it to you, they’ll do it to others as well.”

          He went rather pale, and stiffened somewhat.  “You think so, Aunt?”

          She gave a slow nod of her own.  “Don’t think, dearling, that I haven’t had my own run-ins with bullies.  There are always bullies, you’ll find.  They have to know someone, somewhere, will stop them, at least once in a while, before they’ll realize they can’t do it to everyone.”  She rose and crossed to him, setting her hand on his uninjured shoulder, and examined the other.  “I’ll go fetch some arnica and see if we can’t have this new bruise heal a bit quicker than that one,” and she indicated that on his arm.  She leaned down to kiss the top of his head, and suddenly he put his arm about her, something he’d not done for several months.

          “Thank you, Aunt,” he murmured softly, pressing his head against her shoulder.  “Thank you for understanding.”

          And feeling warmer than she had for a time concerning his welfare, Esmeralda smiled down as she said softly but decisively, “I love you, Frodo Baggins.”

 *******

          At the summons from young Horto, who often served as the door warden any more, Esme hurried to the entrance hall to greet Bilbo.  The Baggins was just surrendering his walking stick and pack to a smiling Dinodas, and turned to greet her as she approached.  “Esmeralda, my dear lass--how fine you look!  And where are the lads?”

          “Frodo’s down at the bay on the river in charge of the swimmers, and Dahlia has taken Merry to where he can watch the older children swimming, although if I know my son he’ll manage to slip away from her and strip himself and throw himself into the midst of everything.  The bairn is fascinated by it all and totally fearless in the water.  But didn’t you pass them as you came from the Ferry?”

          Bilbo shook his head.  “No--I came by way of the Bridge this time.”

          “Well, come with me to the Master’s parlor and I’ll send off for some cold meats and cheese and rolls----”  She began to lead him away from those who’d crowded the entrance to greet the old Hobbit.

          “Actually,” he said in a soft voice pitched for her alone, “I’d wanted to speak with you alone first.

          She examined his face, then gave a nod.  Turning toward Dinodas she asked, “Would you mind, Dino, taking Bilbo’s things to his room for him before you join us?”  She turned back toward Bilbo.  “Sara and Mac are meeting with the stable staff about which ponies will race at the Free Fair this year, while Mother Gilda and Da Rory have gone to Crickhollow to spend some time with Snapdragon and Ambergris.  Did you get the letter I sent you about what happened to their son?”

          “Yes.  Is he recovering?”

          “Yes, but his right leg where the tree lay on him so long isn’t likely to ever fully heal.”  They continued speaking on the subject until they reached the parlor, went in, and closed the door behind them.

          Now that they were, for the moment at least, alone, Bilbo turned toward her.  “What I saw of him when we were all at the Great Smial for Lalia’s birthday two months ago indicated that the boy is probably being bullied.  There was a--defensiveness--in the way he was standing as some of the lads at the Great Smial approached him.  Am I right, Esmeralda?”

          She searched his eyes for a moment before giving a slight nod.  “Yes, although he’s handling it.  You see, he insists on handling it himself--he swears that if he lets us interfere it will only make things worse for him.”

          “Is it bad?”

          She gave a deep, shuddering sigh before answering, “Apparently they’ve put his head down the privy a time or two, or at least that was what he’d admit to.”  She saw the anger and pain growing in his eyes and hastened to add, “Although both he and Dodiroc insist that it’s far better he go through that fifty times than to let--to let a lass or a grownup fight his battles for him.”

          Bilbo looked down thoughtfully, his face stiff.  Finally he asked, “Is it that Gomez leading the pack?  And with Freddy following right behind him?”

          “Actually, it’s not Freddy following behind--it’s Boridoc instead.  You see, the Oldbucks have moved out of the Hall to a place of their own in Kingsbridge.”

          “I know that!” he snapped.  “None better, as it’s my money that financed the purchase of the shop for his folks.  Although you’re not to tell them or anyone else, mind.  But the lad was to continue taking lessons here--that was part of the bargain, for he’s actually quite bright from what Frodo has always told me and will do best if he’s given a chance to expand his mind a bit more before he follows his parents into business.”

          She found herself smiling with satisfaction.  “So, you’re the mysterious silent partner, are you?  And giving the lad a chance to be separated from his dad part of the week?  Brilliant!  Heaven knows his dad is thick as a plank--it will be Cousin Ariel who will really run the shop, you know.  But anyway, in this case Freddy’s not following Gomez at all, not at all, at all.  In fact, he and Brendi are siding with Frodo, and when Gomez thought to try something a week ago Horto, who’s admittedly a bit older than the others being a tween and all, caught them at it and came and stood behind Frodo as well.  I was a bit surprised when Horto told me about it, but he says that considering what Frodo faces daily from Gilda he admires Frodo’s grit and determination and the way he finds of doing his part as he can and as he’s allowed.  Said he didn’t say a word, just came and stood behind our lad and Brendi and Freddy, and Gomez backed right down.  And when I finally was able to get Frodo alone he was almost shining.  Admitted that Gomez had tried something, but that now another older lad had come in on his side and that Gomez had thought twice of it after all.”

          Bilbo’s expression had been softening into an increasingly appreciative grin throughout her narrative until she was done.  “Now,” he breathed, shaking his head in admiration, “if that isn’t our wise one indeed!  Brilliant--he’s not fighting Gomez with the same weapons and strategy, but winning his allies away from him, one at a time, with his integrity!  Valar be praised!  And you say he’s keeping you apprised but not allowing you to interfere?  Shows he has full appreciation of how his enemy’s mind works!”

          “Bilbo--Gomez is no enemy--he’s just a lad....”

          But the old Hobbit was shaking his head.  “Someone who seeks to dominate another is an enemy, whether Man, goblin, or Hobbit, Esme.  And is he finally allowed to do something worth doing around here?”

          “Yes--Dodiroc and I have him helping some with the gardens, and I’ve given word to Willow and Hawthorn he’s to be allowed to help as he offers, and to ignore the Mistress as best as they’re able.  Dino and Dodi are having him help them as well; and even Sara’s having him copy out circulars and straighten out the account books.  While Mac, every chance he gets, has him helping with the beasts, although Gilda has made them all swear not to take him amongst the ponies for some reason I can’t begin to fathom.”

          “And is he still taking lessons with Asphodel?”

          She hesitated a bit, then finally admitted, “No, he’s not done a great deal of drawing for a time.  Gomez, apparently, was teasing him pretty strongly about being a mam’s lad, and I believe he felt that it would be better to not do things that made him appear that way.”

          There was a definite set to Bilbo’s jaw.  Finally he said, “It appears young Gomez has some definite and rigid ideas as to what constitutes being a mam’s lad, doesn’t he?  I think he could do well with a bit of a comeuppance.”  His nose twitched slightly, and he reached forward to rub at it with the back of his hand.  Then he smiled.  “Perhaps a few stories from my dissolute youth might be in order to spark our boy’s imagination....”

          Esme found herself looking at him rather askance.

 *******

          Esme moved close to her older cousin and murmured, “Bilbo, what in Middle Earth has happened?  Frodo is----”  At that point words failed her, for she knew none to describe her foster son.

          “Exalted?  Transcendent?” suggested Bilbo, obviously amused, although when she looked at him she realized he, too, was somehow--well, brighter seemed the one word her own brain could grasp at.  Dahlia’s face was also almost glowing with suppressed excitement and perhaps even a level of awe; and even little Merry’s eyes where shining particularly brightly, tiny faunt that he was. 

          Esme looked back at Frodo--whatever had happened while he and Bilbo were gone on their picnic, accompanied by Merry and his young nursemaid, it had the teen all but floating through the Great Hall, his attention apparently still fixed on the memory of some bright vision he’d known but recently.

          “He finally met an Elf!” Bilbo murmured quietly in her ear.  “Lindir of Imladris, from the household of Lord Elrond, found us while we were on our picnic, and came to speak to us.  He had some documents and a map to give me,” he added, and she noted he did indeed have a particularly graceful bag of woven grasses slung over his shoulder that he’d surely not carried when the four of them had left.  He looked after Frodo as the lad drifted blithely toward the corridor to the kitchens with the great basket in which their meal had been sent and gave a shake to his head.  “Frodo saw him first, and he just went silent and began to glow as brightly as Lindir himself.  Lindir was amused and even somewhat flattered, I think.  So many mortals respond by growing frightened or suspicious, but not our lad.  No, I fear our Frodo is meant to mix freely with Elves.”

          Something in the tone in which he made that last statement caught at her attention, and she found herself turning to examine his face.  Was there the slightest hint of apprehension there in his expression, behind the satisfaction?

 *******

          Frodo had gone off with some of the younger children to tell stories in the children’s hall, leaving his various older cousins to accompany Uncle Rory and Aunt Gilda to the Master’s parlor after Highday luncheon.  Looking over his shoulder at the group of lads and lasses surrounding the taller figure of Frodo as they disappeared down the passage, Saradoc commented, “He appears to be relatively free of trouble.  He, Brendi, and Freddy at least don’t appear to have been part of the scheme by the other lads, for which I’m grateful.”

          Esme, casting her own glance back at them, wasn’t so certain herself.  There was just a shade of too much--grace--to Frodo’s surprise at learning that a prank planned by Gomez and Boridoc and their crowd to be played on the stablehobbits had somehow backfired, leaving the group of five lads all covered with whitewash and feathers apparently taken from the bins into which such things were stowed as poultry for the kitchens were being plucked.  Esme was certain she’d seen none of the five miscreants anywhere near the storeroom where such things were kept; but she did seem to remember that Freddy and Frodo had volunteered to replace the bin there after the sewing mistress was finished with it after making her last set of pillows and featherbeds. 

          She glanced at Bilbo, who wasn’t trying very hard to hide the satisfaction that he was feeling.

 *******

          As Esme opened the letter just delivered to her by Horto she could feel Mother Gilda’s eyes on her.  She glanced across the Master’s garden toward where Frodo, Merry in his lap, leaned over one of his books in Elvish with Bilbo, quietly reading it aloud.  Beside him lay a carefully tooled portfolio Dodinas had given him two days earlier after he’d begun drawing again, the corners of two of the pictures he’d recently done showing.  She smiled--the visit by their older cousin had certainly coincided this time with Frodo regaining much of his natural cheer, and not only was he displaying more color but also he’d finally begun to add a more proper amount of flesh.

          She returned her attention to the now opened envelope and pulled out the folded page within, her brow rising as she read.  At last she refolded the sheet and slipped it back within the envelope, returning her gaze to her young cousin and ward thoughtfully.

          At last Menegilda demanded, somewhat querulously, Esme thought, “Well, what is it all about?  It was from Cousin Lilac, wasn’t it?”

          Esme gave a thoughtful nod, then cast a glance at her mother-in-love with an apologetic smile.  “It’s an invitation to a house party to be held just after Midsummer there at the second Hornblower estate where she lives.”

          “And she’s inviting you and Sara, is she?”

          “Oh, we’re invited to attend, also, along with Mac; but the main invitation isn’t for us--it’s for Frodo.”

          At mention of his name Frodo’s reading faltered, and she could see identical twitches to not only the lad’s near ear but to Bilbo’s as well, although she noted with amusement that her older cousin was hiding his own interest more skillfully than was the younger one.  Even Bilbo, however, was having difficulty completely suppressing a twitch to his lip indicating his satisfaction at this turn of events.

          “Frodo?”  Menegilda’s voice was filled with surprise.  “Why for Frodo?”

          “It appears she has determined her granddaughter Phlox is to meet many of those of her cousins closest to her in age, so she is arranging this house party for the lass’s benefit.  Also, she has become convinced that all the young folk invited will do well to come to know some of those of their kinfolk they are not likely to have met due to having grown up at a distance from one another.”

          Rory smiled.  “That sounds a splendid idea,” he said approvingly.  “Did she give an indication as to who else is invited?”

          Esme shrugged.  “She gave a few names--Isumbard, Reginard, and Linden Took, Maligar Bolger, Timono, Bartolo, and Lavinia Bracegirdle, Rico Clayhanger, Ponto’s daughter Angelica and his cousin Delphinium from Overhill as two more Bagginses besides Frodo, Ned Boffin, Embilard North-Took, a Chubb or two, and three other Hornblowers and Longbottoms.”

          Merimac’s lip curled into a sardonic grin.  “No Sackville-Bagginses, though?”

          Esme nodded.  “Lobelia will be livid when she realizes her darling lad’s name is conspicuously absent.  It appears his reputation is well known already--although with the landholdings his parents have there in the South Farthing and the annual visits Otho and Lobelia make to them it’s only natural even his kindred there have learned to distance themselves.”

          Menegilda said, “But of course Frodo won’t be attending....”

          Esme was shocked at this assumption, and cast another quick glance Frodo’s way.  Neither the lad nor his older cousin had lifted their heads, both pretending to be studying the Elvish text lying between them; but she could see Frodo was peering sideways at her beneath his brows, while Bilbo’s jaw was clenched, and neither was reading aloud at the moment.  She shifted her gaze to Sara’s face and saw the look of frustrated surprise he was trying his best to hide from his mother.  “The invitation is for us as well as for Frodo,” she commented noncommitally.  “Mac, Sara, and I will need to consider it.”  She was pleased to see the abashed surprise on Gilda’s face, and the startled approval from Bilbo.

 *******

          Esme was sewing near the window in one of the front parlors when she heard a young Hobbit clear his throat, and looked up to find Gil looking at her.  “Cousin Esme?” he asked.  “May I speak to you privately?”

          “Is it serious?” she responded.

          He shrugged, and sighing she tucked the shirt she was working on back into her bag and the two of them headed for a smaller music room nearby.  It was empty at the moment as they went in and Esme decisively closed the door behind them.  At last she turned to him.  “What is it, Gil?”

          He gave a bit of a sigh.  “It’s Gomez, and Frodo.  Gomez has been making life miserable for the lad for some time, what I can tell.  Today Horto and I caught him with Boridoc and three other lads, slightly younger ones than them, surrounding Frodo in out in the orchard.  They were picking up many of the hard apples that had fallen from the trees and were starting to throw them at him and were calling him a mam’s lad and--and worse; swearing he’d set them up with that whitewash and those feathers, and they were threatening him.  When Horto and I got there it looked rather bad for Frodo, being caught there with no one to back him up and all; but they saw us and backed down, particularly when Horto started pelting them with green apples--he can throw much harder than they can, you know.

          “I’m afraid for him, Aunt.  Frodo won’t be able to properly protect himself against so many, you know, and he can’t always count on someone showing up to help the way we did today.”

          Esmeralda Took Brandybuck felt the alarm that had filled her at first being replaced by resolve.  “So, that’s how well Gomez learns, is it?” she said between gritted teeth.  “Well, I’ll not have Frodo merely sit around idly waiting for the next blow to take him.”

          That evening as the family gathered to eat for a change in the smaller dining room in the Master’s quarters Menegilda’s face was a study in amazement and dismay as Esmeralda announced without preamble that she, Saradoc, and Mac would be taking Frodo and Merry to the Hornblower house party.  “It’s about time Frodo got to know many of his more distant cousins,” she said coolly.

          Sara’s expression was startled and somewhat relieved and proud, Amaranth was openly approving, and Bilbo’s almost hid the triumph he was feeling.  As for Frodo--his was shocked, shocked and somehow hopeful, as if some worry was being lifted.

          Later as Esme went searching for Frodo and Bilbo in the gardens she heard the older Hobbit singing, then heard him stop and laugh.  “No, lad, right hand to the sole of the left foot, then slap your hands to the outside of your thighs.  Let’s try it again, shall we?”

          Quietly she peered past the great lilac to see Bilbo give a gesture to Frodo--as Bilbo repeated a phrase of the song he’d been singing before, the two of them stepped forward side by side, together practicing the steps of the Husbandman’s dance.

 *******

          As the coach pulled up before the doors to the great, rambling house that graced the second Hornblower leaf plantation Esmeralda breathed a sigh of relief.  Really, the roads this far south could do with a good deal of repair, she thought.  Merry had needed frequent changes in the past day’s journey due to a jounced stomach, and she herself was feeling decidedly sore and extraordinarily dusty.

          “Ah--welcome!” Lilac Hornblower was saying as she hurried down from the door with her granddaughter beside her, followed by a number of other teen lads and lasses.  She looked up at the box with surprise.  “You drove, Merimac my dear?  Leaf and pipe!  You didn’t think to use a coachman?  Oh, and Frodo!  How much you’ve grown, sweetling!  Keeping your cousin company as he drove, were you?  How thoughtful!  Jonkenton will take the coach for you and see to the ponies, as soon as we have your chests out, of course.”

          Esmeralda felt relief to be aided out of the coach by her equally stiff husband, and even found the bustling of her hostess reassuring.

 *******

          From her assigned place at the adults’ table Esmeralda peered to see how things went at the table where the younger Hobbits sat together.  Frodo looked particularly fine--the suit Bilbo had given him at Midsummer fit him well and became him splendidly, in spite of the obvious discomfort Frodo appeared to feel at being forced to dress more formally than was customary at Brandy Hall.  He had been seated between Isumbard Took, whom at least he knew, and a shorter, sallow-faced lad whose eyes were constantly darting around the room, and was seated opposite another older lad who was plainly a Bracegirdle.  Phlox sat in the place of honor at this table, Reginard Took on one side of her and a wary-looking lass with auburn hair to her right.  Esme turned to Alma Grubb, who sat near her, and asked, “Who’s the lad sitting beside Frodo?”

          “That’s Timono Bracegirdle, Tiercel’s son.  I’m not certain why he was invited unless it was out of pity for the lad.  His father’s quite mad, I fear, and his mum died in childbed with him.  I’m afraid that Lilac feels sorry for him.  And that’s Lavinia Bracegirdle there, sitting by Phlox.  She’s a sweet enough child, I suppose, for a Bracegirdle.  Her brother Bartolo’s here, too; where is he?  Oh, there across from Frodo.  Acerbic as only a Bracegirdle could be, our Bartolo.  And there’s my granddaughter, Delphinium.”

          Lilac leaned over from her place at the center of the adults’ table to confide, “I so hope that Frodo and Timono will become close friends.  Poor lad--such an unfortunate past for him, losing his mother and having the father he has, poor Timono has always been rather isolated, I’m afraid.  I thought, what with his parents dying as they did, Frodo might appreciate how Timono feels and offer him some understanding and appreciation.  And, after all, both are supposed to be brilliant.”

 *******

          “No, Merry, Frodo’s busy at the moment and can’t be expected to carry you about as he and the other older children play at I’ll-hide-and-you-seek-me.”

          “Want Frodo,” Merry said distinctively, his expression rebellious.

          At that moment Phlox’s little sister, who was six, bustled up.  Small Freesia was her grandmother all over again--small, round, commiserative, and a chatterbox.  “Hello, Meriadoc.  Come play with me--I’m making mud pies and sand cakes with pebbles for raisins.”  She firmly took the tiny lad’s hand and led him away, Merry’s steps unsteady as he fought against her grip.  It was a losing battle, Esme realized as she wandered over to see the play hearth the little lass had outlined with stones.

          Largo Longbottom was “it,” and had already found Frodo and Bartolo Bracegirdle as well as Linden Took.  As Largo returned to the base with Dremma Grubb in tow, the lass was saying, “I know where that Timono is hiding.”

          “So do I,” Largo answered her.  “But I’d rather let him sit there for now.”

          “Where is he?” Bartolo asked.

          “In a cupboard in the first drying shed.  I saw him go in there when I finished counting, and peeked into the shed to see the cupboard door closing.  Let him think no one knows where he’s hiding.”

          “He hid there yesterday, too,” Dremma said.

          Bartolo sniffed.  “He can sit there all day as far as I’m concerned.  I’m certain as he took my shirt studs as my gaffer gave me for Yule.”

          Dremma shook her head.  “I saw him peering through my curtains this morning when I was getting ready to dress.”

          “I’ll thump him on the side of the head, I catch him peeking at you or any other lass here,” Bartolo said.

          “He’s a lout,” Frodo suddenly said, “but no one ought to be hitting anyone.  It would do better if when we’re done finding everyone else we just leave him there, thinking the game’s still going on.”

          Bartolo laughed, as did Linden Took.  “Serve him right,” Linden said.  “I don’t like the way he keeps ‘bumping’ into me.”

          Dremma gave a delicate shudder.  “He did that to you, too?  He tried it on me in the parlor last evening, and that’s why I tripped him.  Oh, well--I know where Lavinia is.”

          Linden elbowed her in the ribs.  “Oh, don’t be a tell-all, Dremma.  Largo can find the rest on his own--can’t you, Largo?”

          Esme watched those left standing at the base while Largo went out once more on his searching.  The others were laughing at something while Frodo peered off toward the drying shed, his eyes thoughtful, until Linden said something and distracted him.  He shook himself as he turned to her politely and rejoined the conversation.

          Meanwhile Merry was gleefully covering himself with mud as Freesia looked on with approval.

 *******

          Hearing voices in the hallway outside her door, Esmeralda paused in the act of reaching for the handle.

          “But it would be easy to get,” said an oily voice.

          “But it’s not mine to take, and I neither want nor need it,” said Frodo.  “Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

          The other voice grew cold.  “You too good to raid gardens and such?”

          “If it was a simple matter of sneaking away some extra mushrooms or raiding the plum trees, that would be one thing, Timono.  But you’re not suggesting raiding a garden or a larder--you’re wanting me to go along as you take Isumbard’s pocketwatch, and I won’t do it.  And what’s more, I won’t let you do it, either.  And you might just think of returning Bartolo’s shirtstuds.  He knows you took them.”

          There was a moment of ominous silence before Timono spoke again.  “And how does he know I took them?”

          “Ask him.”

          “Did you tell on me?”

          “I didn’t know they were missing until he said he was certain you took them.  But if you have them, I suggest you give them back.  When he works himself up to searching for them, once he finds them I fear he’ll think only of giving you a good thumping.”

          “You don’t know I have them.”  The Bracegirdle lad’s voice was rather shrill with defiance.

          “When you’ve all but admitted you do?”  Frodo’s was scathing.

          “I thought you liked me,” Timono said, his voice now nearly whining.

          “And how is anyone to truly like you when you treat everyone else the way you do, Timono?” Frodo asked.

          “You have to like me.  You have to feel sorry for me--my mother’s dead.”

          “So?  Both my parents are dead, and I don’t demand other people feel sorry for me because of it.”

          “But the rest of your family likes you----”

          “They all do?  Could have fooled me.”  Esme could hear Frodo’s voice change as he began walking away.  “And don’t think to try things on me, Timono, for if you even attempt to do so, I will get you back--and I can make it look as if you yourself did whatever it is that I’ll do.  Understand?”

 *******

          It was Lilac herself who caught Timono hiding in a clothes press in the lass’s bathing room, apparently intent on catching them naked, getting into their bathtubs.  The tempest that raised would not soon be forgotten by anyone attending the house party.  And Esme was certain she caught a look of satisfaction on Frodo’s face as Timono was confined to his room or forced remain in the company of Jonkenton for the next two days.

 *******

          “You think he’d put it there?” Frodo was asking Largo as he and the other lads attending the party approached the fish pond.  This was a small, Hobbit-made lake beyond the orchard where Esme and a few of the other adult guests had been indulging in assisting in the plum harvest.  Esme looked at the next tree where Alma Grubb and Sara were laughing at some joke made; she didn’t think either had heard the lads.

          “I saw him throw something in there,” Largo said.  “And Bard said as you can swim and could maybe fetch it out again.”

          “Yes, I can swim well enough,” Frodo allowed, looking thoughtfully at the pond.  “But that’s not a particularly small place, and if the bottom’s muddy whatever it is he threw in could be hidden in it.”

          “You saying as you won’t try, Baggins?” demanded Bartolo.

          “I didn’t say that, only that it’s not likely to be particularly easy to find it.”  Frodo turned back toward Largo.  “What part of the pool did he toss it to?”

          After some quiet discussion, Frodo nodded, and he carefully disrobed to his small clothes.  He waded out into the pond, grimacing at the mud between his toes.  When he was waist deep he took a deep breath and leaned forward, then was swimming out about the distance Largo had indicated before diving under the surface.  A minute or so later he came up again, brushed his hair out of his eyes and took a few deep breaths before going down again.

          At last he came up with a hand raised, something held in it.  “This isn’t all,” he managed after spitting out some water.  Bard waded out a few feet from the shore, and Frodo tossed a packet toward him before disappearing once more.

          It had to be another quarter of an hour before Frodo finally emerged from the pool.  “We ought to have brought a towel,” he said as he shook himself.

          “The first one was my shirt studs,” Bartolo said, his voice taut with anger.  “I knew the little rat had taken them.”

          “What else did you find?” asked Largo.

          Frodo held out his hands; from what Esme could see he was holding a small cloth bag.  Bard took it and deftly untied the string fastening it closed.  “That’s not my knife,” Largo said, his voice solemn as Bard spilled the contents out into his hand.

          “No,” Reginard said.  “I think it belongs to Aunt Lilac.”

          Frodo, who was pulling his shirt over his shoulders, paused to look at the item.  At last he said quietly, “She’ll be so disheartened to know he took it from her.”

          Bartolo looked at him with a disgusted expression on his face.  “You think as she shouldn’t realize that poor little Timono is a thief and a sneak, so much so as he’d steal from her, too?”

          Frodo looked at the older lad.  “I’m not saying she shouldn’t know--I’m only saying it might well break her heart.”

          “She already knows that he’ll spy on the lasses,” Reginard pointed out.

          “But you saw no sign of my knife?” Largo asked.

          “If he threw it in there, it’s not near the same place,” Frodo assured him.  “The water’s not that deep, really, but the mud is pretty thick, and there are lots of weeds at the bottom.  I did well to find the two things I did find.  But I suspect that as the knife is a more common thing he’ll be more likely to want to keep it; and no one at home is likely to question that while he was gone he was gifted a knife, maybe for someone’s birthday.  The shirt studs are different, for they have Bartolo’s initials on them.  And he’d certainly never be able to explain that,” he added, indicating the item Bard had stowed back in the bag he held, and finished fastening his trousers.

          “What are you going to do with it?” asked Reginard.  “You going to tell on him?”

          “I suppose I’ll just tell Aunt Lilac that Largo thought he lost his knife in the lake, and when I helped search for it I found this instead.”

          “But you won’t tell her as Timono took it?” Barti persisted.

          “Do we know for certain he took it?” Frodo pointed out.  “I had no idea it was even missing.  Did you?”

          “Largo saw him toss it into the water....”

          Frodo shrugged.  “Largo saw him throw something into the lake, yes.  But I found two packets.  Which did Largo see him throw?  We don’t know.  Yes, he most likely threw both, especially since both things were in cloth bags.  But the bags are those they use here for packing small amounts of pipeweed for sale, and any of us could have gotten one of them out of the drying sheds where they’re stored, you know.  And even if I tell her, will she believe it?”

          The lads exchanged looks.  At last Largo said reluctantly, “You’re likely right.  She already knows he’s a sneak, after all.  She can put two and two together if she wants to.”

          “We can’t force her to believe he took it,” Maligar Bolger commented.  And with that the group of them headed back toward the house.

 *******

          Alma Grubb and Lilac Hornblower stood on either side of Esme, watching the young folk dancing, their eyes sparkling with approval.  “Frodo, Isumbard, and Linden are certainly the best in the hall,” Lilac breathed.  “Oh, my!” she said with admiration as Frodo did a particularly impressive spin, then passed Linden’s hand to her brother in time to turn to accept Lavinia’s from Rico Clayhanger for the next repetition of the pattern.  As Frodo hooked his hands in his waistcoat pockets and bounced on the balls of his feet Lavinia circled about him, her usually reserved expression softened into abject enjoyment as she held her skirts to each side and gave a curtsey to Rico before turning to accept a bow from her current partner.  She and Frodo hooked elbows for a turn before each went into a personal spin, and then Frodo was handing her off to Isumbard while reaching to accept Phlox’s hand from Rico.

          “He even has managed to make Lavinia look to be a competent dancer,” Alma murmured.  “Usually the lass has two left feet all made up of great toes; but there----”  She shook her head with admiration as the Bracegirdle lass spun gracefully from Bard to Bartolo’s partnering for the last repetition.

          All applauded as the music ended and the dancers broke apart, laughing and shining with accomplishment.  Frodo didn’t even notice that Lavinia Bracegirdle had set out to intercept him, his eyes fixed on the punchbowl.  Esme realized that she wasn’t the only one who’d watched Frodo passing Lavinia without a glance--Bartolo was now glaring at Frodo’s back as he stepped forward to place his hand on his sister’s shoulder and draw her toward the sideboard where refreshments lay.

          But now Esme’s attention was focused on her young cousin and ward.  “Are you enjoying yourself, dearling?” she asked as she managed to catch his eye.

          “Oh, yes, Aunt Esme,” he said as he accepted a cup of punch from a Goold matron with a glance and nod of thanks.  “Will you dance with me next?”

          She laughed.  “But we don’t even know what tune they’ll be playing next, Frodo.  Let’s wait and make certain it’s not something too strenuous for such a one as I.”

          He made a face as he gulped down the punch, then threw back his head to shake his curls out of his eyes.  “Nonsense,” he said, once he’d swallowed the last of his drink and returned his cup to the table.  “I saw you dancing the Springlering with Uncle Sara.  You still dance like the lithesome lass you are.”

          “Flatterer,” she said with a soft blow to his shoulder.  “Oh, here they go--the Bounder’s Jig, is it?  Get up there, lad--I know you can handle this one.”

          In seconds Frodo had joined Merimac, Isumbard, and three others on the floor, and all prepared to dance.  And in no time at all Frodo had set the tone for the others, and all agreed afterwards that this was the sprightliest rendition of the Bounder’s Jig they’d ever seen.  Soon those watching them were gladly tossing their coppers and brasses onto the floor so that the dancers appeared surrounded by a shining rain.  And the eyes of every lass or lady in the place were fixed on those dancing, particularly on the glowing form of Frodo Baggins, who danced with a grace unequaled throughout the hall.

          “I swear, he’s his cousin Bilbo all over again,” Alma Grubb breathed softly.  “I fell head over heels for Bilbo the year I first danced the Springlering with him, you know.”

          Esme nodded, her glance catching the worshipful gaze Lavinia Bracegirdle was bestowing on Frodo, and the resentful, protective one Bartolo was giving him.

The Rascal of Buckland

          “And how was the house party?” asked Dinodas as he helped Horto lift the clothes chests out of the coach.

          “Very enjoyable,” Saradoc advised him, turning to take Meriadoc and set him on the ground.  “And this one has been eager to be done with the coach from the moment we left Cousin Lilac’s.”

          “I see,” his uncle commented as the faunt, raising his voice in a prolonged, wordless cry of joy, hurried into the coolness of Brandy Hall, gladly leaving behind himself the increasingly oppressive heat of the August afternoon outside.

          Esme stretched the ache out of her back, and found herself examining the ridge into which Brandy Hall was dug with far more appreciation than she’d ever felt before.  At first the Hornblower house had felt comfortingly familiar with windows for every room and cross-breezes throughout most of the structure; but in time she found she missed the comfortable permanence of the great, complex smial in which she’d spent her married life.  She realized with an unexpected thrill that Buckland had become home to her more than either the farm at Whitwell or the Great Smial in Tookland.

          She turned as Frodo finally hopped out of the coach, his eyes alight, a spring in his step as he came forward to throw his arms about his uncle.

          “And who is this young giant?” Dinodas laughed.  He looked down the young Hobbit’s length.  “Either you’ve added another inch in the month you’ve been gone, lad, or your trouser legs and shirt sleeves have shrunk.  Are you looking to pass up your cousin Isumbard Took, then?”

          Frodo laughed.  “I’d not done so by the time we left Aunt Lilac’s three days ago.  Oh, but it’s good to be home!”

          “The little ones are all eager to know you’re back, Frodo--they swear no one can teach them to swim as well as you, or spin a better tale.”

          Frodo beamed as he reached down and hefted the largest of the chests onto his shoulder.  “Then after I’ve had a chance to get out of these town clothes I’ll have to see to taking some of them down to the bay, won’t I, Uncle Dino?”  Esme noted the surprise in Dino’s eyes as the lad turned in through the open door, heading for the Master’s Heir’s quarters, and was glad that Frodo hadn’t appeared to notice.

          Dino held Esme back for a moment.  “You’re not going to say anything about that?” he said quietly, nodding his head toward Frodo disappearing through the entrance hall with the chest on his shoulder, closely followed by Sara.

          She glanced that way briefly, then turned back to him.  “While we were in the Southfarthing Sara and I agreed to say nothing to stop Frodo from trying whatever he wished unless we could see him tiring.  He played at games, helped some in the fields, swam in their fishing pond, and danced--even helped carry out chests when all began preparing to leave.  Perhaps Laurel Chubbs in Hobbiton is right and he’s outgrowing it.  I think we need to give him the chance to see what he can do for a change.”

          Dino cast a glance in the direction of the Master’s parlor.  “Well, I’m all for it, lass; but you’d best be prepared for the worst from Menegilda.  She’s certain no healer in the Shire knows more than she does about what’s best for a body.”

          Esme breathed in between her teeth, gave a brief nod, then pulled herself up to her full height, and with Dino following at her shoulder she reentered her home.

 *******

          “What do you mean by letting that little lad carry that heavy chest through the whole of the Hall?” demanded Menegilda that evening after Frodo had gone off with Merry to put him to bed, Dahlia not being scheduled to return from her family’s home where she’d been helping out after the birth of her brother’s first child for another four days.

          Esme took a deep breath to steady herself.  “Mother Gilda, Frodo is not a little lad, not in any manner at all.  He’s almost sixteen years old and has been tall for his age since he was seven.  He’s proven again and again to be a most responsible individual, and I saw him just after he brought the chest to our quarters, and I saw not a single sign that he was in the least distress.  No, it was quite the contrary.”

          “Esme’s right, Mum,” Sara added.  “He had no difficulty at all carrying that chest, either while we were on the plantation or on our arrival this afternoon.  Let’s not keep discouraging him from doing ordinary things.”

          “You allowed him to carry chests while you were there?”  Gilda’s voice was shocked.

          “Are we to tell him no when all the other lads are doing the same for those who brought them, Mother?” Saradoc asked.  “Most of the teens and tweens here call Frodo the mam’s lad, you know.  Would you have these more distant cousins of ours do the same?”

          “They don’t!” the Mistress denied vehemently.

          “I’ve heard them call him that,” Esme said, shaking her head sadly.  “And what’s more I’ve heard some of the kitchen staff do the same.”

          “Who?” her husband’s mother demanded.

          “I didn’t see their faces--just overheard them.  And it’s definitely not all of them--just one or two who don’t understand why Master Frodo isn’t given tasks proper to his age and abilities as are all the other lads.”

          Menegilda turned on Sara.  “And how do you know the teens and tweens are calling him that?”

          Her son gave a sigh and looked up toward the ceiling.  “I’ve heard several lads and two or three of the lasses gossiping about the ‘mam’s lad,’ Mum; and not long before we left first for the Free Fair and then Threadneedle Gil came to me to express his concerns regarding how a few of the lads near Frodo’s age--spoke of him.  I questioned Dodiroc and Tumnus, and both admitted they were aware of the fact this was how Frodo was being spoken of much of the time.”

          Esme was surprised to learn that Sara had also become aware of how Frodo was being treated; but, then it was, she supposed, only to be expected that Gil would want both of them advised.

          Mother Gilda, however, wasn’t willing to give up without significant argument, and the discussion went on for quite a good part of the evening.  However, by the end of it certain concessions were wrung from her--from now on Frodo was to be allowed to assist at least with fairly normal chores within the Hall; he was to be given primary responsibility for assisting Tumnus in the schoolroom; he was to continue assisting Merimac and Saradoc in record keeping and copying circulars; he was to be allowed to accompany his cousins on the rounds of the nearer fields and storage barns, tenants, the mill, and the glass houses; he was to be allowed to assist in the gardens under the supervision of Dodiroc or Esme; he was to be allowed to go out with the lads his age and take part most of in their pursuits--as long as they weren’t deemed too rowdy; and he was to aid Merimac in seeing to the caring for many of the animals kept for the needs of the Hall, although again Gilda insisted Frodo be kept away from the ponies and their barns.

          By the time they got that far Esme was far too tired to insist on more--at least it could now be shown that Frodo was taking up fairly normal tasks and activities, and hopefully the talk of “mam’s lads” would die down.

 *******

          “Oh, Paladin, Eglantine, how good it is to see you!  No, let me look at you--it seems forever since we were last able to just visit.  And, oh, Pearl, how much you’ve grown since Midsummers.  Oh, come in--come in.  We have your quarters ready for you, and tea is laid in the parlor we always used to use when we were younger.  Oh, my heavens, Pimpernel, if you aren’t becoming quite the pretty little lass.”

          “It’s so good to see you, Esme,” Lanti sighed as they embraced.  “I’m so glad Toby encouraged us to come away for a time.  The lambing in the early spring was the most difficult we’ve seen, and it seems almost forever since we’ve been able to trust the birds and beasts--much less scrumpers from the Great Smial--not to strip the fields and garden.  Ever since Da Adalgrim died we’ve had to work so hard--makes us appreciate how much he did.”

          “No question,” Pal said as they went through the passages toward the quarters given to the use of the Tooks, “that we’ve needed desperately to get away for a time.  And has all been well with you?”

          “Oh, yes.  Although August has proven to be miserably warm.”

          “How was the house party down in the Southfarthing?” asked Lanti as they entered the small parlor that had been made ready for the use of the guests.

          “Very enjoyable indeed, and well worth the journey.”

          “And Frodo went, too?” Pal asked as he dropped the wicker basket full of clothes on the floor in the corner to the right of the door and sank into a chair, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his brow.  “I’m shocked Menegilda would let him go so far.”

          Esme gave a small shrug as she checked the temperature of the teapot and decided it was fine and began pouring out.  “I’m afraid I didn’t give her much choice.  If we were going with him she couldn’t well say he would be unsupervised, after all.  And it was such a pleasure for Mac, with his Adamanta and Berilac gone for several weeks to be with her younger sister for the birth of her first child.  He was at loose ends trying to think how he’d deal with the evenings alone in their rooms.”

          “So I’d suppose.”  Pal accepted the cup she offered him, then waved away the milk jug.  He took an appreciative sip before continuing, “I suspect it did Frodo a world of good.  By the way, where is he?”

          “He took Merry for the morning and went off with a group of the lads, off toward the old mill building.  Sara and Mac should be back shortly from Bree--Rory sent them to fetch back the order of cloth for the sewing rooms he made a month back--we got word three day ago it was ready, and Liliana is keen to get her hands on it as soon as possible--she says that too many of the lads are outgrowing their trousers or have had them patched so often it’s a shame on the Hall.” 

          “Ah, the running of one of the greater smials,” Lanti sighed.  “It makes me glad I’ve no more to worry about than the house on the farm and the few hands we have.”

          “I only hope,” Esme said as she handed a mug of cambric tea to Pearl, who was sitting back on one of the low sofas, “that the lads are keeping out of mischief.”

          “Frodo Baggins, in mischief?” asked Paladin as he paused in the buttering of a scone.  “Since when is that lad allowed to get into mischief?  He hardly seems the sort, you know.”

          “Well, that was before Bilbo informed me he intended to--stimulate Frodo’s imagination by telling tales of the mischief he himself used to get into when a lad.  I know that Da and our grandfather had tales to tell on him from the days before he became the so-proper Master of Bag End.”

          “Why would he want to stimulate Frodo’s imagination about such things as this?” asked Lanti.

          Esme paused briefly before saying, rather delicately, “It was in hopes Frodo might find a good means to manage a few of the other lads.”

          “Were they calling him a mam’s lad or something like?” asked Paladin shrewdly.

          Again she paused briefly before nodding.  Pearl looked shocked at the idea.  “Cousin Frodo’s no mam’s lad!” she insisted.

          “I should hope not,” her mother agreed.  “Why would they even think such a thing, Esme?”

          “Think, Lanti,” Paladin reasoned, “with those delicate features and intelligent mind, not doing much in the way of things lads usually do--the other lads don’t know that there’s a reason why he’s not been allowed to run wild with them or been assigned the tasks they’ve always done.  That they’d consider he might be a mam’s lad is, unfortunately, the most likely answer they’d come up with.”

          “It’s certainly not because he hasn’t wanted to do more,” Esme said with a level of vehemence to her tone.

          “Have they gotten him into any fights yet?” Pal asked.

          “They’ve come close,” Esme admitted.  “However, he’s insisted on handling it himself, and it appears he’s managing them well enough.”

          “What did he do?”

          She took a deep breath, and gave a little laugh.  “Well, there was the matter of the whitewash and the chicken feathers.  First you need to understand that one of the older tweens who’s just been accepted as a regular groom for the Hall and Gomez, who’s only a couple years older than Frodo, have been feuding for a long time, and Gomez and the four or five lads closest to him have been pulling pranks on him for some time.  A few weeks before Midsummer the five of them were found in the main pony barn covered with whitewash and chicken feathers.  It appeared that they’d been planning to get buckets of both so balanced over the door to the stable that when the older lad went in the next morning to open the stalls and see the ponies turned out into the paddock he’d get covered by both, only that they got caught in their own web.”

          Paladin’s eyes were wide with surprise and growing amusement.  “Only Frodo actually caught the five lads who’d been needling him?”

          “Well, of course we were certain at first they were truly trying to set such a trap only it fell on them, and they wouldn’t tell us what they’d really been doing there at the pony barns, and so they were punished.  Only a week later another of the older lads came to me concerned, saying Gomez had tried to corner Frodo alone and was accusing him of having engineered the whole thing.  And although anyone might have taken some of the whitewash from the paint storage shed, for it had been recently mixed to repaint the inside of many of the storage rooms and sheds, the only lads who’d been near the feathers stores were Frodo and his friend Brendi.”

          Pal had started to laugh, and was laughing so hard he was forced to set down his plate and cup on the table by him.  “Oh, how wonderful!” he laughed.  “How wonderful!”  At last he pulled out his handkerchief again and wiped his eyes.  “Ah, dear--made to look as if they were caught in their own mischief, were they?”

          “And then last week Gomez was caught by Willow in the larder where they keep the greatest treats.  It’s Menegilda’s birthday soon, and they start with many of the special sweets weeks early for it, you see.  The lads had been troubling that larder so often Willow had convinced Dinodas to come up with some kind of latch that could only open from the outside to catch anyone who might get into it, and it worked--he fixed the door to swing shut after anyone went in, and this time it caught Gomez.  Only when Dino was working on the hinges and latch Frodo was assisting him.  I doubt he’d tell any of the other lads what Dino had done, but somehow I’m certain he saw a way into convincing Gomez there were some especially wonderful treats in there--the lad has a terrible urge for sweets, he does.  There was a look of most definite satisfaction--but only for a moment, when Willow came to us at breakfast to tell us that they’d found Gomez caught in there.

          “Then there was something that happened while we were at Cousin Lilac’s.  By the way, did Isumbard have his pocket watch when he came back home, do you know?”

          “I heard nothing of it being missing, and considering that’s an heirloom of the Smial I’m certain if it was gone all would know.  You’d think Lalia herself carried them, as inordinately proud as she is of the various ones belonging to the Smial Hobbits.”

          “Well, I overheard one of the Bracegirdle lads trying to wheedle Frodo into helping him steal it.  This lad was already under suspicion by the rest of the younglings of having stolen a variety of objects, and when he was observed throwing something into the fish pond they convinced Frodo to search for the missing items there.  He found one of the missing things, but not the rest.  Anyway, when the lad tried to get Frodo to help him steal the watch Frodo refused, and warned him not to try or he’d do something to get the lad into trouble, and make it look as if the lad had thought of it himself.  A few days later the lad was found in a bin in the bathing room given to the use of the lasses at the party.  Now, he already was known to be a window peeper, and how Frodo might have been able to get him into that bin I have no idea.  However, considering the feathers and the whitewash, I must wonder if he might have been involved.”

          Paladin shook his head.  “I wonder,” he said.  “The whitewash and the chicken feathers sounds suspiciously like one of the pranks Bilbo and Sigismond engineered on the Old Took’s favorite hound.  And then there was the time he and Uncle Sigismond convinced Flambard that a surprise party was being planned in honor of his recent victories at the pony races at his sister’s apartments, and they talked him into giving the guests a bit of a laugh.  So he walks into his sister’s private parlor wearing nothing but his small clothes, only it’s not his friends but many of the snootiest ladies from the Great Smial and Tuckborough, for his sister had planned to announce officially that day that she’d just learned she was expecting their first child.”

          Esme found herself engulfed in giggles, and soon was laughing so hard that young Pimpernel, sitting at her feet, was giggling too.  Esme scooped the child off the floor and into her lap.  “Oh,” she finally managed, “it’s going to be interesting to see what other mischief various of the lads will be caught in that they didn’t plan.”

          At that moment there was a sound of approaching voices, and then the door burst open and Frodo came in with a bound with Merry in his arms and Brendilac at his heels, his face alight with pleasure as he surveyed the company.  “How wonderful to see you, Uncle Pal, Aunt Lanti!”

 *******

          Esme looked up from her needlework as the door opened and Mac came in, his face a marvelous study in competing emotions as he approached her.  He leaned down to murmur, “Could you make your excuses to Liliana and the rest and come to Sara’s study?”

          Surprised, she nodded and rose, setting down her portion of the quilt they were constructing as she explained some Hall business had come up that she needed to see to, and she followed her brother-in-love out of the main sewing room.  They walked without talking, and Esme found herself wondering as she examined his face.  One moment he looked amused, and then exasperated, and then confused.  Now what? she wondered.

          Mac opened the door to Sara’s office and allowed her to enter first, closing the door after them and taking a position to one side of it.  Sara looked up and gave her a brief smile, nodding to a chair near the wall before turning his attention back to the couple sitting in the guests’ chairs before his desk.  “Now, you say a lad came to your place with this puppy?” he said.  “And you think he was from here at Brandy Hall?”

          “Yes,” the gentlehobbit said, a farmer or smallholder, Esme judged.  “Yes, definitely a Hall lad, for his trousers was of the cloth as the Master always buys from Bree for such things, they was.  Anyways, as I was saying before you asked we wait for your lady to join us, he comes to the door with this puppy in his arms.  Says as there’d been a large litter, and now as they was old enough to be weaned his dad was insisting they find homes for those as they couldn’t keep.  Would we be interested, he asks, in having such a fine dog as this one was likely to grow to be?

          “Well, my wife here has a love for such beasts, so I calls her out to ask her if she’d like to have another dog, for we lost our Bounder a year past.  We discuss it for a bit, and at last my wife, she agrees, so we thank the lad and he lets us have the pup and off he goes.  Now, he come just as I was getting ready to go out to the berry hedge behind the house to bring back a bucket of blueberries for the wife’s baking.  Only, when I get there there’s not a ripe berry to be found--all stripped away, they was, and apparently while we was at the front door talking with this lad, for I’d just been out there not long before to see if there was enough for what she wanted.”

          “So,” his wife took up the tale, “we decided to come see if anyone here might know the pup, and to let you know as there’s a lad comin’ up now as has a fair mind to think up such tricks as to keep a body from catchin’ him and his friends a’scrumpin’.  Oh, we don’t wish to get the lad into trouble, mind, for what’s the problem with takin’ a few berries now and then?  No, we don’t mind that so much, although I was to take a blueberry cake tomorrow when we go off to me sister’s place, don’t ye know.  Can’t now, as there’s no berries left to make such a thing, of course.  Anyways, we thought to let you know so’s you could keep an eye on matters--keep it from goin’ too far, you see.”

          “I see,” Saradoc said, then looked at his wife.  “I was wondering, Esme sweetest, if you recognized the pup.”

          She rose and came near, lifting the little dog to examine it before nodding.  “I’m certain this is one of the pups Dodiroc’s Belle threw a couple months back.  I heard him asking some of the lads if they could help find homes for all but the pair he’d decided to keep.”

          The Hobbitess looked relieved as she took the puppy back into her own arms.  “Then it was true the pup was free to a willin’ home, is it?  That’s good, for already I’ve become that fond of her.  She’ll be a right nice bitch once she’s growed a bit, I’m thinkin’.”

          “Then you’re not so upset that you don’t want her?” Sara asked.

          “Not want her?” she asked as the puppy reached out to lick her face--she was having to close one eye to protect it from the little animal’s eager tongue.  “How could anyone not like a pup as nice as this?  No, if’n it’s all the same to you we’d love to keep her, for she’s a cunnin’ one.  And we’re not askin’ for any recompense, mind you--only wanted to let ye know.”

          “Well, we can certainly see to it that you have enough berries to make your cake and more besides.  Mac, would you mind taking her to the larder where Willow’s been storing our own blueberry harvest?  Thanks so much, brother mine.”

          And with exchanges of respect and humor, the couple departed, the puppy held gently to the bosom of the goodwife.

          Once the door was closed behind them and the voices faded into the distance, Sara asked, “Well?”

          “He might have done,” Esme admitted.  She looked off again.  “But if he did, he did it right cleverly, I must say.”

          Sara nodded, his eyes thoughtful.

 *******

          The next couple wasn’t anywhere as understanding.  “I’ll tell you,” the farmer fumed, “there wasn’t a ripe tomato left on the vines once I got out into the gardens, once the little lad and his kitten had left, fetched off by an older lad.  It wasn’t until we found the vines had been stripped that the wife here noted as the lads was both a’wearin’ Hall cloth on’em.  Now, what for was a faunt from the Hall a’doin’ across the river in the Marish with a kitten a’stuck up in my apple tree while my garden’s a’bein’ raided?”

          When Frodo was asked about the incident he affected a most innocent air, his blue eyes opened their widest and most appealing.  However, as Sara noted later, it was interesting that somehow Frodo had managed to neither directly admit nor deny his involvement.

          And when Esme dropped in on Adamanta a short time afterwards to gossip for a bit, she found Mac’s wife pulling leaves out of their small cat’s long, silky fur.  “I can’t think how Sprite here came to have so many apple leaves in her coat,” she commented.  But when they tried to question young Berilac he only shook his head, biting on his knuckles.

 *******

          “This is getting ridiculous,” Sara grumbled.  “The worst diversion I ever used was to set the Maggot’s boar loose in their potato patch while I was raiding the mushrooms.  But we’ve had an incident a week since mid-August, and things are getting more inventive as they go along.”

          “If it’s Frodo, he’s managing to keep from being seen, at least,” Adamanta said, gladly sipping at her cider.  “None of those involved in the scrumping is getting caught at it.”

          “Last week it was an entire ham from the Smallfoot place,” Mac said, “and week before a good two pounds of butter from Sweetwater’s dairy.”  He turned to his brother’s wife.  “Do you know where Frodo and Brendi and Freddy Oldbuck were today?” he asked.

          “Frodo was to have gone with Sara to Haygate Farm to see to the renewal of the lease there, but when word came their oldest was ill and the visit was off he disappeared with the other lads off to Freddy’s folks’ place at Kingsbridge almost immediately.  Merry was furious when he woke from his nap and Frodo wasn’t to be found.”

          “Could he and the other lads have managed to get there to Bamfurlong and back to Kingsbridge in time for me to bring them home when I came through there with the trap a couple hours after noon, do you think?” Mac asked.

          “Not unless they ran like the wind,” Sara noted.

 *******

          Winter didn’t bring an end to the reports on raiding.  The glass house at Goodloam’s farm had not a single tomato left when the family returned from a trip to Whitfurrow; the best milker at Sweetwater’s dairy was found with her udder stripped when it was time to milk the herd.  Near Yule a recently dressed duck was taken from the cool shed on one farm, and three pies were missing from a house not far from the Bucklebury Ferry.  But the culprit wasn’t found, and Frodo continued not to answer questions regarding what he, Freddy, Brendi, and Gil might have been up to.

 *******

          For Yule they traveled to Tookland to celebrate the holiday in the Great Smial, where Paladin’s family usually resided during the worst of the winter weather, for it was at this time of year that Ferumbras saw to the preparation of his cousin for his role as Thain should Ferumbras leave no more direct heir, that event being totally unlikely at this point.  The chances Lalia would allow Ferumbras to take a wife and produce a family as long as she held onto the title of the Took lessened with the passing of each year, and it was now doubtful that even in the unlikely event Ferumbras was to take a bride in spite of his mother’s interference he’d be able to father an heir.  He wasn’t exactly a young Hobbit any more.

          The visitors from the Hall settled into their guest quarters in the Great Smial, and Frodo immediately went in search of Reginard and Bilbo.  Bilbo wasn’t exactly a welcome guest, for Ferumbras had made it plain he tolerated his eccentric cousin from Hobbiton only for the sake of Paladin and Eglantine; but the old fellow was nevertheless as popular with the younger fry as ever.         

*******

          “Well, if that isn’t something to see,” murmured Ferdinand Took about the stem of his pipe as he stood, watching the younger Hobbits dancing about the Yule bonfire.  In the midst of them all was Frodo Baggins, his figure erect and totally given to the music and movement that possessed him at the moment.  “That lad’s a right flame, he is!”

          “No question of that,” Esme murmured, watching with delight at how all seemed to take inspiration from Frodo’s own grace.

 *******

          “And you have no knowledge of what could have happened to cause the seat of my mother’s chair to become covered with glue?” demanded the Thain.

          “And I ask again, Uncle Ferumbras,” Frodo said with a good deal of dignity, “how you think that I might have been involved?  We are staying at the far end of the smial from the Thain’s quarters, after all, and I’ve been watching Merry and Berilac and some of the youngsters from the Smial every morning, telling them tales and keeping them entertained so their parents can enjoy a bit of a lie-in.  How was I to be able to do such a thing and first not get caught, and then get back to be in my own quarters to deal with the faunts?”

          Ferumbras glared at the lad.  “I’m not certain, but if I find any indication you were indeed involved I’ll thrash you myself.”

          Sara stood up.  “I do not like it that you would think to threaten my ward in my presence.  And it’s not as if there weren’t any number of individuals throughout the place who’ve known the sharp side of your mother’s tongue more than once, as you know all too well.  Why you would decide it had to be Frodo....”

          The Thain glared at his Brandybuck relative and stalked out of the parlor where he’d confronted the lad.  Esme felt the tension begin to ease out of her as Bilbo stepped forward to put his hand on Frodo’s shoulder.

 *******

          “The first complaint is in about scrumping,” Mac sighed as he sat heavily on the bench beside his brother and took out his pipe.  Esme looked up from the great basin of the last of the winter’s store of apples she was going through, picking out those that had gone bad so the rest could be baked into pies.  It was the first truly warm day of spring, and it was so pleasant to be out in this courtyard in the open, surrounded by blossoms from the plum tree against the sunny wall and the narcissi that shone under the windows.  “Someone’s been into the berries growing in the glasshouse at Goodloams’ farm.  Polo’s fit to be tied.”

 *******

          “It’s Maggot, and he’s not particularly happy.”  Sara’s voice sounded exhausted.  “He insisted on speaking with the Master himself, and so Dad has called Frodo into the office to question him.  The lad refuses to say where he’s been or what he’s been doing, just fingers that green stone he carries in his pocket and shakes his head, now that they’ve refused to be distracted by his questions as to how they think he might have been involved at all.  Plus it appears that Frodo tried riding his prize bull a few days ago.  This he admits to freely, by the way.  Lucky the lad wasn’t killed--Maggot’s never had the beast polled, after all.  When my mother learns that she’ll be furious with fear for the child.”

 *******

          Another year came and went.  The reports of scrumping in the Marish became more infrequent, and Esme was quick to notice that this corresponded with Frodo being given more responsibilities about the Hall.  He was now teaching many of the younger lads and lasses to read and write while Tumnus and the new auxiliary lessons master worked with the older children, and he was charged with making an inventory of the storerooms and sheds about the place as well as being kept busy helping scribe correspondence for Mac, who’d suffered a broken collar bone at the end of winter, slipping on ice outside the side door to the kitchens.  But when the reports came, they were filled with tales of increasingly inventive distractions and equally more daring thefts of food.  Only, although on one occasion a farmer’s son was certain he saw that Frodo Baggins vaulting the hedge at the end of the far field after the other, broader lads who’d gone first, no one could truly say he was indeed involved.

 *******

          Esme looked into Merry’s room and found it empty again.  This was common enough any more, for Merry idolized Frodo and would slip out of his bed and into Frodo’s at night so as to spend what time he could with his cousin.  As usual, Merry hadn’t latched Frodo’s door behind him, and as she put her ear to the crack she could hear the soft murmur of the two voices.  “And did he get away from the bull?” Merry was asking.

          “Oh, yes he did.  He made it over the stone wall just in time, the clever lad did, and the farmer later never could figure out how anyone had gotten past it into the strawberry field.”

          Merry laughed, and Esme found herself grinning.  Was that how it happened Maggot’s strawberries had been raided a couple weeks back?

          “Will you take me with you when you go about the Free Fair when we go?”

          “Of course.  What do you want to see while we’re there?”

          “Oh, I want to see all the calves and the lambs and the ponies.  Mac let me ride his pony today, all by myself--oh, he led it, but I got to ride alone.”

          “Wonderful.”  Esme could clearly hear the regret in Frodo’s voice--Menegilda continued to insist the lad not be allowed around the ponies.  “You’re getting to be quite a big lad now.”

          “Do you think you’ll get your own pony now and learn to ride, Frodo?”

          Frodo’s voice when it came was distinctly neutral.  “Maybe I don’t want to learn to ride.  Uncle Bilbo says he sees more when he walks than when he rides, after all--that’s why he does it so often, you see.”

          “Tell me again about the time we saw the Elf on the picnic, Frodo.”

          Esme realized that she wasn’t the only one who realized Frodo was hurt about not being allowed to ride, and that Merry was seeking to distract his cousin, and she found herself proud of the little lad she’d given birth to.

 *******

          “Why don’t you stay home from the Free Fair and keep an old Hobbitess company, Frodo my lad?” Menegilda asked.

          “But I’ve already promised Merry I’ll take him around with me.  Why won’t you come?”

          “Face it, child--I’m not as young as I used to be.”

          “Nonsense, Aunt Gilda, for you’re still the one to turn all the gentlehobbits' heads.”

          “You dear, dear lad.”  The Mistress smiled at him fondly.

          There was a moment of silence that Frodo finally broke.  “Aunt, why don’t you let me learn to ride?”

          Her answer was guarded.  “What makes you certain it’s me that does that, Frodo Baggins?”

          He looked at her sideways.  “None of the other lads is kept from riding, and Mac’s even begun getting Merry used to being on a pony’s back by himself.  Obviously Aunt Esme and Uncle Sara don’t mind, and all have told me how Uncle Rory taught both Sara and Mac and their cousins to ride when they were young.  You’re the only one about the whole Hall who doesn’t particularly care for ponies, Aunt.  So, why can’t I learn to ride, too?”

          “You’re still but a young Hobbit, Frodo.  There’s time....”

          “Merry’s still a faunt, Aunt.  I’ll be eighteen next fall.”  His voice was carefully controlled.

          At last she answered slowly, “My gaffer died amongst the ponies in the paddock, Frodo, and I was the one who found his body.  I have nightmares about it to this day, only now instead of my grandfather it’s you I see lying there.”

          He examined her face, obviously disturbed.  Finally he said, “But he was older, and I’m but a lad.”

          “He was only in his early sixties, for he married before he was quite of age, as did my mother.  I wasn’t much more than a faunt myself, you see.  You remind me of him so much, Frodo.”

          “But I’m not him,” he continued, although Esme could tell a lot of the heart had gone out of his arguments.

          She shrugged.  “It’s just that I love you so very much, dearling, that I can’t bear the thought of you ever being seriously hurt.”

          Esme could see the unspoken frustration in his eyes.  Can’t you see, Mother Gilda, she thought, how much it hurts him not to be allowed?

 *******

          It was in May of the spring after his nineteenth birthday that Frodo was actually caught.  All knew by this time that Maggot and his brothers had recognized Frodo at least twice in the mushroom patch that was the pride of the farmer and Bamfurlong’s primary claim to fame.  Maggot could forgive a great deal of scrumping, but to have his mushroom patch repeatedly denuded drove him mad with frustration and a growing determination to catch the Young Scoundrel, as he openly referred to Frodo, in the act.  Truth be told, the farmer and his family had come to admire Frodo’s wit and audacity; and on at least two occasions when Frodo and the lads with him were escaping from other farmers across Bamfurlong’s fields he’d held his dogs in to allow them to win free.  But he was intent on catching Frodo himself and giving him a lesson in not trespassing too much or taking more than enough for the moment’s hunger.

          So it was that when a trap broke down at the head of the lane to his farm on one of the days Maggot figured he was likely to be raided again it was one of his brothers who went to deal with it while the farmer himself remained hidden in the hedge surrounding the mushroom patch, waiting patiently.

          “And so it was,” he explained, “that I caught him at the last.  He had two bags, mind you, to put the mushrooms in.  To make certain he couldn’t question as he’d been caught fair and square I let him get the first one partly filled before I finally showed myself.  Took him right by surprise, I did--went all white with shock at the sight of me, and for once he couldn’t run away before one could get a good look at him, not this time.”

          He sighed.  “I had Brute by me, and I knew as Gobbler was with my brother and would come when I whistled.  I stepped forward and made myself look as large as I could.  “So,” I says to him, “you’ve come again, have you, Baggins, a-thievin’ other folks’ crops.  Sure and I could survive if you was to take every mushroom on the place, but then what’s left for others?  With all the scrumpin’ as you and your fellows have planned, I could perhaps feed my family through the winter; but then what about money for cloth for clothes, for lamp oil, for what foods as we can’t grow for ourselves?  How do I pay my hands?’

          “Then I give him my fiercest look of all.  ‘What do you think as you deserve for all the thievin’ as you’ve done the past few years, young Hobbit?’ I asks him.  And he answers, his voice tight in his throat as if he’s bound to tell the truth and all, ‘Banishment, maybe?’  Now, if that didn’t take me aback!  And what’s worse is that he meant it--he truly meant it!  He truly felt as he perhaps deserved banishment!  It took all as I could do to keep up the mean appearance.

          “‘No,’ I answers when I could keep my voice steady.  I don’t think as he realized as he’d shook me to the core--I suspect as he felt as I was just all the more angry, and that I’d took what he said as cheek.  But I know as it wasn’t meant for cheek, not with that look on his face.  Anyway, I said, ‘No, not banishment, not for a mere lad.  But you need a lesson learned, and I’m the one to teach it to you.  Now, I am goin’ to cane you, you understand?’  He just nods and says, ‘Yessir.’  So I raise my cane and I gives him three stripes on the sit-down and I whistles for Gobbler.  Gobbler comes a’runnin, but so does Stripe.  Now, Stripe is a young hound, he is, and perhaps a bit too literal-minded for a dog of mine as yet.  Wouldn’t really hurt no one, but he’ll go past my fences where the other dogs know as to where the bounds of Bamfurlong are and won’t leave them.

          “There was no way to hold Stripe back and not have the Young Scoundrel realize as I’d not really hurt him and all, so I says to them, real loud and gruff, ‘Now, you see this scalawag?  He comes here again, you’ve my leave to eat him and gnaw his bones for afters.  Now, see to it as he leaves the farm as quickly as possible.’  And I give the signal, for that’s what they was a’waitin’ for, and off they go, with him streakin’ off faster’n the wind.  I’ve run my share of lads off the farm over the years, but none ever went as fast as him.

          “It wasn’t too terrible long before Brute and Gobbler come back, but Stripe wasn’t with them.  I suspect as long as the lad kept a’runnin’ that Stripe would keep on runnin’ after, for that’s his nature so far.  Loves to chase, he does.  He’ll run after my youngster all about the place until the lad falls down a’pantin’, and then he’ll move in to have his ears scratched and to have a tug and a good pet.  But your young Baggins, I got the feelin’ as he don’t trust dogs too awful much.”

          Sara nodded, his own face rather pale.  “No, he’s not too much on dogs.  I tend to sneeze when I’m around them, so I usually give them a wide birth, and we’ve never had any in the Master’s quarters while he was staying here because of it.  Mac has two, but they stay in the stables at nights, and as Frodo doesn’t help with the ponies he rarely sees them save from a distance.”

          The farmer scratched his nose.  “So, he’d not be likely to understand that all Stripe wants to do is to play, really?”

          “No, not likely.”

          “I see.”  Maggot was plainly thinking.  At last he said, “All I really want is to have the scrumpin’ kept down to a reasonable amount, and for your lads to leave my mushrooms alone.  Somehow they have to learn as our crops is our livelihood, you see, and not somethin’ we do so’s they can come in and take all as they’d like of what we grow.”

          “I can certainly appreciate that.”

          “I know as you can, for you run the farm here, and the Hall wouldn’t run at all if it and the holdings you lease out didn’t bring in enough to feed all as live in it.  Now, I never meant to seriously harm the lad, but I’ll tell you as he needs stoppin’ now.  He looks to be a fine lad indeed, and such a one as he’s meant to be shouldn’t think as it’s all right to take as much as he can by setting up such tricks to draw folks off and then clean out what can be harvested while their attention’s elsewhere.”

          Sadly, Sara indicated his full agreement.  “There’s no question you’re right about this, Maggot.  And I’ll see to it that he stops now and never does it again.  He’s run as wild as he could for the last three years, and it’s time to put a stop to it.”

          “You won’t beat the lad?”

          “Beat Frodo?  Stars, no!  Certainly not!  But we won’t allow him to continue on with his wild ways.  Apparently it’s time to put the leash back on him.”

          Farmer Maggot gave a final nod.  “All right.  And when you’re certain as he’ll understand, you can tell him I really admire him.  He’s right smart, he is.”

          “Too smart for his own good,” old Rory commented from his seat behind his son where he’d been observing the proceedings.  Rory rose and walked with the farmer out to the main door to the Hall, then came back to Sara’s office where his son still sat, Esme standing behind him, rubbing his shoulders. 

          “I sent Mac and Dodi to look for Frodo, but I doubt he’s back yet,” Sara said quietly.

          “I asked Horto if Frodo had been seen, and he’s sending Gil to check out the mill.  I suppose we should have Dodiroc check out the hiding places he’s aware of that Frodo favors in the gardens, and we should set Willow and Hawthorn to search the upper storerooms, larders, pantries, and so on.  And I’ll set Dinodas to checking out the older storerooms and mathom chambers and the wine cellars.  Esme, will you ask Adamanta and Liliana to help check elsewhere?  And send Brendilac to my office.”

          Within an hour the logical places where Frodo might hide (and a few others Dinodas alone seemed to know about) had all been searched.  Marmadas had scoured the storage barns, holes, and sheds; Mac had been through the byres, the stables, and the poultry houses; Dodi had made certain neither the unfinished smial Frodo’s parents had begun excavating on a ridge somewhat closer to the Withywindle nor the abandoned hole of River Place hid the lad; Esme had gone through empty apartments, dressing rooms, the clothing stores, and guest quarters, even unlocking the apartment once given to the family of Primula Brandybuck Baggins when they came to stay in the Hall to search through it thoroughly; Brendi visited the quarters of the rest of those who generally took part with Frodo in the raiding of the Marish and ascertained that he wasn’t in any of those while his father drove to Kingsbridge to learn if Frodo had taken refuge with the Oldbucks.  When he came back just short of sunset Frodo still hadn’t been seen anywhere this side of the river.  All they could do was wait.

 *******

          “I’ve found him, Missus Esme,” Marigold Brownlock said.  “I found him in the kitchens, like, there by Willow’s larder.  Now, as it’s Mr. Marmadas’s birthday tomorrow it’s bein’ filled with food for the party, and at first I thought as he was goin’ to try for the cakes as was put in there today, but after I accused him of it I thought better.  No, mum, I don’t think as he was truly after treats.  He’s right pale, he is--right pale.  A bit green about the edges, in fact.  I’d say as he’d been scared right out of a year’s growth by the looks of him.  But who’d frighten him, sweet lad as he is, and why?  You don’t think as that Gomez has been botherin’ him again, do you?”

          “No, for Gomez has been working in the piggeries for the past week for the whitewashing he did of his brother’s windows.  He’s been under the eye of Bodridoc all day long until he came in about an hour ago and was escorted by his father to the bathing room and then sent to bed.  We have an idea as to what may have frightened Frodo much earlier today, but none as to where he’s been since.  Where is he now?”

          “Orders was to take him on to the Master’s office, and that’s where I took him.  Master Rory’s dealin’ with him, but I’d say as the lad needs to be put to bed hisself, same as Gomez, and probably with better reason.”

          Esme thanked Marigold and set off for Rory’s office herself.  Once she reached the door she stopped, brushed at her hair with her hand, took a deep breath, and knocked at the door.  Sara opened it and nodded her in, and together they sat on the narrow sofa just inside the room.

          Frodo was sitting in a wooden chair, while Rory had pulled the chair from behind the desk to face him, and Menegilda stood behind him, her hand resting against the side of his neck, trying to gauge the beating of his heart from the echo there, Esme judged.  “But Maggot said that he caught you in his mushroom patch shortly after noon, and it’s now after sunset.  Where have you been all these hours?”

          Frodo shook his head.  “A byre somewhere,” he mumbled.  “The dogs chased me, and I fled.”

          It was typical of Frodo, Esme thought, that he’d say I fled instead of I ran away.

          Menegilda straightened and made a sign to her husband.  Rory and she exchanged that silent communication that seemed to pass so easily between them, then turned back to Frodo.  “Farmer Maggot has told us what passed between the two of you today, lad, and how much the thefts you’ve been practicing have cut into the resources for his family.  Not only that, you also admitted to riding his bull twice, which not only was a dangerous and foolish thing to do--”  Esme saw her mother-in-love go white, for no one had told her previously that Frodo had done any such thing.  “--but it also risked the health of the animal.  Farm animals are not great playthings, Frodo, but beasts that offer us dear service.  Had the animal become so confused or enraged at your behavior he ran his head into the stone byre or wall, it could have injured him.  And I will tell you truly that had I been required to pay to replace that bull it would have cost the entire Hall dearly.

          “I am very disappointed in you, and feel that it would be best for all if you go directly to your room and go to bed and think about what you’ve done and how it has harmed those you’ve been stealing from.”

          “I never thought of it as stealing,” the lad whispered through pale lips.

          “Few of us like to admit that scrumping is stealing, Frodo Baggins, but that’s what it is, put plainly.  You knew it was wrong.”

          At the pause after this Frodo finally gave a nod.

          “You’ve been hiding what you were doing all this time.”

          Again the pause and the delayed nod.

          “When we are all calm again we will meet to discuss what punishment will be yours.  Do you understand?”

          Frodo rather desperately searched his uncle’s face.  Finally he answered, “Yes, Uncle Rory, I understand.  And...and I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

          Rory looked up at Esme.  “My dear, will you please see this one to his bed.  I will have Willow or Marigold bring him some bread and milk and a glass of apple juice, and perhaps if his aunt agrees we will allow him some tea.  But I don’t believe it would be good to allow him more at this time.”

          He rose from his chair, at which Frodo also rose.  Esme realized that the two of them were almost on a level with one another, with Rory remaining only a small fraction of an inch taller than Frodo.  Rory searched the lad’s face, noted the misery reflected there, and once more he spoke with grave gentleness.  “Go with your cousin now, Frodo, and may you rest well.  We will speak more in the morning when all are calmer.”  For a moment he laid his hand on the lad’s shoulder, then withdrew it and indicated the door.

          Frodo gave the slightest of nods of understanding, turned, started toward the door, almost stumbled but caught himself, and proceeded to his own room.  As he passed the small parlor that served the family of the Master’s Heir, Merry stopped in his play with the set of farm animals Drogo Baggins had once carved for his son and which Frodo in turn had handed on to his small cousin, and looked up, relief obvious in his eyes.  “My Frodo!” he called out as he started to get up.

          “No, sweet lad,” Esme said, “Frodo can’t stop with you right now.  Gaffer Rory and Gammer Gilda have ordered he’s to do a quick bath and go right to bed.  I’m afraid Frodo’s in disgrace, you see.”

          Merry, however, was searching his cousin’s face, then running forward to hug his knees.  “Were you scared, Frodo?” he asked, peering upwards.

          “It’s all right, Merry--truly it is.  You don’t need to worry for me.  I’ll be all right.  And your mum’s correct--I am in disgrace.”

          “Don’t be sad, Frodo.”

          Frodo gave a small smile.  “I’ll try, Merry.  You continue on playing, understand?”  He reached down to undo the child’s hold on him and gave a truer smile.  “I’ll be all right.”  Then he pulled free and turned to go on to his room to fetch his nightshirt and dressing gown, and followed Esme on to the bathing room.

The Son of the Hall

          “Well, here I am.  I’m sorry to have been delayed, but I had to meet with Will Whitfoot before I left the West Farthing, and he insisted I stay for the meeting of the family heads.  I shouldn’t have minded that overmuch if it hadn’t been held at the Great Smial, and it turned out to be more of an ordeal than usual as I’m certain Marmadas told you.  Fancy Rory sending him as his representative.  Anyway, Ferumbras was being very petty, and Lalia was so insistent on each and every little detail being handled just so that all were about willing to push her chair down the stairs outside the main front door if it could be managed.  Light and dark, but that Hobbitess is growing more difficult by the day.  Now, where’s my lad?”

          “We’re not certain.”

          Bilbo gave his cousin once removed a look of surprise.  “What?  Menegilda is allowing him to do things without supervision?”

          Esme sighed.  “It’s not that anyone is allowing Frodo anything.  He’s gone Took stubborn on us, he has, and he won’t tell anyone where he’s going or what he’s doing--only at least twice a week he goes off on his own and is gone most of the day.  He’ll say only that he’s not doing anything wrong.  We’ve tried having him followed, but the lad has always been able to disappear at will--I’ll swear at times that he has that magic ring of yours from your tales.”  She noted that he was suddenly placing his hand almost compulsively into his vest pocket, although he looked abashed almost immediately.

          “For the most part he’s become quite silent.  He rarely has a great deal to say to much of anyone other than Merry.  It’s ‘Yes, Aunt,’ and ‘No, Uncle,’ almost all of the day any more until we are about to pull our hair out with the frustration of it.

          “And all that Mother Gilda has to say is ‘I don’t believe that would be the best thing for you to do’ and he will merely nod, say, ‘Yes, mum,’ and disappear into his room or into the library or out into the garden with that journal of his.  At least the first month after having been caught by Maggot--by the way, do you know if Farmer Maggot actually has a given name, for that’s all I’ve ever heard him called?”

          Bilbo appeared startled by this sudden, unexpected question given in the midst of her narrative, but he dutifully searched his prodigious memory.  “Ellis, I believe,” he finally informed her.

          “Ellis?  I see.”  She sighed.

          “You were telling me about the first month after he was caught with booty in hand in Farmer Maggot’s mushroom patch.”

          She gave a brief nod.  “Oh, yes.  Rory had to give him some punishment duty, but in light of the way he appeared when at last he came home and how his heart appeared to be laboring, Menegilda was adamant it must not be heavy duty.  Myself, I feel he would have done well with weeding detail in the more shaded fields, but she insisted he must not do any duty where he was required to work up a sweat; so in the end Da Rory gave him gardening duty and work in the glass houses alongside Dodiroc for four hours each day, followed by two hours helping to fold clothes in the laundries twice a week.  Not, of course, that Frodo minded in the least.  He was granted wages for the work he did--I mean, he’s not truly a child any more; and he was required to recompense Farmer Maggot for the loss of his crop out of them.

          “But he is so very disheartened, Bilbo.  He will smile for his Merry-lad and when he tells stories, although Rory had to insist he not tell more than one story at a time or more than once or twice a day or the poor lad would do naught but tell stories from morning till night and no work would get done anywhere within the Hall, for more and more of the older lads and lasses and even the adults will flock when he begins to spin a tale any more.  But he doesn’t do much in the way of drawings again, and has discontinued his work with Asphodel.  And now that Tumnus has become ill he isn’t even getting proper teaching.  Oh, Bilbo--would you come here to the Hall, for his sake?  Teach here--teach him?”

          But even as she made the plea she could see the near-panic in Bilbo’s eyes.  No matter how strong the urge to wander was at the moment, Bilbo’s roots remained in the rich soil of the Hill, there in the smial dug by his father to welcome his mother to Hobbiton.  He might come and stay a month at a time, but she’d seen the discomfort grow in him before; never had he stayed longer than that.  Always he must return to Bag End.

          “Oh, Esmeralda, my dearest lass, you don’t know what you ask,” he murmured.  “Oh, I’d do almost anything for my lad--almost anything.  But to come here----  Ah, child, think of where it would most likely lead!  The first time Menegilda sought to give me orders it would cause such a row you would not believe!  It would make the Battle of the Five Armies look like a children’s battle of snow balls by comparison.  And if she were to begin to give my boy commands I disagreed with....”

          “No, I must suppose you are right,” Esme sighed.  “But I could wish for it.”

          He reached forward and drew her against him, holding her close and gently patting her back in comfort.  “Oh, Esme, sweetling, it will all work out to the best, you know.  Now, tell me, after he’s disappeared for the day, when do you usually see him again?  Tea time?”

          “Come to Sara’s office, Bilbo.  No, on the days he disappears he will do so from shortly after second breakfast on.  He apparently has asked Marigold, who came from Whitfurrow and knew him there, to prepare him a basket with sufficient food for luncheon and tea, along with a flask either of cold tea or water.  From what we’ve been able to learn he goes first to his room and changes into older clothing, then he goes to the kitchen and gets what she’s packed for him, and then he goes out and is not seen again until he comes in for supper.  We’re not certain what door he’s leaving from, for he’s seldom seen outside the Hall; and we’re not certain what door he returns through, either.  All we can say is that when he appears at supper he’s almost always freshly bathed and in clean clothing, and his hair is always neatly brushed, head and feet.”

          “And he’s gone out, rain or shine?”

          “Yes--rain or shine.”

          “I see,” Bilbo said quietly as they approached Saradoc’s office door.  Esme went forward and gave a single rap, then pushed it open and waited politely for the older Hobbit to enter first.

          Gilda, Mac, Rory, Dodinas, Dinodas, and Dodiroc were already there, and on seeing Bilbo arrive Sara gave a nod of welcome.  “Would you prefer ale or cider, Bilbo?” he asked.

          “Oh, an ale, if you please.  So, our lad has finally managed to get himself caught, has he?  I must say he did a job of it, according to what Maggot told me when I saw him at the Great Smial last week as well as what Esme-lass has told me as we’ve come through the Hall.  He was very impressed, you must realize--most impressed indeed.  Thinks our boy is most intelligent and inventive.”

          “So he made plain,” Menegilda said rather dryly.

          As Bilbo accepted his ale and sat himself on the end of the narrow settle, he continued, “Maggot was seriously hoping you would not all be too harsh on the lad.  Said that the three stripes he gave him and the fright of it all ought to have been enough.  He’ll be relieved to hear that the lad accepted his month of penitence duty responsibly enough, I believe.  And now Frodo’s disappearing on you twice a week, is he?”

          “Yes,” Mac said, “and will tell none of us where he’s going or what he’s doing.”

          “My stars, that is puzzling,” Bilbo murmured.  “Yet you accept his word for it that he’s not doing anything wrong?”

          “If he’s not doing wrong, then why is he not telling us where he’s going and what he’s doing?” asked Gilda.

          Sara looked at his mother.  “I truly doubt, Mum, that he’s doing aught to make us ashamed.  He’s never been one to lie.  It’s true he never told us what he was doing while he was raiding the Marish, but at the same time he never lied about not doing it.”

          “But he never admitted to it, either,” she returned.  “Instead he’d demand that others explain how he could have done what he was suspected of doing.”

          “I doubt,” Mac said slowly, “that he did all that has been blamed on him these past few years, either.  Certainly some of the other groups of lads must have realized how well the distractions worked for those who were following Frodo and must have tried some of his tactics, or thought of their own.  After all, that was how Gomez and Boridoc and their fellows were caught by the Burdocks nicking cabbages--trying the begging for directions ploy on them twice in a month’s time.”

          Bilbo gave a snort of derisive laughter.  “Too foolish to keep track of the ones on whom they’d played that one before, were they?” he asked.  “From the first time I heard that Gomez had been trying to stick Frodo’s head down the privy I knew he couldn’t have been too awfully bright.”

          Gilda straightened with shock.  “He didn’t!”

          “Oh, yes, but he did, but several years ago now,” Esme affirmed.  “He’s not tried anything that I’ve been aware of for quite some time.  And believe me, Frodo has made certain Gomez and those who were helping him at the time were well paid back.”

          “By the way, where’s young Merry?” asked Bilbo.

          “With Adamanta and Berilac and the rest of the younger ones in the music room, practicing the “Morning Song.”  They’re both to take part when the children of the Hall perform at the Free Fair, and it was very thoughtful of Will to invite them to do so.”

          “I’m grateful Will agreed to extend the invitation,” Bilbo said with satisfaction.  “He was so interested when I told how pleasing they were.”

          Gilda examined him closely.  “So, you intend to make certain Frodo goes to Michel Delving again this year, do you?”

          “Of course.  Really, Menegilda, you know how much going meant to him and his parents when he was a little one.  If you keep stealing away his pleasures and accomplishments one by one you’ll lose the lad completely, one way or another--you must realize that.

          “Well,” Bilbo added, finishing his ale and reaching to scoop nutmeats out of the bowl sitting on the table beside his settle, “if I plan to waylay the lad I’d best get to a position where I’ll be able to do so.  I pray you will excuse me....”  He left his mug on the table, rose, gave a brief bow to the company, and left the room.

          Bilbo and Frodo came into the communal dining room together halfway through the meal, pausing for a moment as they came through the doorway for a last exchange, at which Frodo, his expression determined, shook his head, and after receiving a brief kiss on his cheek from his remarkable kinsman he turned to the teen’s table to sit alongside Brendilac and Gil while Bilbo, having watched Frodo take his place, finally crossed to join the Master’s table.  Esme couldn’t contain herself further; as he sat down she demanded, “Well, did you find out where he’s going and what he’s doing?”

          Bilbo gave a slightly delayed nod, his eyes once more turning toward Frodo, before answering, “Yes, he confessed to me--in part, at least.  However, I have agreed to be sworn to silence about the matter.  All I can--or will--tell you is that he is doing nothing wrong.  Indeed,” he added with a significant look at the Mistress of the Hall, “he is doing what he sees as the most right thing he can do under the circumstances, and I cannot do anything other than to support him in his endeavor.”  And with that he turned his attention to his meal, and would not be swayed from his oath to Frodo.

*******

          Together Bilbo and Esme approached the doors to Tumnus’s quarters, where Bilbo knocked decidedly.  The lessons master’s wife answered the knock, her tired expression lightening to note the identity of the callers.  “Master Bilbo!  Mistress Esme!  Oh, do come in--Tumnus will be so pleased to see you.”  And she led them through to the small study, lit and given air by a neat window on the other side of the now almost denuded desk that stood against the far wall.

          His small grey cat beside him, Tumnus reclined against cushions and pillows on a sofa, so angled he could look out into the small, ancient garden here on the back side of the Hall, one in which part of an ancient wall and apparent window embrasure remained from the days in which the lords of Cardolan had lived in their lofty halls built between the Baranduin and the Old Forest.  He’d become painfully thin, and there was a bandage covering his cheek where he’d always had a great mole, one that had some months earlier begun to grow in a remarkable and deadly manner.  He turned his pain-filled yet still peaceful gaze toward his visitors.  “Bilbo, my beloved third-cousin twice removed.  And Esme--how delightful,” he murmured.  “How wonderful to have the two of you visit me here.  And how is our Frodo?”

          “Doing very well, considering the circumstances,” Bilbo assured him as he drew the desk chair and turned it toward the ailing Hobbit so that Esme might sit down, after which he moved a second chair from the far wall so that he might sit beside her.  “He’s set himself his own penance, apparently, in which he has sworn to himself he will do whatever is required of him by his guardians, a vow I fear he is already ruing.”

          “Oh, dear,” Tumnus sighed.  “Considering Mistress Menegilda’s decided wrong-headedness regarding the lad, I suspect he would indeed find that vow an onerous one to keep.  And considering the fact that young Topol has read nowhere near the number of books as has Frodo and that his memory is also far from as exact, I strongly suspect that the lad is finding the hours spent in the schoolroom anything but stimulating.”

          “He’s doing a fair amount of teaching of the youngest ones to read and write still,” Esme explained, “and has been writing out booklets of stories for them to practice with.”

          “The dear lad--I know there is much in him that might indeed predispose him to teaching,” Tumnus said, “but he deserves to continue to learn.  He would do so very well, Bilbo, under your tutelage, as I’ve made pains to communicate to Sara, Rory, and Gilda.”  He searched the older Hobbit’s face.  “But you won’t be moved to do so here, am I not right?”

          “There you have it, Tumnus my lad,” Bilbo agreed.  “I fear that if I were to offer either Gilda or I would fall at the other’s hand in extremely short order.”

          The lessons master nodded, then a wave of pain crossed his face.  “It’s too bad, really,” he murmured.  “You have so much to offer him that no one anywhere else in the Shire could, knowledge he burns to take as his own.”  He sighed and rubbed at his cheek.  “He needs to get out of here, Bilbo Baggins--without meaning to, Gilda will end up devouring him.  And he deserves to be more than a lessons master of the Hall, you know.  Given the chance, he could be Mayor one day; but no one will vote for a Mayor who dwells in Buckland.  Mayor, or perhaps----”  He yawned, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.  “Mayor, or perhaps more,” he muttered as he drifted off into a doze.  The cat pressed itself more firmly against his side.

*******

          It was good to get Frodo away from the Hall.  He rode on the bench beside Bilbo during the drive in the open surrey toward Michel Delving, Merry usually perched on Frodo’s lap rather than on the padded seat behind where his parents sat.  While the great wagons carrying most from the Hall who’d wished to attend the Free Fair went onward toward the field where they always camped, the Master’s Heir and his party stayed their journey late the second afternoon with the family of Paladin and Eglantine Took at Whitwell, where Frodo and Merry were shown the farm by Pearl and Pimpernel, small Pervinca following, fascinated, in their wake.

          “You’re all looking particularly well,” Pal said, “all save Frodo.  I doubt I’ve ever seen him so subdued in his life.”

          “He’s better than he was before we left the Hall,” Sara sighed.  “But when he came in after his fright by Maggot--I’ve not seen him look like that since his parents died--grey and shaking.  Mother insists his heart was laboring heavily that night.”

          “Do you think he might have been the one who indeed put the glue on Lalia’s chair during that last visit?” Lanti asked.

          “I still don’t see how he could be,” Esme said, “although I didn’t see how he could have pulled off some of the scrumping exploits we heard tell of there in the Marish, either.”

          Bilbo snorted.  “Well, look at it logically, Esme--he probably didn’t do all of it, for as Sara’s pointed out some of the other lads were mimicking Frodo’s tactics.  And young Reginard was as much a target for Lalia’s criticism during our last visit all of us together as was Frodo; and Isumbard wouldn’t have been above taking some revenge for the way she was speaking of his sister.  Bard’s very protective of his sister’s feelings, you know.”

          “True,” Esme said, sighing.  “If Lalia weren’t such a--a----”

          “Despotic old tyrant?” suggested Bilbo.

          “Perfect,” Esme agreed.

          “And the only reason Ferumbras was as angry as he was was because he’d just had that chair constructed to replace the old one that broke down under her weight, and he was envisioning having to do it all over again,” Paladin informed them.  “She’s always had him pay for having these things made, you realize.”

          Sara was obviously floored by that.  “She controls the purse strings in the Great Smial, and gives her son his allowance, then he must pay for such things for her benefit?” he demanded.  “The self-centered old cow!”

          Esme felt the same anger in herself.  “Cousin Ferumbras might have made a great Thain and Took if he’d received encouragement instead of always having been kept under the thumb of his mother.  He was a decent enough lad, as I remember it and as our sisters have told me.”

          They looked out the kitchen window to see, out near the byre, Frodo and Merry being encouraged by Pearl to stroke one of the smaller of the calves, Frodo looking up as Pearl spoke, his eyes fixed on her face, and Pearl glowing in the light of his attention.

*******

          “What do you mean your Aunt Gilda wouldn’t approve if you danced?” Bilbo asked, his eyebrows raised.  “Nonsense, lad, since when have you known anything but pleasure from dancing?  The Creator wouldn’t  have granted you such a talent if He’d not intended you to use it.  Now, look--there’s your cousin Narcissa right over there, and she’s an excellent one for dancing as well.  Get on with you, now!”

          There was definitely a look of relief in Frodo’s eyes as he nodded at Bilbo’s admonition and turned away to approach Narcissa.  They couldn’t hear the exchange between Frodo and the lass, but her eyes lit at the request, and the two of them moved onto the dance floor and joined one of the forming sets; and as the music began they joined hands as they turned to start the skipping that marked the beginning of the form for the dance.

          “I must say,” Esme breathed as she watched them turn toward one another for the linking of hands to do the one turn, then the hand-off of Narcissa to Reginard while Frodo briefly accepted Pearl from Folco Boffin for a single turn before the lasses returned to their former partners for the next figure, “that Frodo and Narcissa are well matched.  Oh, my--that dip was most masterfully done, wasn’t it?”

          Bilbo, his expression filled with pride and pleasure at seeing Frodo enjoying himself, nodded.  “Has all his father’s grace on the dancing floor and then some.  I’ll swear he’s as good as my great-grandfather Balbo, and his dancing skills were legendary.”

          Saradoc nodded his agreement.  “So my gaffer told me when I was a little lad.  He always swore you inherited your skill from Balbo.  Of course, the Boffins have always been excellent dancers as well.”

          The dance had reached the end of one form, and now the lasses had moved to the next lad, and it was Pearl who skipped by Frodo’s side, her face filled with enjoyment, her laughter clearly heard over the music.  She hadn’t the natural grace at dancing Narcissa possessed, but what she lacked in skill she made up for in enthusiasm.  Then the second form was ending and she reached to accept Reginard’s hand with just a barely discernible glance of regret cast back in Frodo’s direction as Frodo accepted Linden Took as his partner for the third form, Linden’s face glowing with pleasure as she took his hands to begin the skip that began the form.

*******

          “Oh, Frodo,” murmured Merry as they went through the tent where the flowers were being shown, “look at those hydrangeas!  Aren’t they lovely?”

          Frodo nodded.  “Dodiroc would be so jealous,” he agreed.  “I wonder who submitted them?”

          Bilbo laughed.  “Oh, those were brought by the Gaffer from the gardens at Bag End--as is true of those lilies there.”

          Frodo stopped, his eyes wide with wonder and pleasure.  “The lilies,” he murmured softly, “Elven lilies, Uncle Bilbo?”  At the old Hobbit’s nod he breathed, “I’d forgotten how very lovely they are.”  He moved forward to bend over them to sniff their delightful scent, then straightened, his eyes alight.  “You had some planted outside the room where I used to sleep, there beside yours at Bag End.  I remember.”

          “There and outside my study window as well,” Bilbo explained.

          “Oh, and irises.  I always loved the irises at Bag End, and was thrilled to realize Uncle Ponto had married an Iris.”

          As they finally went to leave the tent, Esme saw Frodo glance back at the Elven lilies Hamfast Gamgee was exhibiting from Bag End, seeing the regret to be discerned in the lad’s eyes.

*******

          They paused at the turn toward Hobbiton as Bilbo climbed down from the surrey and accepted his pack from Frodo.  “You’re certain you won’t stay the night with me?” he asked them.  “It’s been so many years since you Brandybucks visited me at Bag End.”

          “We promised Gilda,” Saradoc was saying with regret, “that we’d not bring Frodo within range of Lobelia’s tongue.  It was all we could do to stay out of sight of her and Otho at the Free Fair, you know.”

          “It’s really too bad,” Bilbo said with disappointment, “although I can understand wishing to protect the lad from the old harridan.  Well, a good journey to you, and give my respects to Tumnus and Dodiroc.”

          Once the old Hobbit was well started down the lane toward Hobbiton and the Hill, Sara slapped the reins, and they hurried off catch up with the line of wagons full of Bucklanders headed back toward the Bridge and home.

*******

          Frodo produced the plaques and ribbons won by Bucklanders at the Free Fair for the Master’s and Mistress’s inspection.  “And our ponies just managed to beat those from Cottons’ farm in the gig race,” he informed them, “and were well before those belonging to the Great Smial.”

          Sara laughed.  “Ferumbras was fair gnashing his teeth at being beaten out by Buckland ponies and those of a simple farmer, not that Tom Cotton is truly but a simple farmer.  And if Maggot’s bulls didn’t bring in all the ribbons again--three generations now!”

          Frodo gave Menegilda some silk flowers.  “Here, Aunt, I bought you these.  The Gaffer’s wife Bell makes them.  I met her--she was minding a stall where she was selling this and some lace and embroidery she and others in the family made up over the winter.  These are patterned after the Elven lilies at Bag End.  I think they’re among the loveliest flowers I’ve ever seen anywhere.”  He sighed.  “She looks older than I remember, Missus Bell does, but her smile is as warm as ever, I think.”

*******

          Esme was examining Dwarvish crockery on display in the Oldbuck shop in Kingsbridge when she heard the door open and close as other customers entered.  “They have the best selection of ribbons here in all of Buckland,” she heard Saradas’s wife Dirna comment.  Her heart fell, for she had found that of all of old Rory’ brothers and sisters and their families, the one person she barely could tolerate was Dirna.  In fact, hardly anyone got along with Dirna, who had the tendency to interpret everything in the worst possible light and who rarely had much positive to say about anyone.  “Not,” Dirna added, “that that’s saying much about the quality of ribbons anywhere about the place.  No, if you want ribbons you’d do best actually to go to Pincup or Threadneedle.”

          As usual Dirna’s voice could be clearly heard throughout the shop, and with a quick glance aside at Ariel Esme could tell that the shopkeeper’s face was flushed with the insult, one that was even worse accepted as Ariel had made a point of purchasing her ribbons from the weavers of such things in Threadneedle and Pincup, plus she had a selection of some traded by Dwarves from other lands far to the south, ribbons of unusual quality and materials, including some of a marvelous purple said to have been colored with a dye made from the shell of a creature drawn from distant waters.

          Frodo, who’d gone off to the living quarters for the Oldbucks to fetch Fred so the two of them could go off to spend a bit of time together before he must accompany Esme back to the Hall, came through the shop with his friend.  “We’re off, Mum,” Fred said to Ariel as they passed.  “I should be back in two hours’ time.”

          “Remember to stop by the Bridge to see if the shipment of scarves is here from Bree,” she advised him, “and have a good time.  Frodo child, it is so good to see you again.  It has been too long, you know.”

          “Thank you, Missus Ariel,” Frodo said, ducking his head slightly.  “And the walnut cake is absolutely wonderful.”  Then the two lads were out the door and off, those remaining in the shop looking after them.

          “That was that Frodo Baggins, wasn’t it?” asked Dirna’s companion, Polo Brownloam’s wife.

          “Yes, the rapscallion,” Dirna sniffed.  Esme colored as she turned to keep her identity obscured from her husband’s aunt by marriage.  “What he and his lads did to you and Polo and the farm....”

          “Actually,” Missus Brownloam said, “I thought as they were very clever.  Polo’s always had too strong an opinion of his own wit, and he’s done nothing for years but twit the lads throughout the region.  Much as I love my husband, he’s deserved to be twitted a bit in return--it was good for him, I think.  And how they would trick folks--my, if it didn’t bring a good laugh to hear how folks were gulled.”  She paused, then said, apparently to Ariel, “Oh, but these ribbons here are so unusual and lovely.  Might you have some in a width of, say, this?”

          “Oh, yes, mum; it will take but a moment,” Ariel assured her, hurrying off to the adjoining storeroom to fetch what was wanted.

          “He’s an odd one, that Frodo is, for all that Das’s brothers and sisters all dote on the lad,” Dirna said.  “Reads far to much--has odd thoughts in his head.  Do you know what he said to me at the spring festival last year?  He asked if I ever go out at night just to look at the stars!  Can you imagine?”

          “Don’t you ever go out to enjoy the stars, Dirna?  I love to look up at them, myself, especially when the Wanderer shines down most brightly on the azaleas.”

          “If you aren’t as queer a one as is that Frodo.  And it’s too bad that old Bilbo hasn’t done his proper duty by the lad, after all.  I mean, he is family head for the child.  Just think--he could possibly make the lad his heir and give him a proper home and decent prospects.  And instead he lets the lad languish out here on the wrong side of the Brandywine, where he’ll never be more than just another dependent on the Master and Mistress.  I hear they’re already profiting from the lad’s great reading, having him teach the younger children, not that I hold for teaching all and sundry how to read and write.  Waste of time, all this learning is, for the majority of the folks of the Shire.”

          “Well, I appreciate that when I was younger and was accepted as a maid at the Hall for a time they taught me how to read and write,” Missus Brownloam said, a touch of impatience in her own voice at the constant criticism from Dirna.  “I help keep the records and ledgers for the farm, and enjoy reading a good tale from time to time as the folks of the Marish pass books read onto such as me.  Really, Dirna, don’t you have anything nice to say today?  Oh, Missus Ariel, but that would be absolutely perfect.  If I might have six measures--I intend for the lass’s new dresses to sport such colors for the harvest ball at Maggot’s farm.  And if you have an equal amount in one of the same width in this shade of green....”

*******

          The day had suddenly clouded over and the rain was sheeting down, the windows almost impossible to see details through as Esme sank down in a chair near the back of the largest parlor.  She’d just finished assisting in the dusting of the library, and was willing to wager that the shelves and books hadn’t been thoroughly freed of dust in at least three years.  She felt gritty and filthy, and was wondering if she ought not to have followed Liliana and Hawthorn back to the bathing rooms rather than to have wandered in here to leave traces on the chairs.  But for now it felt good just to sit....

          Most of the residents of the Hall had retreated to their own quarters with clothing snatched hastily off lines and hedges out of doors to hang them before parlor fires wakened for the first time in the season to counter the sudden chill and grey from outside.  The fact Hawthorn wasn’t available to lower the airing racks in the old kitchens would annoy many of them, Esme knew.

          “I swear he’s the one what saw to it as a great bowl of bread pudding laced with herbs to make one ill found its way into Gomez’s room,” a Hobbitess said as she and another came into the parlor.  “He’s never liked my Gomez, that Baggins lad hasn’t.”

          “Nonsense, Marguerite, it’s always been the other way about.  Your Gomez has always been one to take offense at nothing, and he’s always been the first to count Frodo a mam’s lad and the like.”

          “Well, if that Frodo’s too good to do what the other lads throughout the Hall do, what does anyone expect?” Marguerite demanded.  “You don’t see Frodo Baggins out in the fields with a hoe in his hands, do you?  Or in the stable wielding a pitchfork, cleaning stalls?  Oh, no, not that precious child.  No, they have him minding the bairns and the faunts.  He was too good for years to even play with the other lads.  You tell me he isn’t as much the mam’s lad my son’s always said.”

          “He’s the first to help any as truly needs it, and you know it, Marguerite.  It’s not his fault as the Mistress keeps him from doing anything as might strain him.  Marigold’s told me as he was that grey and sick after Maggot finally caught him scrumping his mushrooms and had his dogs chase him off the place.  The poor lad’s never been about dogs enough to tell when one might be truly vicious as opposed to wanting to play--Maggot’s dogs know their business, you know, and would never have done him any harm lest he tried to hurt one of them.  I suspect as he was scared nigh to death, poor lamb.”

          “Well, look at the fool he made of himself two years back over that lamb--wouldn’t eat any meat for months and made himself ill like that after he learned as they’d butchered it.  Where did he think as the mutton for the Hall come from?  If he can’t bear the thought of meat having come from what was cows and pigs and poultry and sheep----”

          “Listen to you go on!  As if the first time you realized the chicken you was eating for dinner was one you’d fed that morning in the barnyard at your aunt’s farm you’d not done the same, Marguerite Sackville!”

          There was a very cold silence before Marguerite said, her voice brittle, “I’ve been a Brandybuck for nigh on thirty years now, I’ll have you know.”

          “And today you’re sounding a right Sackville through and through as you were born--no, more a Bracegirdle!  I’d think that Lobelia up Hobbiton way would accept you as her own sister.”

          “Well!”

          Esme heard the rustle of skirts as Marguerite turned abruptly about and headed out of the room, slamming the door after her.  She heard a snort of disgust from the other.  “Silly ass,” the second Hobbitess commented to herself.  Then the door opened again and closed behind her as she too left the room.

*******

          Esme examined the book Frodo had been reading lately with concern.  As Frodo returned from the schoolroom where he’d been helping Topol she asked, “Dearling, what happened to this?”

          He gave it a sour glance and shrugged.  “It was a prank pulled on me by one of the other lads,” he said quietly.

          “By whom?” she asked.

          He looked up at her.  “Does it matter?” he asked.

          “Books are valuable, best beloved.  Of course it matters.”

          “It’s only a bit of glue on the edges.  Bilbo’s sending me a special knife used to cut pages apart when one’s finished with a folio, and I intend to use it to release the pages.  It’s not irreparable, Aunt Esme.  And it’s not as if the one who did it won’t rue it in the end.”

          “What do you intend to do, then?”

          He gave her an inscrutable look and changed the subject.

*******

          “Boridoc keeps swearing he had nothing to do with the rats and mice let loose throughout the Hall,” Esme commented to Saradoc as they retreated toward their private parlor.

          “If he hadn’t done it before we might have believed him,” Sara answered her.  “But finding his room filled with the remains of those cages, a few of them with the rats and mice still in them, made it plain he wasn’t through with slipping them into the lasses’ rooms.  The construction of the cages out of stout twigs and string was ingenious, by the way--sturdy enough to hold the vermin until he’d gotten them into the rooms, but easy enough for them to chew their way out of.  Marguerite is fit to be tied, having had one slipped into their apartment.  And Merilinde is swearing he must be seeking to avenge himself on her for telling when he stole her clothes while she and the other lasses were bathing privately in the pond at Crickhollow the first of September.”

          “Boridoc’s been sweet on her for years,” Esme said as they reached their own quarters and Sara opened the door.  “Not that she’s had any interest in him at all.  No, her eyes have always been on--oh, speak of the--here you are, Brendi.  And how’s your father doing?”

          “Well enough, Cousin Esme,” Brendilac said, flushing.  “He’s almost over the chill he took last week.”

          “That’s good.  Menegilda will be very gratified, I’m certain.  And how’s your ratter?”

          “He seems better, too.  I’ve seen more of the dogs about the Hall up and about today.”

          “It’s been so odd, so many of them wanting to do nothing but sleep for days.”

          “Well, I’d best go,” Brendi said, still appearing uncomfortable.  Knowing how close the lad appeared to be with Merilinde, Esme felt amused at his apparent embarrassment, considering the conversation she and Sara had been having as they entered.  Brendi glanced back at Frodo.  “The old mill, you say?”

          “Yes,” Frodo said.  “That’s where I’m certain I left it.”

          “I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Brendi said, hurrying out of the room.

          “And what did you leave in the old mill, Frodo?” asked Sara as he closed the door after the retreating Brendilac.

          “I think a book I’d borrowed from him, one he received as a gift a month or so back for his great-aunt’s birthday.”

          “The one of dragon tales?” Sara continued.

          “Yes, that’s the one.  Gomez was twitting me about sitting about doing nothing useful, so I went there to read in some level of peace,” Frodo said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.  “But then Dodiroc sent Gil to ask if I’d help in the glass houses, and I didn’t wish to take it there.  I thought it would be safe enough in the mill.”

          “And is our son tucked up in his bed?” Esme asked him.

          “Well, that’s where I put him, not that he’ll stay there,” Frodo sighed.  “Once he gets his first sleep out, he always seems to wake up and come creep in with me again.  The mornings I waken to find my right arm asleep because he’s been lying on it....”

          They all laughed.  “I’ll go in and check on him,” Sara said.  “Then I think I’ll visit the privy and get ready for bed myself.  I’ve been up since before dawn, helping with the foaling.  Sunblaze has thrown such a lovely filly.”

          Frodo’s expression became closed.  He took a deep breath, then finally said, “I wish I might have helped, too, Uncle Sara.”

          “I wish you’d been allowed, also.  But you know your Aunt Gilda.”

          “Yes.”  Frodo’s voice was a study of neutrality.  “I know she only means the best.”

          Sara gently ruffled Frodo’s dark curls.  “You’re such a joy, Frodo my lad,” he said softly. 

          Frodo gave a delayed nod as his older cousin left the room.  He reached out again to the journal that sat by his chair, and it was then that Esme noted the palms of his hands.  “What have you been doing, Frodo Baggins?” she asked in alarm.  “Your hands--they’ve prickle marks all over them!”

          “From helping prune the roses, I suspect,” he said quietly as she took his right hand to inspect it.  “It’s nothing to be worried about.”

          But Esme found herself examining his face.  She’d helped Dodiroc do the final pruning of the roses before he covered the bushes over with hay to protect them through the coming winter.  Since when had Frodo worked with the rosebushes?  Then she noted the ball of twine half hidden behind the book Frodo had found with glue on its pages.

*******

          Early next morning after first breakfast, as she carried a tray of dishes from the main dining room into the kitchen alongside Marigold Brownlock the maid commented, “And did Willow tell you as the kitchen tom’s come back again?  Been missin’ for about a week this time, he was.  Not as he looked as if he’d come to any harm, you know.  Very sleek, he was, and smellin’ strong o’ fish.  I suspect as he’s the one what’s been raidin’ old Jessup’s fishin’ weir there on the river.”

          As she accompanied her husband to the Master’s office after second breakfast he informed her, “Mac says the two tabbies that live in the main pony barn have come back, and that Bodridoc’s ratter appears to have recovered from whatever was ailing it.”

          “I’d not realized the barn cats were missing,” she commented.  “You know, I think that Bodridoc is much happier dealing with pigs than he was when he served as lessons master.”

          “No question.  Says that pigs don’t answer back when caught lazing about, not like most children he’d sought to teach.”

          And so it was they entered the Master’s study laughing merrily.

The Freeze and the Thaw

          November after Frodo’s twentieth birthday opened cold, and soon two heavy snowfalls held the entire Eastfarthing and Buckland in thrall.  The third week part of the river froze, along with all the water troughs as well as the smaller rills and becks and ponds throughout the region.  Even the outside wells were affected.

          Another snowfall dropped on the land, building up over the heads of the smallest children in the space of a day.  The menfolk of Brandy Hall were much about, helping to clear the roofs of barns, byres, and storage sheds, and more and more houses as the weight of the snow looked to collapse support beams for the thatching or roof tiles.

          Then, all of a sudden, a new set of clouds moved in from the southwest bringing with them warmer airs and rain.  The deep snow began thawing rapidly, leaving footpaths as running streams and exposed earth treacherous with water standing over ice.

          All the adults and tweens within the Hall met in the main dining room where the Master, Sara, and Mac began giving out assignments.  “We’ll need as many of you wives and daughters as possible here in the Hall to give aid to those we bring in,” Rory directed.  “Gather as many extra blankets and quilts as you can find and make certain they’re kept warm for those who might need them.  You younger lads will need to see to it that the woodboxes are kept filled and the fires stoked, and that the walkways are covered with ashes or sand to make it less slick for those of us who are out on the farm or patrolling the road.  With the water coming from the melting snow and the current rains, I fear we will know flooding; and coming in winter as it is, this could be deadly, far more deadly than the spring floods that we’ve seen in the past.”

          Esme saw that Frodo and Brendi stood with Gil and Gomez on the edges of the group with others near their age, each eager to help as he could.  She knew that Frodo would not easily be convinced to remain inside.  Dodiroc and Bodridoc approached the lads and drew them out to the main parlor where they could divide them up into various roles while Menegilda organized the healers and those who would aid them and Esme set a responsible Hobbitess in charge of each of the main rooms, had Willow and the kitchen helpers go see to having a large vat of soup and a second of clear broth prepared, as well as bread baked and teas brewed and delivered to each command post, and set Liliana in charge of collecting blankets and spare clothing.

          The rain lightened as sunset approached; and it looked as if the fears of the Master and his sons were unfounded.  Then a new storm followed the first....

          The rain grew suddenly heavier, and the wind rose to gale proportions.  Those patrolling the roads and the riverbank began to trickle in to dry off, change their clothes, warm themselves with what they could take in of Willow’s soups, teas, and broths, then went out to resume the watch.  Then, as the darkness deepened the first victims of the floods were being brought up the long drive to the grounds of the Hall, and they were drawing in families--a householder whose roof had blown away in the tempest; an older couple and their spinster daughter whose floor within their smial was suddenly awash in icy water; a farmer and his sons who’d been caught in the storm as they drove back from the Northfarthing, the cloth and provisions they’d been carrying in their wagon soaked through and the meal ruined.

          The wind downed trees, and more families found themselves exposed to the storm as their smials or roofs developed gaping holes.  Three teens were unable to get back to their home due to downed trees across the road after they’d braved the storm to gather their six head of cattle scattered when the wind had collapsed their byre; these were glad of the aid of Marmadas and Merimac in herding their beasts to the shelter of the byres belonging to the Hall.  A frantic goodwife was found searching for her son who’d gone out in the storm to secure the henhouse and hadn’t come in again; the lad was found stunned where a downed limb had caught him; Saradoc and the three Hobbits with him helped carry the entire family back to the Hall, the father already caught there after coming to the Hall early in the day on business.

          It was near dawn before the winds at last died.  Doors to two barns had been pulled off in the wind, and one of the sties in the piggery had been destroyed.  With the calm following the storm the temperature began dropping once more, and although the worst of the crisis was probably past, there was need to remain wary.

          Then suddenly Gil broke into the parlor where Esme was wrapping a freshly bathed child from Orchard Place in a clean quilt to bed her down by the fire.  “We need help!” he gasped out.  “Gomez and Frodo--the Withywindle----”  He broke into a spate of coughing.

          Menegilda, Beldir, and Markos Longbottom, who’d come with his wife, Bluebell Brandybuck as was, to serve as auxiliary healer for Brandy Hall, were there immediately, along with Mistress Poppea and others with a warm blanket and a hot drink to get into the lad.  He was soaked and filthy, and it was apparent he’d fallen several times during his run for aid.

          “Soft, lad,” insisted Menegilda with remarkable calm.  “You’ll do no good for anyone if we can’t get you warm enough for you to say what the problem is and where it is.”

          At last he got out, “We were patrolling the river bank with Dinodas, far toward where the Withywindle feeds it.  We saw something in the water, and Gomez thought it was possibly a Hobbit, but it wasn’t--it was a deer, I think.  But as he went closer to the bank to make certain it was a deer, the bank caved in, and he fell into the water.  Frodo was after him in an instant, and I found a great branch to hold over the water downstream of where they went in.  Frodo caught Gomez, but he had a lump on the side of his head and was stunned.  Dino and I dragged the two of them in.  How Frodo did it I’m not certain, but he held onto both the branch and Gomez.

          “There’s a woodsman’s bothie there, and we dragged them both into it.  Frodo was so cold he couldn’t even walk.  Dino is with them and was trying to get the wood in the firepit to start, but it was damp and wasn’t taking a spark when I left them.  There was a thin blanket and a tin of tea--quite old.  If Dino can get the fire going he’ll get some tea into them and try to get them warm.  But we need help for both of them.  Frodo’s hand is badly skinned from having to grab the branch and it slipping a time or two before he got a good purchase.  Gomez hadn’t awoke before I left them.  Both were looking blue when Dino sent me off.”

          All looked to where Sara and Mac huddled wrapped in blankets in the midst of a few others who’d aided in the rescues so far, and the two of them looked at one another.  Brendi stumbled in behind his father, his eyes bleary, behind some of the lads who’d been going the rounds of the stables and byres and barns, seeing to the safety of the animals and grooms.  All turned to look at these newcomers, and the situation was quickly explained.

          “I know where the bothie is,” Mac said.  “And I’m drier than you, Sara.”

          “Where’s the Master?” asked Bodridoc.

          “In the main cattle byre,” Brendi’s father answered, “seeing to it that the animals are calm and fed.  He’s to go to the main pony barn next, make certain the stable roof is sound.  We lost some of the tiles toward the ridge.”

          “No time to consult him,” Sara said.  “All right, you and Bodri there, and Dodiroc.  Can Markos be spared, Beldir?”

          “I want to go,” Brendi said.

          Sara looked at the lad, then nodded.  “It’s calm enough now.  Take ponies.  How quickly do you think you can rig a trap, Brendi?”

          By the time warm blankets and flasks of hot tea and broth were gathered Brendi had a sturdy smaller wagon at the door, and the rescuers were on their way immediately.

          It was over four hours before the wagon returned.  Dino was warmly wrapped in blankets and sitting between his nephew and Brendi, who was driving, while Bodri and Dodiroc and Markos sat in the back with Frodo and Gomez.  Gomez’s skull wasn’t cracked, but it was plain his brains were somewhat rattled.  Young Boridoc, newly released from his assistance to the Master, watched beside Esme as the wagon arrived and as eager hands reached to lift the two swaddled forms from the back of it and carry them into the Hall.

          Esme sat in the infirmary between the two beds, watching Dinodas, who lay nearby, as well as Frodo and Gomez.  The older Hobbit was himself terribly chilled, for he’d taken off his own cloak and wrapped it around the two youths.  Frodo’s skin was markedly pale, and she was told that after he was pulled from the water he had gone past shivering; Gomez had yet to regain consciousness.  Dino hugged the bladder filled with hot water he’d been given to himself, grateful for its warmth; and Markos was heating stones in the fireplace and wrapping them thickly in flannels to place on either side of the lads to aid in bringing their temperatures back up to normal.

          Gomez’s parents had been caught by the storm in Kingsbridge, where they’d gone to find gifts to welcome the bairn of a second cousin twice removed; they didn’t yet realize how close they’d come to losing their son.  As difficult as Gomez had been, Esme was grateful she wouldn’t need to tell them their son was dead.  Just how badly injured he was no one knew as yet; but it was likely he’d make a full recovery, and hopefully would be more sober and thoughtful in the wake of this accident.

          Once more Esme looked down at Frodo, and saw that his eyes were now open and aware.  He looked at her rather curiously.  “Aunt Esme?” he whispered.

          “Yes, sweetling,” she said with relief.  “You’re safe now.”

          “Gomez--did they get Gomez out of the river?”

          “Yes, Frodo--he’s right here,” and she indicated the bed on her other side.  “And if it hadn’t been for you, they couldn’t have saved him.  You kept hold of him, even when your own strength began to fade.  You kept hold of him and the great branch Gil held out to you, and he and Dino were able to bring you in enough to get both of you out of the water; and then you helped bring him to the woodman’s bothie.”

          He shook his head.  “I don’t remember--not quite.”

          “You were so cold when they got you out it’s no wonder, dearling.  It was a very close thing, Frodo Baggins.”

          “But he’s well?”

          “We believe so, Frodo.  And we believe you and your uncle Dino will be all right as well.”

          “Gil?”

          “His parents have put him to bed--he’s quite the hero as well, you see.”

          Frodo gave a small nod.  “Good,” he whispered tiredly.  “Good--all safe then.”  He closed his eyes, a faint smile on his face.  He was quickly asleep again.

 *******

          “He’s all right?” Bilbo demanded.

          “Oh, yes, and more so.  The younger ones are competing to bring him presents--mostly their own favorite winter treats; and the adults are all most respectful toward him.  He’s alarmed by it all, actually--oh, he was pleased enough by how grateful Gomez’s parents are, but now he’d like to get back to just doing things normally again.  As for Marguerite--she’s certainly singing a different tune now than she did a few months back when she was herself considering him a mam’s lad.”

          “You can’t put too much stock in the opinion of Marguerite Sackville,” Bilbo said dismissively.  “Is he still in the infirmary?”

          “No--Beldir and Markos let him return to his own room this morning after it became plain that he’d get no rest from visitors as long as he remained there.  Merry’s been fussing over him as if he were a feeble old gaffer, making certain he keeps his dressing gown about him and a rug across his knees and a shawl over his shoulders.  And I assure you that it’s only because it is Merry that Frodo’s accepting it at all, although he’s likely to let the child know at any time he won’t stand for it much longer.”

          Bilbo laughed.

          “It’s his hand that’s worst hurt right now.  It’s pretty badly scraped from having it slip over the rough surface of the branch Gil held out to him to catch hold of.  It’s properly bandaged, but Mother Gilda worries there might have been a piece of bark or slivers perhaps lodged in the scrapes.  And now he’s fighting a terrible cold, as is Gomez.  And the other wrist is badly bruised and sprained.  Apparently at the time he didn’t even notice!”

          “Well, take me to him, Esme, for I have a strong temptation to also spoil him terribly for the next few days.”

          “Come, then,” she smiled.

 *******

          “What do you mean you won’t allow him to go to the Free Fair, Menegilda?” Bilbo demanded.

          “The lad has had quite enough excitement, Bilbo Baggins.”

          “What kind of excitement?  Assisting in the flood in November?  But that’s seven months ago!  He can’t still be fragile over that.”

          “Well, there’s the matter of the Goldworthies----”

          “What about the Goldworthies?  They’ve been living on Haygate Farm, have they not?”

          “Well, yes.  But when the main barn caught fire there it was Frodo who raised the alarm.”

          Bilbo stopped, looking at her with confusion in his eyes.  “Was the boy visiting there or something?” he finally asked.

          “No, he wasn’t.  Apparently he dreamed of it, and he woke Sara.  The Goldworthies are fortunate Sara chose to humor him instead of just rolling over and going back to sleep.  He, Frodo, and Marmadas somehow managed to get there in time to keep the fire from spreading to the house--they’d managed to get the animals out before all became too dangerous to do so.  But it was Frodo who found one of their ponies that had run in terror out into the marshy area on the south borders of their fields and somehow managed to calm it and get it free of the mud.”

          “Oh, for pity’s sake!” exclaimed the old Hobbit, completely exasperated.  “He saved not only the farmhouse but a pony as well----”

          “But Mum’s been adamant about him not being around ponies from the beginning,” Saradoc interrupted, “and has admitted it goes back to the death of her grandfather when she was a faunt.  She says he died amongst the ponies, and she sees Frodo’s face on him when she dreams of it.”

          Bilbo paused, obviously thinking.  “I think I see.”  He gave a great sigh, then turned his attention back to Menegilda.  “So, you think you see your grandfather in Frodo, do you?  Well, he’s not your grandfather--not at all, you know.  Your grandfather was a Boffin, was he not--Helgo Boffin?”

          “Well, yes,” she admitted.  “What of it?”

          “Part of the reason Laurel Chubbs is so prized in Hobbiton is because the region of the Hill is filled with Boffins, who know they may well have inherited the family trait to die early due to heart conditions.  You see, she is very knowledgeable about heart conditions, having trained at the side of a Boffin healer who was himself experienced with them, one who even had the wit to correspond with Lord Elrond of Rivendell, having been encouraged to do so by my grandfather, who knew Elrond personally.  Auntie Laurel knows the common signs that an individual may have the family tendency, and the best ways of easing it.  And from what I can tell her, she is certain Frodo is showing none of the signs--indeed, she says there is every probability he will live a very long, healthy life.”

          “You mean that it wasn’t being amidst the ponies that killed my great-gaffer?” asked Sara.

          “No more so than any other reason,” Bilbo answered him.  “Delric Boffin had advised Helgo to use a tincture of foxglove to ease the strain on his heart, but knowing that foxglove ordinarily is a poison Helgo wouldn’t do it.  It’s often so--many herbs that in large quantities might make one ill or even kill, in extraordinarily small, controlled amounts can help fight illness.  Certainly Lord Elrond told me the same thing.” 

          He looked back at Gilda once more.  “Didn’t your gaffer suffer from extraordinarily puffy ankles and puffiness in his face as well?”

          “Well, yes,” she admitted.

          “It’s one of the signs the heart is failing and would benefit from small amounts of tincture of foxglove; and there are other herbs that will also tend to help.  Laurel prepares just such a draught for old Gammer Strawflower Boffin in Bywater, and it’s done her a world of good.”

          “But the lad should not be allowed to excite himself----” she began again.

          “And why in Middle Earth not?  Right now, does he appear to be particularly happy?”

          “Well, no----”

          “Well, there you have it, Menegilda.  Had his heart been as weak as you keep imagining I will tell you he would not have survived going into the river last November.”

          Her face had become very pale.  “Yet Bilbo,” she said in a very low voice, “I do on occasion know dreams of the future, as does the lad, apparently.”

          Reluctantly, he nodded his understanding as he leaned closer to allow her to whisper in his ear.

          “And I have seen him in the future, suffering from heart failure.”

          Bilbo pulled back and examined her face.  At last he said, “So, you think to protect him by keeping him from all exertion and excitement now?”  At her nod his mouth worked and he began shaking his own head.  “Again, nonsense, Gilda!  Can’t you see--by your own attempts to protect him you are most likely preparing him to suffer just the condition you would guard him against?  Lads need exercise and a degree of excitement!  And it wasn’t the ponies that killed your gaffer, or even being in the midst of them.  His heart was failing him, and he’d been avoiding activity in hopes of avoiding the pain his heart would give him when he stressed it.  But doing so weakened the heart the more in the end.  It’s likely just the act of walking to the paddock after not doing much of anything for days was what led to your gaffer’s death, although as weak as his heart was becoming it could as likely have happened right there in his chair.  Would you confine our lad to a chair in hopes of avoiding a seizure of his heart at some undetermined time in the future?  Beldir has told you that walking and swimming are excellent exercise for the lad’s heart, helping to strengthen it, has he not?”

          “Yes,” she admitted.

          “You can’t protect him from the failure of the heart in the future by not allowing him to strengthen his heart now, Menegilda Goold Brandybuck.”

          She drew back, throwing her hands up in the air.  “You just don’t understand, Bilbo Baggins!” she exclaimed.

          “And you just may destroy that precious boy with kindness, Mistress Menegilda!” he retorted.

          For several minutes they glared at one another, and at last he spoke in a tone that brooked no further argument.  “I will be taking Frodo to the Free Fair, where he will wander the grounds as much as he likes, and if he desires he will dance, and I will not say no to him unless I see physical signs that he is tiring unduly.  Do you understand?”

          Reluctantly she nodded.

          Esme found herself looking from one to the other, finding herself alarmed and yet impressed.  She was rather glad she and Sara had said nothing and thus were in no danger of being caught up between the two, oh, so stubborn old Hobbits!

 *******

          Bilbo walked into the Hall the following spring with no warning.  He’d arrived unannounced for the birthday party thrown for Frodo in September, and had pointedly not been invited to join the Yule celebrations the preceding winter, although the correspondence between him and Frodo had continued in defiance of Menegilda’s disapproval.  Rory refused to answer his wife when she demanded the old Baggins be thrown bodily out of the Hall, and Esme hurried from the Master’s office to Frodo’s room to try to make certain Bilbo didn’t upset the lad unduly.

          She arrived, she noted, just after Bilbo’s own entrance into the rooms.  Frodo was sitting, much as he’d been doing most of the winter, in his cushioned chair, his face expressionless as he stared obliquely out the window at the outer world the Mistress had been forbidding him to share.

          She’d caught Bilbo just in the act of pulling the desk chair over from where it had stood by Primula’s desk.  He paused, looking warily at her, before saying, “Perhaps you should take this, then, Esmeralda.”

          “No,” she said quietly.  “You take the chair--I would be more comfortable sitting on the bed than you, Bilbo dear.”  She looked about.  “Where’s Merry?”

          “I spoke with him first, and sent him off to the kitchens to fetch a tray of tea and biscuits.  He told me Willow’s been overseeing Lavender baking quantities of sugar and almond biscuits, so I told them those were my special favorite today, as I appear to prefer them on Hevensdays, and asked if he could get us a goodly number of them.”

          Esme was thrilled to see that a ghost of a smile could be discerned on Frodo’s face in response to the whimsical statement on the part of his uncle.  “I’m certain she’ll be glad to send them, for Frodo’s been terribly disappointing her by not coming to beg them from her himself.”

          Frodo turned his head away, giving a shrug that was just a trifle too careless.  Bilbo didn’t appear to notice, although Esme was certain he had.  “Ah, good enough then.  I was just about to ask whether or not Frodo will be dancing at the spring festival.”

          Apparently deciding to be frank and blunt, Frodo announced, “I see nothing to dance for, Uncle.”

          There was a moment of silence before Bilbo said quietly, “I see.  And you aren’t even happy enough for me to be here to dance for my sake?”

          Frodo loosed his grip on the arms of his chair, folding his hands in his lap and looking for some time at them before murmuring, “She doesn’t want you here.  She thinks you’re a bad influence on me.”

          “In what way?”

          “She thinks you encourage me too much.”

          “Encourage you to do what?”

          After a pause the lad finally said, “To do things.  To run and play and get into mischief and to--to dance.”

          Bilbo ruminated on that.  At last he said, “You are very thin again, Frodo.”

          “I’m not hungry much of the time.”

          “And you appear to be very pale.”

          The lad merely shrugged, fixing his gaze on the scene outside his window.

          “Are you happy, my dear lad?”

          Frodo shrugged.  When Bilbo asked no more questions, at last he answered, “I’m not really unhappy, I suppose.”

          “You must suppose you are not unhappy?  You don’t know?”

          Frodo again shrugged.

          “Are you still going out on your resolve on Sterdays and Sundays?”

          Another shrug, reluctantly expanded upon with, “Mostly, when it’s warm enough.  Sometimes I’m just angry enough to go out and do it in spite of them all, and sometimes I find I just don’t care.”

          “At least you’re going out some--that’s good.  Did you swim during the summer?”

          “Yes.  But the moment the weather was beyond swimming then I must remain within doors if she sees me at all.”

          Merry returned then with Marigold beside him, the maid carrying a tray laden with a fine teapot with its cozy, four mugs, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar, and a pot of honey along with spoons while the child carried a great plate piled with biscuits.  Again there was a hint of a smile on Frodo’s face as he watched his beloved younger cousin fussing around seeing all was properly placed on the small table.

          Merry was now dominating the conversation, busily telling Bilbo about his new cat and his riding lessons--Frodo’s expression again went shut at the mention of them--and how he was assigned to work in the herb gardens and how he looked forward to learning all about herbs in the coming summer.  Frodo finally ate a couple biscuits at Merry’s urging, but over time he turned again to look out the window, and Esme could see a grave, patient tiredness there on his features, a tiredness that appeared somehow familiar.

          “And Master Topol says----” Merry chattered on, finally sparking the memory of where she’d seen that tiredness before--on the face of Tumnus, shortly before he’d died.  Suddenly Esme felt terribly alarmed.

 *******

          As she entered the Master’s parlor, Esme saw Menegilda’s head turn rapidly to examine her face.  “Where is that interfering Baggins?” the older Hobbitess demanded.

          “He’s gone to the garden to smoke a pipe,” Esme answered.

          “Has he been telling the lad what a horrid old shrew I am?”

          “No, anything but.  He’s been asking questions, but only to have Frodo let him know what his life has been like lately.  The only one who’s said anything about you has been Frodo, and even he refuses to chide you for the way you’d deny him life.”

          Gilda paled.  “I’m trying to save him...” she began.

          “For what, Mother Gilda?  What kind of life do you allow him, shut up here in the Hall for so much of the year, denied the chance to make his life meaningful?  He admits you have his best interests at heart, but one can’t help but see he wonders just what those best interests are when he can’t do anything that’s worth doing.”

          “He’s at least healthy----”

          “Is he?  Have you looked at him, truly looked at him, lately?  He’s pale and thin, and his muscles are apparently wasting.  He barely eats.  When was the last time you heard him laugh aloud?  He’s not drawing any more, and lately he’s only writing in that journal when he’s very angry.  He’s not even reading any more.  And Markos has been coming to me at least once a week telling me Frodo can’t continue on this way.”

          “What does he know?  He’s not much better than a lad himself!”

          Esme gave a great snort.  “He’s attended on Lalia herself, and on old Peringard.  I’d think that he knows enough to recognize when someone’s fading, Mother Gilda.”

          The Mistress of the Hall looked away.  “Lalia’s certainly not fading.”

          “No, but in her shadow Ferumbras has failed to become the great Thain and leader of the Tooks he had promised to become when he was younger.  Look at him now, and he looks far, far older than his years--older, and filled with bitterness.  Markos has seen what being stifled did to Ferumbras, and he’s afraid it will happen to Frodo as well, if the lad doesn’t just give up altogether first.”

          They paused, for they could hear conversation approaching the room from the side door to the Master’s garden.  “And then Sandyman jumped, I tell you, so startled to realize he was being caught trying to sneak a sack of flour out of that ground for the Great Smial, and by Ferdinand himself.  He turned as white as the meal and tried to explain he was only trying to move the Thain’s flour to a more protected place.”

          Saradoc and Rory were both laughing as the door opened to admit them and Bilbo, and the old Baggins’s face was alight with his customary humor.  But the laughs failed as they realized Esme and Menegilda had preceded them, and as they noted the tension between the two Hobbitesses.  The three of them paused, just inside the door.

          At last Gilda snapped, “Oh, come in, do, and sit down, the lot of you.  Yes, Esme’s been giving me a good chiding, one I suspect she’s been holding in for a goodly amount of time.”

          Sara and Rory’s came in uncertainly, but Bilbo was looking at her with an expression of alert anticipation.  “You expected Esme to stand up to you?” he asked, apparently overwhelmed with curiosity.

          “She’s almost the only one who ever does,” she admitted.  “Not even Frodo will speak openly against me, apparently.”

          “He loves and honors you, Gilda, so much he’s unwilling to defy you--most of the time.”

          “Most of the time,” she repeated, looking away.  Then she looked back at him.  “Why did you come?”

          “I received a letter addressed to me as Baggins family head regarding the welfare of one of the members of my family of name.”

          She searched his eyes.  “From Markos Longbottom?”

          “Yes.”

          “Regarding Frodo?”

          “Yes.”

          “What about?”

          “He says the lad is beginning to fade.  He’s losing weight, is uninterested in food, has become markedly pale, barely responds to questions, will have sudden outbreaks of defiant behavior between prolonged bouts of lassitude and inactivity.  He’s come to Markos complaining of headaches and even shortness of breath.  He complains that sometimes he can barely manage to wake up, but that other times he cannot sleep at all.  And....”  He let his narrative trail off, looking down at his right hand lying on his knee.

          “And what?” asked Rory.

          “His ankles are beginning to become puffy.”

          “Blood and water.”  The intensity of Rory’s concern was accented by the quiet tone in which the words had been issued.

          Sara said quietly, “I’ll go fetch both Markos and Beldir.”  He turned and left the room, stepping aside for Asphodel and her husband to enter before continuing on his way.

          “Where is the lad?” Rory asked.

          “Playing at gardening with Merry,” Bilbo said.

          By the time the two healers arrived accompanied by Poppea the rest of the family had gathered in the Master’s parlor.  At one point Esme left briefly to request that platters of rolls, meats, cheeses, and pickled cucumbers be sent in rather than for the family to attend the meals in the communal dining room or the Master’s dining room; and she sent word asking Frodo to please see to it that Merry ate at the children’s table.

          “But I’ve only wanted the best for him!” Menegilda insisted again.

          “We know that, Mistress,” Beldir informed her.  “No one questions your care for the lad or your love for him--we’ve only questioned whether you were exhibiting it in the most appropriate manner.”

          “But you’ve never questioned my decisions before----”

          “But I have.  Perhaps I’ve not been as persistent as has Markos, but I have questioned you and suggested differently more than once.”

          Merimac sighed as he turned his attention from the senior healer to his mother.  “Mum, you know how much all here love you; none of us would willingly go against you in most matters; but the time has come--we can’t allow things to continue as they are, for Frodo’s own sake.  Maybe you’re right and that murmuring in his heart is important and possibly deadly, and perhaps he will die young of a failure of the heart.  But if we let things drag on he will fail, not at some distant time in the future, but here and now.”

          Bilbo was shaking his head.  “Here in the Shire we are so protected from so many of the great dangers that exist out there in the world in general, we have come to assume that what we experience is the only right and proper thing to expect.  But the fact is that most people born in Middle Earth don’t die of a peaceful old age; and even here within the Shire a good portion of our children die before they come of age.  I, for one, don’t intend for our boy to die before he’s even had a chance to live fully.”

          Gilda suddenly snapped, “Why do you keep referring to him as a ‘boy,’ Bilbo Baggins?  He’s not a child of Men.”

          “If not, it’s only due to an accident of birth,” Bilbo retorted.  “He very well might have been born amongst the greatest of Men, or even Elves, although I can’t see that bright spirit of his having been born a Dwarf.  Perhaps he might have even been hatched amongst the Great Eagles!  But I swear to you he is the equal of the noblest of those who ever graced Middle Earth.  I want to see him come to the fullness of his promise, not to wither on the vine as is happening now.”

          Menegilda had begun to cry.  “You’ll take him away from me!”

          “If I must, Gilda--at least long enough to see him healing again--long enough for his Light to be restored.”

          “What do you mean by ‘his Light’?” asked Dodinas.

          “You’ve never noted that when he enters a room all in it is brighter and more lovely?  That when he smiles your own heart is lifted?  That when he sings, even if his voice isn’t the greatest and sweetest of voices, you yet find yourself wishing to join the song?  That when he dances all about him move with more grace and lightness of heart?”

          The rest exchanged looks.  At last, after Bilbo had produced a clean handkerchief and pressed it on her, Gilda wiped her eyes and asked, “What about Lobelia?”

          “What about the old harridan?”

          “Primula didn’t wish Frodo anywhere near her.”

          “As I’ve said before, the best way to deal with Lobelia Bracegirdle Sackville-Baggins is to face her down.  You can’t beat her by hiding from her--it only encourages her to make up even worse and more ridiculous stories, you know.  So far, no matter what she’s tried she can’t do better than to convince the Shire that I’m mad, but most of our folk became convinced of that when I refused to apologize for going off for a year and a day with thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard.”

          Suddenly all were laughing.

*******         

          Frodo was sitting quietly in the small parlor when Esme came to fetch him from the Heir’s quarters.  “What is it?” he asked, half rising.  “There’s--there’s not been a row, has there--about me?”

          She forced a smile.  “Not exactly a row,” she said, “but certainly a long discussion.  But Bilbo has something he wishes to ask you, dearling.  Will you please come with me?”

          Merilinde was waiting out in the outer hallway as they came out.  “Is little Merry in bed, then?” she asked.

          “Yes,” he answered her.  “Are you to watch him, then?”

          She nodded.  “I promise, Frodo, I’ll not let anything happen to him.”

          “I’ll hold you to that,” he answered, then straightened.  “Perhaps I ought to have brushed my hair,” he said.

          The lass paused with the doorknob in her hand.  “You look fine, Frodo Baggins.  Go on with you.”

          Bilbo was standing, waiting, just inside the Master’s parlor.  “I was wondering, lad,” he said rather abruptly, “if you’d walk out into the garden with me for an time.”  Frodo, perplexed, nodded.  Bilbo looked at Esme, adding, “Perhaps you ought to come with us, just for the sake of the Hall folk.”

          She felt herself slowly nodding, and together they walked to the pegs by the door out into the Master’s garden where each took one of the cloaks hanging there.  Bilbo hurriedly took Esme’s from her and aided her to don it, swung his own over his shoulders and fastened it, and waited while Frodo secured his own before opening the door and letting them go first.  Once outside, however, he moved from Esme’s side to Frodo’s.  He put one arm about the lad and steered him toward a garden bench and indicated he should sit down, then sat down beside him.  Once he sat down, however, he appeared to be having some difficulty knowing how to begin.  He leaned forward a bit, his hands folded between his knees and sat still for some moments.  At last he turned and looked up sideways into the face of his young kinsman.  “I was wondering what you would wish to do for our birthday.”

          “Our birthday?” asked Frodo, completely confused.  “But that’s not until September, and it’s not the end of March yet.”

          “Oh, I know,” Bilbo said, nodding sagely.  “Although for some, significant birthdays one can’t begin preparing early enough, I find.”

          “But I’ll only be twenty-two on my next birthday.  I won’t be twenty-five for three and a half years yet.”  Esme was pleased to see that Frodo was openly smiling at what he plainly saw as his older cousin’s famous eccentricity, planning for a birthday that wasn’t even on the horizon as yet for one as young as he.  “As for coming of age--that’s still well over eleven years off, you know.”

          “Oh, I know--I know indeed.  However, I’d thought that perhaps you might agree to join me in Bag End--make it easier for the two of us to plan our birthday parties together from now on, don’t you know.”

          Frodo’s mouth had fallen open, his eyes opened wide in shock.  “I don’t understand,” he breathed at last.

          “Don’t you, my beloved boy?” Bilbo said earnestly.  “Don’t you?  I’m asking if you will agree to come live in Hobbiton, in Bag End, with me.  We’ll try it for a year, and if you then wish to return here to Brandy Hall and Buckland that will be acceptable--more than acceptable.  It’s your life, after all.  But if you desire, then I’ll have you made my permanent ward, and, if you’ll accept it, I’ll adopt you as my heir.”  His eyes became sharper.  “Better you than the S-Bs, you know.  By the stars, better anyone than Otho and Lobelia!”

          Suddenly Frodo gave a breathless laugh.  “I’ll tell you what--lets not tell them--let them find out when you’re gone!”

          Then the two of them were laughing uproariously, giddily.  “Then you’ll come?” Bilbo managed.

          “Oh, Bilbo--you can’t imagine how I wish to come!”

          Bilbo’s grin stretched from ear to ear.  “Then we’ll do just what you suggested--if and when it comes to perhaps adopting you as my heir, we won’t tell them.  Let them wonder!  Let them stew in their own juices, the greedy gits!  They won’t realize that the Shire itself will fare the best with you as Master of the Hill rather than them!”

          “But Auntie Gilda----”  Frodo turned about, his face suddenly stricken, searching Esme’s face.  “I don’t really want to leave you and Sara and Merry, Aunt Esme.”

          “I know dearling,” she said, suddenly painfully proud of him.  “But Mother Gilda knows it’s time for the change.  We’ve agreed to a year with Bilbo, and then a meeting to be certain what you wish at the end of that year.  But your Uncle Bilbo feels it’s time, perhaps past time, to exercise his right and duty to see to it you get the best education available to you, and certainly there’s no better teacher for you than he is.”

          Frodo rose, moved suddenly forward, and then was folding her in his arms, and she realized he was weeping--weeping tears of happiness.

 *******

          “No!” Merry said.  “He can’t go!”

          “He has to go, Merry.”

          “But he’s my Frodo!”

          “No, Merry, he has to be his own Frodo before he can be anyone else’s.”  And as she said it, Esme realized that this was right, and it became that much easier to accept that in a few weeks’ time Frodo would ride away from Brandy Hall to take up a life elsewhere; that even if--when--he returned it would be as a guest, not as the son of the Hall he’d been.

          Frodo himself had insisted they wait until the end of April for him to leave.  “I’ve made promises to the bairns,” he said.

          Bilbo had nodded his understanding.  “And it will give me time to make some preparations as well.  Then I’ll leave now, and be back the end of April.  You’ll come to Bag End as the young Master on the first of May, then.”

          Then he’d reached up and drawn Frodo down to gently kiss his brow.  “You just keep shining, my boy, until I come to claim you, my own star-kissed lad, to brighten my hole in my old age.”

          Merry was weeping.  “I don’t want him to go away!” he insisted.

          “Neither do I, my sweet lad,” she said as she drew him to her.  “None of us truly want it, but he must.  It’s time.  None here in Brandy Hall or all of Buckland can be a proper teacher to him now when he really needs it.  I fear only Bilbo can.”

          “But Bilbo doesn’t need him--I do!”

          “And you’ll always have him, Merry,” the child’s father assured him.  “He won’t love you the less for living in Hobbiton and the Westfarthing now.  Not Frodo--he’ll love you the more for the fact his mind and heart will be challenged properly.  He’ll be happier, and he’ll be able to share his happiness the better with you!”

          Esme added, “And don’t be so certain Bilbo doesn’t need Frodo--he may not look it, but Bilbo himself is an old Hobbit.  You wouldn’t wish for him to find suddenly age has caught up with him and he’s begun to fail with no one to look out for him, would you?  He has no other family, you see.”

          “There’s his Cousin Otho--I heard him say he has a Cousin Otho.  We were running to hide from him at the Free Fair, although I don’t know if Cousin Otho ever looked properly to find us.”  Merry’s voice was stubborn.

          Esme and Sara broke into peals of laughter as Esme crushed her son against her chest.  “Oh, sweetling--I doubt Bilbo’s Cousin Otho will ever understand how to properly play the game with Bilbo Baggins,” she managed to gasp out as he squeaked and pulled away from her.  “And I love you, my dear one; I love you with all my heart.”

          “And Frodo will come to visit--you’ll see,” Sara added.  “He’ll come to visit us, and we’ll go to visit him.”

          “In Bag End?”

          “In Bag End.”

          “I’ve never been there!”

          “Then you have something to look forward to, don’t you?”

          Yes, Esme thought, something to look forward to....

Gone to Be the Young Master

          Dodi peeked into the room where Esme was sitting with Liliana going over the numbers of new shirts needed and whether or not they should look to purchasing a new stock of buttons.  “Well, lass, Sara asked if you’d join him in his office,” he said, smiling at her.

          She and Liliana exchanged glances.  “Give me a moment to finish here and I’ll come,” she suggested, to which he nodded.

          “Will do, my dear,” he answered.  “I’ll wait out here, then.”

          A few moments later she emerged to find him half settled against the back of a sofa, the book he’d been reading lately open in his hands.  He looked up, rose to stow the small volume in the rear pocket of his trousers, and turned to walk alongside of her.

          “Do you know what it’s all about?” she asked.

          He shrugged.  “I think you’d best see for yourself, Esme,” he said with a smile on his face.

          When they got to Sara’s office she saw the door was already opened, and as they entered she saw that a couple sat in the guest chairs across the desk from Sara, lying beside the wife a medium-sized dog of a rich, creamy orange color, its brown eyes alert and pleasantly interested as it turned to look at those who’d just come into the room.  Other than the size of the dog it could have been a day almost five years previous when that couple had been here before, only then it had been after Midsummer and now it was early spring.  “Missus Esme,” she was greeted by the smallholder.  “My, but it’s ever a pleasure to see you, don’t you know.”

          “And you,” she said.

          “We was tellin’ your husband here, we’ve been havin’ still more visitations over the years, we have.  The first three years it was simple scrumpin’, but as we told you afore, it was scrumpin’ with a flair.  Never again was all that was ripe taken as happened the first time, but we could still tell as it’d happened, and that it was a fine, devious mind as had directed it.  But then the scrumpin’ stopped.  Instead, now it wasn’t scrumpin’ as we’d find, but sometimes I’d set out to go weed the flower bed and would find as it’d already been done.  For several weeks in a row I’d find the gatherin’ basket’d been taken from the shed, and the ripest tomatoes was already harvested and sittin’ in it on the table on the pavement afore the door.  Then the pumpkin patch would always be hoed.  One week all the thistles had been grubbed up.  Near Yule we’d find a great pile of greens to use in decoratin’ the hole waitin’ for us, all wrapped neat as neat in an old tarp.

          “Then last Sterday I found this....”  He lifted from his lap a folded sheet of paper and handed it to her.

          She accepted it, exchanged a look with Sara, unfolded it, smoothing it automatically, then read it aloud.  “I thank you for your patience and forbearance.”  That was all it said, but she felt a knot of some kind loosen behind her breastbone.  She certainly recognized the writing.

          “And you say this usually happened on a Sterday or Sunday?” Sara asked

          “Yes--not every week, but often enough.  Almost always a Sterday or a Sunday.”

          His wife added, “I was a’teasin’ him as we had our own kobold, a seein’ to our comfort.  But with this--am I right in thinkin’ as this means as we’ll be havin’ to harvest our own tomatoes now?”

          Suddenly the five of them were laughing together.  As the couple rose Saradoc took out his handkerchief to blow his nose.  “I fear you’ll be losing your kobold indeed, from the looks of this,” he said, refolding the cloth and nodding at the note as Esme returned it.  “But I thank you for letting us know.”

          Esme asked, “And you never saw him?”

          They paused and looked at one another before turning back to her.  “Well,” he said with an apologetic smile, “if we did see him, we was too well mannered to let on, don’t you know.  And we got to where we’d leave a plate of biscuits or a slice of pie in the gatherin’ basket in the shed for him, and after a time he appears to’ve realized as ’twas freely given and he’d accept it.”

          The dog rose, stretching and yawning, and moved to her mistress’s side.  Esme smiled at her.  “She’s grown to be a lovely thing,” she commented.

          “That she is.  We named her Blueberry, and if the neighbors don’t find that a puzzle!  But if that was all the price as we paid for her--well, we’ve been repaid many times over, atween her and our kobold.”  The farmer’s wife smiled, and Esme realized she was pregnant.  Seeing the focus of her hostess’s attention, the goodwife smiled more fully.  “And we’ve decided as this one is, in its way, a gift of our kobold as well--with him a’weedin’ our vegetable patch, we found ourselves with a bit of time to be happy together, enjoyin’ a lie-in together, don’t you know?”  And with a knowing grin, the two left, accompanied by Dodi, whose face was alive with amusement.  Sara looked after them, wiping his nose again and then suddenly sneezing.  But he was smiling also as he finally stowed his handkerchief back in his pocket.

*******

          While going through the stalls in the Bucklebury market Esme found herself face to face with Missus Brownloam.  “Mistress Esme?” she asked, a delighted smile on her face.  “How good to see you!  May I have a brief word with you?”

          Esme nodded uncertainly and allowed herself to be led to a quiet corner where the fellow who usually sold hooked rugs had failed to set up his own tables this time.  Missus Brownloam was rooting through the basket she carried.  “I was rather hoping as I might run into you here,” she said.  “Ah, here it is.”  She pulled out a bag loosely woven of rough fibers, filled lumpily and sewn across the top.  “Would you mind carrying this to the Hall and giving it on to young Master Frodo?  And thank him for the many times he cleaned the panes of our glass house or weeded the pea patch.  And thank you so very much.”

          “Wait!” Esme said as the Hobbitess made to walk away.  “What was he doing weeding the pea patch or cleaning your glass house?”

          “I think he felt as he was paying his debt,” Missus Brownloam said, smiling.  “Let’s leave it at that, please.  I don’t think he would wish it spoken of.”  And with that she hurried away.

          From what she could tell, the bag was filled with hazelnuts, undoubtedly from the last harvest.  Frodo, she knew, loved hazelnuts.

*******

          As April reached its middle Esmeralda Took Brandybuck found the impending separation looming over her, and the pain that would come of it seemed almost more than she could bear.  On the fifteenth she announced at first breakfast, “I will be going to Crickhollow for the day, and I hope you will all forgive me if I don’t want company.”

          Crickhollow House had been a retreat for the folk of the Hall and had served as a guest house for those family members who’d moved out of it and preferred to remain apart from it during visits back to Buckland for well over a hundred years.  The high hedges that surrounded the house and its acreage, the creek-fed pond, small barn that served on occasion as byre and stable both, the paddock, the gardens--all served together to grant peace to those who felt the need to be apart.  There was an agelessness to the place that seemed to hearten those who stayed there, and a different form of permanence than one found in the Hall.  For all it was a house and no smial it yet seemed closer to nature and more open to the comfort of tilled earth and fruiting trees.

          After having been entrusted with the key by Sara and given him a parting kiss, Esme went to the stables with Mac and helped saddle Moll, who’d been her own mount for years.  Moll had been foaled on the farm at Whitwell two years before she married Sara, and now in her teens was getting on in years; but Esme couldn’t imagine riding one of the Buckland ponies instead of her beloved friend.  “Let’s see, lass, if you remember your manners,” Esme said as she mounted from the block.  Accepting the bag holding provender for the day, Esme allowed Mac to lead the way to the paddock gate, and rode out of it to turn toward Crickhollow, some three miles away.  They arrived within an hour, and she found the gate waiting open for her, an indication that word had been given to the folk at Orchard Place that Crickhollow would be in use for the day; and inside she found wood had been laid for fires in the kitchen cooking hearth, the parlor, and the main bedroom.  However, she realized, once she’d seen Moll turned out into the paddock and the blanket and saddle set over the tree in the small barn and the house opened and the supplies sent explored, that she didn’t wish to remain indoors, but wanted most a solitary ramble, a luxury the Mistress-in-training got to enjoy very rarely any more.

          The day was just warm enough to be comfortable, and there were daffodils, narcissi, bluebells, and other early flowers blooming along the wagon track and bridle trails.  Esme walked back out the gate and pushed it closed behind her (“Remember, lass, it can take but a moment’s lapse for a pony to get loose; and they can wander farther than you’d think in but a minute’s time,” her father used to say), and set off to see where her feet would lead her.  She found herself drifting eastward, drawn by the mass of the High Hay, many of the shrubs that made up its bulk budding and a few actually blooming now--mostly small pink or parchment-colored flowers that gave cheer to the great, intertwined hedge.

          She’d been walking for about twenty minutes, following a barely discernible track that had angled off in a southeasterly direction from the main route to the Hay Gate when she topped a ridge and looked down into a small dingle surrounded by a circle of birches and poplars, the entire bowl of which appeared to be filled with woods violets.

          “Oh!” she said, her heart lifting at the beauty of it. Slowly and carefully she made her way into the dingle, finding a place where she could sit upon the grass and not crush any of the blossoms that surrounded her, delighting in the vivid color and the delicate odor, and watching with quiet joy as some of the earliest butterflies--simple white creatures, smaller than those that would be more prevalent later in the spring and throughout the summer--wandered from bloom to bloom, the purity of their white wings a striking contrast to the deep purple of the violets and the green herbage that surrounded her.

          Frodo would love it here, she thought, just before she noted the stick of graphite lying on the ground near where she sat.  She leaned over to pick it up, and smiled as she held it.  It appeared that Frodo did love it here, and had been here recently, probably the day before yesterday when he’d disappeared from the Hall after completing his morning tasks and hadn’t reappeared until shortly before tea, bringing her a bouquet of--of violets.  Holding the graphite stick to her, she closed her eyes and concentrated on filling herself with the scent, listening to the song of chaffinch and blackbird, and in the distance the raucous calls of starlings and crows.  Then she heard voices, voices approaching the dingle.

          “He sounds a clever one indeed,” commented one voice--not the voice of a Hobbit at all--apparently a Big Folk, a voice that held a deep, warmly dark timbre to it, a voice that brought to mind ancient woods and singing birds.

          “Ah, but there’s no question as to that,” came the reply.  This voice was familiar, both because it came from a Hobbit and because she was certain she’d heard it before.  “A fine, intelligent lad he is, and apparently one with a mind to set right what he’s marred.  First time I heard from my neighbors as one had come onto their places not to scrump but to mend and weed, I suspected as it was that Baggins lad, seekin’ to ease his heart of what ill as he might have caused.  And it took time and patience to assure myself as I was right.  I’ve watched him sweep steps and paths, reset stones to mark the edges of walks, hoe fields, repair gaps in fences and hedges, set the cattle to wanderin’ toward their byres toward sunset.  My youngest brother and my oldest lad have both glimpsed him in our farthest fields, cultivatin’ with that hoe of his as he carries with him.  I’m only sorry that I appear to have frightened him so, me and the dogs.”

          Maggot? she thought.  Apparently.  But what’s he doing with Big Folk?

          “I’ve heard the trees speaking of him,” another voice said, one that was lighter than the first, the words uttered almost sung rather than spoken.  “A dreamer and one with the heart to find beauty.  Oh, he’s ventured through the Hay a time or two, but never far enough for the trees to catch him unawares.  Once in spring he came, and a rowan all but slew him with its beauty.”

          “He’s a right wary one.  Never fully trained to know the ways of the sowing and harvest, but still one in rhythm with the land and its folks.  I can see him, crowned with violets as he was the other day.  He’d been in the dingle there, speaking with the young daughter of Haygate Farm, and she wove that crown for him.  He’s one to give heart, I’m thinkin’; one to see folk come to their best.”

          Maggot broke off, then after a time continued, “I hear as he’ll be leavin’ Buckland, going with old Bilbo Baggins to the heart of the Shire, there Hobbiton-way.  They say as old Bilbo’s cracked--quite mad, according to Otho Sackville-Baggins who’s his cousin.  But Otho himself doesn’t listen to the Shire speakin’--not its folk, not its earth.  Bilbo does--has eyes to see and the heart to understand.  If anyone can help that lad come to his own fullness, it’s Baggins.  But I find I’ll be missin’ the lad.”

          After another pause the singing voice said, “The Sun moves on its journey, and I must return to my lady, bring to her the earliest lily bulbs and blooms for her pleasure.  I don’t know if I’ll come this way again soon, friends, but rejoice to see the two of you together.  Brother Radagast--too long have you dwelt beyond the mountains--these lands also need your services, and those who guard the settled places deserve your heartening.  Do not seek to leave all the needs of Eriador to your fellow, for I know he is as often in the valley of the Anduin as he is in Imladris.”

          “I thought you gave no care to the doings outside your own borders!” laughed the deeper voice.

          The singing voice was more solemn when it spoke again.  “I have accepted the bounds set to my own lands, but the Shadow seeks to rise once more, and if it does, it will not honor them as I do.”  Then the tone grew light again.  “A merry afternoon to the two of you, for my beloved Goldberry awaits my return, with fresh bread and sweet honey and rich butter upon the table.”  And the voice broke out into song that was filled with delight and nonsense, and she could tell the singer was drawing away.

“Home through the Hay Gate, Tom must be going.

The Withywindle leads him home, once bright moon is showing.

Now a-hey down, a-hoy down, down, down a-dillo,

Past hedge and tree, root and bole, poplar and willow.”

          As the singing grew fainter, she heard the deeper voice laugh.  “Ever Iarwain has sung and danced upon the hilltops of the land that has accepted him.  An easing it is to see him again--it is long since I knew his company last.  In one thing alone is he wrong--three years have I lingered this side of the Mountains of Mist, seeing to the damage caused here by the Enemy’s creatures.  The time comes for me to return to my own chosen place--perhaps the last time before the great storm falls.”

          “And you were the one to send my dog back to me?”

          “Yes--the child did not understand it wished only to play and sought to finish the chase as it was accustomed to know, with praise and a merry petting.  It could feel the child’s terror and sought to come to him, to soothe him; but the child hid behind a slatted gate and would not let it come nearer.  A good beast, your dog--one to see the heart of truth better than the child at that time.”

          “It’s good he goes back to the Westfarthing, I’m thinking,” Maggot said.  “If any can bring the brightness back to him, I wager as it’ll be old Mad Baggins.  At least the hope could be seen in him again when I glimpsed him here, two days back.

          “Now I, too, must be off if I’m to have Obi ferry me across the Brandywine before midafternoon and allow me to be on Bamfurlong soil before sunset.  My missus is awaitin’ me and my news on the sale to the Master.  Good day to you, sir.”

          “It is ever good to meet those in tune with the land as you are, friend Maggot,” the deep voice said.

          A time longer Esme stayed in the dingle to give the three odd companions time each to go his own way.  She slipped the graphite drawing stick into her pocket, and at last rose and climbed with regret out of the dingle, looking down one last time once she was at the top, smiling to know she’d managed to follow her odd lad’s tracks at least once and had managed to piece together a bit more of how he’d spent those lost hours between his confrontation with Maggot and his final return to the Hall.

          But why hadn’t he spoken of the encounter with an odd Big Folk who’d apparently sent the dog home?

          “Where have you been all these hours?”

          “A byre somewhere.  The dogs chased me, and I fled.”  The memory of Rory’s question and Frodo’s answer came back to her.  Poor lad, huddled there, apparently in a stall, the gate of it closed against a young dog that only wished assurance this was a game such as it played every day.  She wondered if she should suggest to Bilbo he obtain a dog so that Frodo might get beyond his fear of the animals.

          Sunset was near as she approached Hall land again, and as she started to pass the boundary stone she saw something odd that had been draped over it.  She halted Moll and slipped from the saddle, reaching out to take it in her hands--a dried wreath woven from violets.

******* 

          She found she was shivering as the surrey turned up the lane toward that still-familiar green door she’d not seen for so many years.  True, they’d seen the lad at Midsummers at the Free Fair, but this was the first true time to see him in his new setting, no longer a son of the Hall but instead the young Master of Bag End.

          A trap was paused just short of the lane, its occupants glaring at those in the surrey.  Esme felt a stab of satisfaction at the expressions to be seen on the faces of Otho, Lobelia, and Lotho Sackville-Baggins.  No, the S-Bs were not happy, from what she could tell.

          The door was being drawn open as Sara pulled the surrey to a halt, and Bilbo was on the step, his face alight.  “Well, here you are, then.  Come in!  Come in!  Oh, Merry, my lad--how wonderful to see you.  Frodo will be so glad to know you’re here at last.  No, he’s in the kitchen, you see--left him pulling a cake out of the oven.  Wanted to greet you first.”

          Daddy Twofoot was coming up the lane after them.  “Well, if the lad ain’t been alive to see all of you,” he greeted them.  “Shall I take your rig into Bywater to the Dragon?  It would be my honor, it would.”

          “Let us get the bags,” Sara was saying as he reached in to pull out the bags and hampers.  Bilbo was already down the steps from the door, hugging each of them and then reaching down to take part of the luggage.  Then they were going up the steps, Merry looking about with curiosity, Esme with a growing weight of anticipation as Daddy Twofoot released the brake for the surrey and headed down toward the far turn in the lane.

          Bilbo had set his burdens down on the bench inside the door and was encouraging them to do the same when there was a cry from down the passageway to the kitchen.  “Aunt Esme!  Uncle Sara!  Oh, Merry mine!  You’re here at last!”  And there ran toward them, his fine fawn trousers dusted with flour and a streak of it next to his nose, their lad, his face shining with sheer joy.

*******

          “He’s out walking every day, and has been swimming in the water most days during the summer.  Finally gave in and went with him, I did, and if that didn’t give the gossips something to talk about!  Dora’s flat given up on me, I think, shaking her head about how Some People simply Don’t Appreciate how Important it is to Preserve Decorum in their day to day lives.”  It was such a perfect imitation of Frodo’s aunt’s way of speaking that they were all laughing.

          “And did you see him win the first place for running in the races at the Free Fair?” Bilbo continued.  “Although the nut cake he tried failed to win him anything but jokes at his expense.”

          “And when he danced with the others in the Husbandman’s Dance,” Sara commented, “I thought Menegilda would expire from sheer pride.  She was so very thrilled, and feels terribly bad about how she’s treated him all this time.”

          “I didn’t see a bit of puffiness to his ankles,” Esme said,

          “No--although I’ll admit it was gone before I got back to the Hall to fetch him back here.”

          “And did I hear young Samwise explaining how he’s been teaching Frodo how to garden?” Sara asked.

          “Oh, yes, our lad has him and the Gaffer both convinced he’s never touched a trowel or a pruning knife in his life--well, perhaps more the Gaffer than Sam himself.  The child dotes on Frodo, he does.  And Frodo’s helping teach him how to read and write--realized early on that the lad is keen to learn.  I have a suspicion that our Sam will be quite a surprise to the Shire one day, when all of a sudden all realize that this is nowhere as simple a soul as they think.  I’d been reading him Elvish history for some time already, and he wants so much to meet an Elf himself one day, and he’s extraordinarily perceptive and shrewd in spite of being so young a child.  He and Frodo have been exploring together.  I’m able to use Frodo’s need to exercise as an excuse to pry the child away from the gardens for a time each day, for otherwise I fear he’d become as blind to anything that doesn’t have roots and stems as the Gaffer himself.  Between the two of them, Frodo and Sam are becoming quite the experts on the life of other creatures throughout the area.  Oh, don’t be shocked, Esme, if you find caterpillars or cocoons in any odd box you might come upon in the dining room--that’s where they’re keeping them to watch them prepare to break out as moths and butterflies.”

*******

          As Sara came back to their guest room in Bag End from a rather prolonged trip to the privy he was chuckling.

          “Is Merry awake yet?” Esme asked as he slipped back into bed with her and took her in his arms.

          “Yes, of course.”

          “Did he seem to do all right in the bed in the nursery?”

          “Oh, he wasn’t in the nursery.”

          “Already down the hall in Frodo’s room, then?” she asked.

          “Oh, yes, and did you know that Lanti is getting fatter?”

          Esme felt the grin spread across her face.  “He said so?”

          Sara nodded, then kissed the hollow where her neck met her shoulder.  “Oh, yes, he did,” he murmured, looking up at her.  “And he seemed most unwilling to accept she’s merely expecting another child.”

          She laughed.  “Ah--the innocence of bairns!” she murmured, kissing the top of his head and then running the tip of her finger about the tip of his ear.  She paused as a particularly tantalizing odor wafted through the room.  She turned her head toward the door.  “I’d forgotten how one can smell such wonderful cooking in a private home,” she commented.

          “Do you want to get up for first breakfast?” he asked her, and she could detect just the hint of disappointment in his eyes.

          She didn’t have to think to make up her mind.  “No,” she said quietly, “This morning I think I’d just like to enjoy a bit of a lie-in with you.  Frodo and Bilbo can keep Merry entertained.”

          His smile promised a good deal of pleasure, and together they snuggled deeper into the bed.

*******

          “I’d think that you and Sara and Rory and dear Menegilda would be most concerned for the lad’s reputation, Esmeralda,” Lobelia said as she reached out to accept the cup of tea Esme had just poured out for her.

          “Well, of course we are,” Esme assured her, her tone carefully schooled.  “And we’ve been delighted at how all within both Hobbiton and Bywater speak so highly of him.  He enjoyed nowhere as shining an amount of praise in Buckland or the Marish, you know.”

          Esme was pleased to see that Lobelia couldn’t think of a proper reply to that.  Just then she heard the back door to the smial close in the distance.  Good--the menfolk were coming back in and Bilbo could see to entertaining his objectionable guest himself.

*******

          Adamanta opened the door to the Master and Mistress’s bedroom at Esme’s knock.  Her face was pale and exhausted, but her eyes lit at the sight of the packet Esme carried.  “From Bag End?” she asked quietly.  At Esme’s nod she smiled and continued, “Mother Gilda will be so very pleased, you realize.  She’s only just now beginning to feel better, and she’s been so worried that Frodo might have been ill, also.”

          The room was redolent with steam and mint, kettles filled with water and the pungent leaves having been kept boiling for days over the room’s fire to help the elderly Mistress breathe more easily as she fought the lung sickness.  Now at last it appeared she was recovering, and she was growing fractious over the slowness of her return to her usual robust health and the boredom of being kept in bed when she’d like to be up and about the Hall.

          Seeing the packet in Esme’s hand, she was demanding, “Is it from Hobbiton?  From our lad?  How is he?”

          “I haven’t opened it yet, Mother Gilda--I knew you’d want to be the first to hear.  Evidently they saved several letters and sent them all at once.”  Coming in and setting a chair where light from the bedside lamp fell properly, Esme sat and slipped her finger under the seal.  She quickly spotted an envelope such as Frodo had been using to send his weekly letters to the Hall and withdrew it.  It was indeed addressed in Frodo’s distinctive script. 

Dear all,  I’m sorry I didn’t write last week, but we have just said goodbye to Gandalf.  I’m so sorry we didn’t come as we’d planned to visit the Hall, but I’m not sorry to have met Gandalf the Wizard.  He is a most interesting person.  I found I liked him tremendously.  Bilbo was speaking of us coming anyway, but now he’s caught a nasty cold, so I’m very busy seeing to it he has plenty of rosehip tea (Missus Bell, the Gaffer’s wife, swears it helps people get over a cold better) and chicken broth and all.  Lots of folks have been ill, including Missus Bell and Sam’s sisters.  Now even Sam has it, although Bilbo at last is beginning to get better.

          I’m sorry I can’t write more, but Bilbo’s calling for a pot of tea and some rolls.  At least he’s interested in food again--a sure sign he’s getting better.

          I love and miss you, and look forward to seeing you all when we go to the Great Smials (or the farm at Whitwell) for Yule and to see Uncle Pal and Aunt Lanti’s new bairn born.

                                                Love,

                                                Frodo

          “I wonder why that didn’t get sent before?” Gilda sniffed as she wiped her nose once more with a great kerchief belonging to Rory, having agreed her ladylike ones were insubstantial to dealing with what she’d been through with her lung sickness.

          “Probably too busy if he found himself helping both at Bag End and with the Gamgee family at Number Three,” Adamanta suggested.

          As she set aside the letter from Frodo and pulled out another sheet Esme noted her own agreement that was likely, then she began scanning the sheet she held, and she felt dismay fill her.  Gilda was immediately watching her closely.

          “What is it?” the Mistress asked.

          “Frodo caught it, too--just as Bilbo was well enough to get up, and it went into the lung sickness for him.”

          “No!” insisted Mantha.  Gilda’s face went paler as Esme read the note from Bilbo.

My beloved cousins,

          I know the lad just wrote to say that I’m recovering well and fairly rapidly from a most miserable cold, and that at the time he wrote that letter he was very cheerful and far too proud of the fact he’d managed to avoid catching it, too, as he reminded me several times during the days it kept me in my room and my bed.

          Unfortunately, it appears that he’s not so much managed to catch it at last, as it’s managed to catch him.  The morning just after Auntie Laurel allowed me to rise from my sickbed Frodo himself failed to get up for second breakfast; by evening it was plain this was more than a cold, and by the next morning it was obvious he had the lung sickness and was very ill indeed.

          Worry over his Aunt Gilda’s condition in light of the missive advising she, too, has the lung sickness did not help the matter.  For the last day he’s suffered from a high fever and hasn’t been very coherent.  His dreams are apparently frightening, and he speaks of hearing hoofbeats pursuing him and Merry.  He told me this morning we must keep torches by us.  I fear the adventure story he was reading last must be still inflaming his imagination.

          I am told that this cold and fever is widespread through out all four Farthings as well as within Buckland.  Mayor Whitfoot and your cousin Philomena suffer from it also, as does their son, Fenton; and it is so widespread within the Great Smial that Ferumbras has forbade any going there or traveling from it until it is well over.  There have been three deaths in Hobbiton and Bywater, including Gammer Strawflower Boffin.  Auntie Laurel is most distressed.

          As soon as there is a change in our lad’s condition I will let you know.

                                                Yours in distress,

                                                Bilbo

          The third letter was from Frodo’s Aunt Dora, older sister to his father.

Dearest Master Rorimac and Mistress Menegilda,

          I regret to inform you that your Nephew Frodo has been Most Grievously Ill, although it appears that he is Beginning to Recover at Last.  Mistress Laurel Chubbs, who is a Most Capable Healer, was Forced to use a Remedy she says she has used Most Rarely, and has steeped Kingsfoil in Boiling Water for its Vapours; and it appears the Dear Lad has Responded to its Most Wonderful Benefits.  Today he has been able to sit up at Last and sip at a clear Broth, and it is Hoped that he will be allowed to Eat a Roll and perhaps some Tender Fowl this Evening.

          He is Most Distressed at the News that his Beloved Aunt Gilda has been Similarly Ill, and he Prays Most Tenderly that the Next News we Hear from Brandy Hall will Tell of her Greatly Desired Recovery.

          There have been Many Ill of this Dread Epidemic here in the Region of the Hill, including Several Members of the Family Gamgee.  Young Samwise was ill for Some Days, but is now Fully Recovered and has Attended upon Young Frodo Most Tenderly during his Illness and Bilbo’s Recovery.  However it Appears that Mistress Bell Gamgee also Suffers from the Same Condition as does Young Frodo, and does not recover so Swiftly nor Well.  And word from Michel Delving is that Young Fenton Whitfoot, who at Last Report was Recovering Rapidly, Died in his Sleep a Day Since.  Our Mayor and his Wife are Most Distressed--Most Distressed Indeed.

          All took deep breaths, and Mistress Gilda murmured, “The Powers be praised!”  Esme, shocked at the use of the sentiment, turned to appraise her mother-in-love with a new appreciation.

*******

          Saradas and Dirna had come from Bucklebury for the day, and although it was wonderful to see how much Dino and Dodi were enjoying their brother, it had fallen to Esme to entertain her husband’s aunt.  “And how are your rhododendrons doing?” she asked, knowing how proud the Hobbitess was of her shrubs.

          Dirna, however, wasn’t smiling that superior smile this time.  “I suppose they are doing well enough,” she said.  “However, the prize I’d expected to receive at the Budgeford Flower Show went to someone else instead.”

          “Oh?  To whom?  Crocus Grubb of Waymeet?”  Dirna had seen Crocus Grubb as her biggest rival for years.

          Was that fury in Dirna’s eyes?  “If it were Crocus that would be one thing,” Dirna said stiffly.  “No--the flowers were entered by a mere lad, one from the Westfarthing.  And what’s worse--they’ve apparently only had the plants established for two years, from what I was told.”

          Esme was surprised, for Dirna had always managed to make it sound as if garden-quality rhododendrons were most difficult to care for--perhaps to discourage others from seeking to grow them themselves? she wondered.  “A mere lad?  Who?”

          Dirna sniffed.  “Apparently a mere nobody--some child by the name of Samwise Gamgee.  I ask you--with a name like that, he must be a fool indeed, am I not right?  Why, Esme, what’s wrong?  Did you manage to swallow your tea improperly or something?”

          It took all she could do to hide the fact she was trying desperately not to laugh out loud.

          But then Horto came in, his eyes alight with excitement.  “Missus Esme,” he said, smiling broadly, “we have unexpected visitors.”

          “We do?” she asked, but was spared from having to ask who when a tall, slender figure burst through the door.  She was on her feet instantly, the precariously balanced teapot giving up the struggle to remain on the table and smashing to the floor as she and Frodo were busy wrapping their arms about one another.

          “Oh, Aunt Esme, how good to see you!  Where’s Uncle Sara?  And Merry--where’s my Merry-lad?”  He pulled back, and she could see his color was excellent, his face full and clear, his eyes a most brilliant blue, not a speck of distress to be seen.  “We just came from Budgeford, where we’d been visiting Budge Hall and Cousins Odovacar and Rosamunda and all.  Oh, I find I like my cousin Freddy very much!”

          “So, you’ve been visiting with the Bolgers?  How wonderful!”

          “Yes, and as we were going we took some flowers the Gaffer and Sam wished to exhibit at the flower show.  And guess what!  Sam’s rhododendrons won one of the prizes.  He’ll be so thrilled when he learns it!”

          Esme didn’t have to look at Dirna to know she was fuming.

*******

          The proposed meeting took place on the day the Free Fair opened, in the banquet hall for the Council Hole in Michel Delving.  Present were a large contingent of Brandybucks, Paladin, Eglantine, and Ferumbras Took, Beslo Grubb (who, living in the Hall with his mother’s people, had come with the Brandybucks) as Bilbo’s personal lawyer, Bernigard Took as the representative of the Shire’s Guild of Lawyers, Odovacar Bolger, Griffo Boffin, Dora, Ponto, Iris, and Porto Baggins, and Odo Proudfoot as well as Will Whitfoot and one of his aides.

          Will looked about quizzically, then turned toward Bilbo.  “Dudo chose not to come?” he asked, curiously.

          “No--although I actually had a letter from him.  He says that as I know Frodo far better than he does, as do Rory, Menegilda, Sara, Esme, and even Paladin and Eglantine, he leaves the disposition of the situation to us.  He felt the lad ought to have gone to Dora or Ponto back when his brother and Primula first died, an opinion he made plain then and that he felt didn’t need reiterating now.  He can appreciate that he chose not to exercise his right to claim Frodo at that time and thus has no claim now, and that the situation is similar with Dora.”

          Ferumbras noted, “I see you haven’t included your cousin Otho in the number.”

          Bilbo’s face was as somber as the Thain’s as he answered, “Well, as one cannot appear to include Otho in such a gathering without getting Lobelia in the mix as well, do you blame me for not advising them?  And do you truly believe anything they might say would be in the lad’s best interest?”

          Ferumbras’s lip curled in distaste at mention of Missus Sackville-Baggins, and he gave a very visible shudder.  “I certainly can’t fault you for excluding her,” he admitted.  Dealing with his mother, all knew, was hard enough on anyone; if there was one person who had good reason to wish not to deal with another difficult Hobbitess, it was Ferumbras Took.  Then he gave a sardonic smile.  “No, certainly neither of them would wish the lad any better fortune than they would wish for any other individual save themselves and their odious son.  And as Otho and Lobelia between them already own a far more substantial amount of land than many of the great families control, nothing dealt with here will work significantly to their financial detriment.  The only prizes they might truly rue not receiving would be to be recognized as family head for the Bagginses--but, then, how many families ought any one individual--or couple--be allowed to head?--and Bag End.  And I will admit that the idea of keeping Bag End out of Sackville-Baggins hands is a satisfying one.”

          Bilbo interrupted, “However, here we are perhaps getting ahead of ourselves.  We’ve not yet established whether or not Frodo wishes to continue matters as they are.  It is his life and happiness that comes first in my personal priorities, you must understand, and he may not wish to take on the burden of family head or Master of Bag End and the Hill.”  He turned to the lad, where he sat with Esme and Saradoc flanking him.  “Well, my boy, what do you say?  At this point it is purely your decision.”

          “You can’t let a lad so young make such a choice and accept such responsibility!” objected Odo.

          “And why not?  When did you leave your father’s hole?”

          “When I was----”  Odo stopped and flushed.  Odo’s father had been a difficult old soul for anyone to deal with, and Odo had moved out into his sister’s place to live with her and her husband until he came of age the day he turned twenty.  “That’s different!” he spluttered.

          Will Whitfoot shook his head.  “I fail to see how, Odo Proudfoot,” he said.  “Young Frodo’s a very mature tween from what I can see, and by far one of the most intelligent souls I’ve ever heard tell of, and in every sense of the term.  His sense of responsibility is among the highest----”

          “Save when he’s raiding the farms and holdings of the Marish!” muttered Odo.  Then at Will’s glare he added, “Yes, I’ve heard of his adventures in scrumping, and from more than just that Lobelia.  Of course, most seem to think what he done was but a lark----”

          Rory gave a big snort.  “Let me remember, Odo--some sixty years back it appears to me that, during a visit to the Hall alongside your Bolger cousins, you ended up being brought before the Master for having been caught scrumping three hams from a smokehouse in the Marish as well as a barrel of beer from the Bridge Inn and a half acre of potatoes from the Hall potato fields.”

          Odo grew even more flushed.  “We were planning a party!  And what for are you bringing up my past as a lad to throw in my face now?” he demanded.

          “Isn’t that what you’re doing?  I’ve not heard a single complaint about this one scrumping for well over three years.  Quite the opposite.  And save for the disappearance of a goodly portion of a carrot crop once, I’ve never heard tell of Frodo and his friends taking more than any other group of lads in the history of the Hall.  Plus he’s made recompense for what he did.”  He pointed to a worn hoe that stood, incongruously leaning against a nearby table.  “I can bring many witnesses who will tell you that Frodo did his best to set things right, once he realized what he was doing was taking food out of the mouths of others.”  He suddenly straightened, looking about at those who sat around the room.  “And I make pains to insist that not a soul of you is to speak of that fact outside this room without Frodo’s express permission.  Is this understood?”

          Frodo’s face was very pale, although his cheeks were flaming.  His expression fixed, he looked down at the floor.  The rest looked at one another, and at last, as Rory looked at each in turn, they agreed.  Once Odo, as the last present, uttered his word, Frodo let loose a long-held breath, and he gave a weak smile of thanks to his uncle.

          Will looked around the assembly, then turned back to Frodo.  “All right, Frodo lad, tell us if you wish to continue living with your cousin Bilbo.”

          Frodo glanced briefly left and right at Sara and Esme, then turned his eyes back to Will.  Lifting his chin, he said with decision, “Yes.”

          “Would you accept being adopted as his heir?”

          “Yes.”

          “Would you accept being named family head after him?”

          “Yes.”

          Will looked at Dora, Ponto, and Iris.  “Is this acceptable to the Bagginses, do you think.”

          “My stars, but yes,” Dora said.  “Can you imagine what Otho and Lobelia would do?  Probably seek to make us all wear the same color clothing, plant the same flowers in our gardens and window boxes, and take tea with them, paying them court, regularly at four on Mersdays, whatever our own wishes or needs might be.”

          Ponto gave a rather sour grin at the thought.  “No question that would be what we’re in for,” he agreed, “if we were to allow Otho to follow Bilbo.  He and Lobelia are already making the few Sackvilles that are left miserable on a regular basis, you know.”

          It was Will’s turn to shudder.  “And I’m here to tell you that a group of Sackvilles only this morning approached me as to how they could legally remove him and Lobelia as family heads.  And they all hate being forced to take tea with her on Trewsdays.”

          Ponto nodded.  “Besides,” he added, “If it weren’t the S-Bs, it would be me, and I’ll tell you here and now I don’t want the job.”

          Porto gave a snort.  “Nor do I.”

          After looking about at all those Bagginses present, Will exchanged an inquiring glance with the Thain, then said, “Well, there we have it.”  He looked at the Brandybucks.  “You lot in agreement with this?” he asked.

          Rory looked at Menegilda, obviously ceding the floor to her.  She sighed and straightened, then looked at Frodo.  “We had our chance with you, dearling,” she said quietly, “and we--I----”  She paused, then continued.  “We had our chance, and I nearly killed you with kindness.  And I apologize.  I won’t tell you now what motivated me, but I agree that this is best for you, and for your family of name.”  She gave Bilbo a sideways look and added, a rather superior expression on her face, “And it’s about time the family Baggins got some responsible leadership!”

          Bilbo straightened and started to splutter, but Bernigard Took cuffed him on the side of the head, laughing.  “That’s enough from you, whose claim to fame, according to your own tales, is that you served as a burglar for a horde of Dwarves!”  All were laughing now, and even Bilbo was reluctantly beginning to grin.

          Frodo’s eyes were now bright with carefully withheld tears.  “Thank you, Aunt Menegilda.  You know how very much I love you.  But I can’t go back--not now.”

          “I understand.  And I want you to know how very much I love you and how I respect your decision.”

          Rory cleared his throat.  “One condition we lay on you, Bilbo--well, actually three.  The lad may visit us whenever he pleases, and we may visit him whenever we please, and particularly Merry.”

          “Agreed.”  There was a world of dignity in Bilbo’s voice, and Esme was glad he didn’t try to point out he’d not withheld Frodo’s presence from them yet and wouldn’t think to try.  When he let it show through, Bilbo had a marked level of nobility, she realized.

          “Second, you won’t take Frodo outside the boundaries of the Shire and Buckland combined before he comes of age.”

          “Agreed.”  Esme saw a hint of disappointment on Frodo’s face, one quickly schooled away.

          “Third, you won’t leave the Shire and him until he’s of age, no matter how strong the urge to start wandering gets--and don’t think we don’t see it on you at times.”

          “I’ll certainly not think of leaving him to Lobelia and Otho’s untender mercies while he’s not yet reached his majority,” Bilbo answered him.  “Agreed.”

          “Do you agree, Frodo?”

          Frodo gave a contained nod, finally saying, “Yes.”

          Beslo and Berni gave an inquiring look at Will, who nodded.  At that they came forward with the papers Beslo had already prepared and that Berni had reviewed.

          Ferumbras said, “No, wait.”  He looked at the others present.  “Are all of you in agreement regarding this adoption?” he asked.

          “We don’t have to be in agreement,” Griffo pointed out.  “Bilbo is family head for the Bagginses, as I’ll be for the Boffins of the Hill region when my father dies.  He’s well within his rights as family head of name for Frodo to make any arrangements he pleases for the lad, and with more right to do so than I’d have, were he a Boffin born under my authority.”

          “But do you agree anyway?” the Thain persisted.

          Griffo answered simply, “Yes.”

          Ferumbras looked at each of the others present, and only when each and every one agreed did he finally nod.  “All right, then I must agree, also, as all these representatives of Frodo’s family ties are in agreement.”  He signed to the two lawyers to go forward, and soon their documents were laid out for all to examine and, at long last, sign.  Will had brought the proper ledger to register this guardianship and adoption agreement within, and he made a great show of writing in the details.  At long last Bilbo went to a low chest that stood on the table behind the Thain and unlocked it, bringing out the blue-bound Book of Baggins, and noted the particulars in it, having Frodo stand by him to observe how it was to be done.

          At last, when the last signature in red ink was affixed and the last volume left open for all to examine at their leisure to ascertain all had been done properly, Bilbo turned to Frodo and held out his arms.  Frodo came forward slowly, examining his older cousin’s face carefully as he did.  “For the sake of your parents, whom I loved so deeply, I accept you as if you were indeed my son, and I hope I will do them proudly, sweetling,” Bilbo said, his hands resting on Frodo’s shoulders, before with a wordless shout Frodo pulled free, then threw himself into Bilbo’s arms.

          “My boy, my dear, precious, star-kissed boy,” Bilbo was saying softly, then murmured something in Elvish in Frodo’s ear.  Frodo laughed and answered him, also in Elvish; answered him easily, Esme noted.

          No, there was no question that this was right and proper--right and proper for her Frodo.

          No, not my Frodo--for Frodo’s Frodo.  She found herself smiling through her own tears.

          And when Frodo Baggins stood up alongside Bilbo and Isumbard Took and his cousin Merimac to dance the Husbandman’s Dance, all could say that on that day there was no one who shone in the whole of the company like Frodo Baggins.

Older Cousin

          “Hello, Samwise,” Esme said, finding the lad kneeling, cultivating around the lilies and other flowers planted under Frodo’s window.

          He looked up, startled, then quickly rose to his feet, knuckling his forehead.  “Hello, Missus Esme, mum,” he said.  “And how might I serve you?”

          She felt a wry smile show itself--the Gaffer had done so well at teaching his youngest son to show proper respect, and it seemed so odd in such a young lad.  “I came looking for my cousins and my son,” she smiled.  “Paladin and Eglantine are to be here for dinner, after all; and I intend to enjoy their company in full before I must head back east toward Buckland tomorrow.”

          “They’ve gone into Hobbiton, mum, to the market.  Should be back at any time, I’d think.  My old dad’s had to drive to Overhill about the beddin’ plants for the fall.  He’s heard as there’s a new bulb available, a crocus as blooms in September instead of April, and he’s set hisself to gettin’ a few for our garden and here.  So he set me to doin’ some weedin’ as needs done.  You’re done with your meetin’ with Mr. Griffo, then?”

          “Yes.  Our orchards did poorly there in Buckland this year--there was that windstorm that hit just as the blooms were opening; and the Hall needs apples and pears to tide us over the winter.  And while I was at it I was able to deal with Fortumbald as well--we’ll be able to trade a goodly amount of seed potatoes for sugar beets--our potatoes have done extraordinarily well, but it appears we decidedly underestimated how many beets we’d need, and Fortumbald’s farm has produced a definite surplus.  I’m just pleased Rory decided to trust me--Sara’s been kept so busy dealing with claims generated by the windstorm in April.”

          “Well, my Mr. Frodo’s that glad to see you, and no mistake--you and Master Merry.”

          “I’m glad.”

          He gave a nod, then bent to pick up a clot of old stems and roots to toss into his barrow along with his tools, then reached to pick up a rather battered book to stow in the bag he wore over his shoulder.  “What are you reading?” she asked.

          “It’s a book as Mr. Bilbo says come from far away, some land as he says is way south-aways.  It’s written in Westron, and its about some Elves as lived long ago and had a Haven in a far place, way down by the sea, it’s said.  And there was two as was lovers, and his name was Amroth and hers was Nim-ro-del--” he sounded out the name carefully, “--and they was to sail off together, but she didn’t come, and a storm drove the boat away.  The Lord Amroth, he threw hisself into the water to try to swim back ashore--guess as he was goin’ to search for her and find out as why she didn’t come, only later the Elves left at the Haven said as he never made it, and no one ever saw her, neither.  It’s terrible sad, it is.  But it seems as lots of the tales about Elves is terrible sad.”

          He shook himself.  “Seems as those as messes about with boats don’t tend to come to too good an end,” he observed as he leaned down to pick up the handles of the barrow.  “If’n you’ll excuse me, mum.”

 *******

          Pippin looked up from where he was sitting on the floor alongside that odd Wizard Gandalf, smiling broadly.  “Auntie Smee!” he called.  “Come see!”

          Esme entered the room rather diffidently--she’d just returned from Delphie and Bartolo’s wedding--to which neither Frodo nor Bilbo had been invited, she’d noted (or if they had they’d chosen not to mention it), and she’d not realized the Wizard was visiting.  “I see, Pippin, dear.  Is it a byre?”  At the child’s nod she continued, “Ah, it’s very nice.  And where are the older lads?”

          Pippin’s smile faded,  “Outside, at the stream,” he said.  He was pouting.

          She felt her lip twitch.  “And they wouldn’t let you go, too?” she asked, to which he gave a reluctant nod, obviously quite put out.

          “And considering the way you looked when you followed them the last time, it’s undoubtedly just as well,” Gandalf said, smoothing curls out of the child’s eyes and then turning to smile up into Esme’s face.  “He managed to catch himself in blackberry thorns just past a stand of nettles--it took them a good deal of time to work him free, by which time they were all badly scratched and sporting an abundant crop of nettle stings.  It’s a good thing that between them the Gaffer and Sam have such a wonderful store of aloe and comfrey.”

          Pippin held up a bandaged hand.  She asked, “And did you get a thorn in your hand, Pippin?”

          He nodded vigorously.  “Unca Bilbo got it out.  This big!”  And he demonstrated a thorn so large it would have done for a bread knife, she estimated.

          “Oh, but I wager you were quite brave when he pulled it out,” she suggested.

          He nodded.  “Frodo held me, an’ I was brave.”

          She saw the pride in the odd Big Folk’s face as he looked from the small child toward the front door to the smial.

 *******

          “No, Pippin--no more biscuits until you’ve finished your boiled egg,” Frodo admonished the youngest of his cousins present.  “And, no, Pervinca Took--you may not take your sister’s seed cake.”

          Esme caught Bilbo’s eye--he was plainly amused and proud.  Gandalf, who sat nearby with a folding table appropriate to his own height before him, watched with fascination and, she realized, a very large smile hidden behind his grey beard and mustaches.  There was no question that Frodo was in charge of the children who filled Bag End.  Sam, who with May and Marigold had been granted permission by the Gaffer to join the proper guests for tea was himself keeping an eye on his younger sister.

          Bilbo looked around the dining room briefly and commented quietly, “This is what my own parents had hoped for when they designed this room--a dining room apt for a family.  They were so grieved that I was the only child given them.”  She found herself nodding her understanding.

          There were still a few odd boxes likely to hold cocoons lying here and there about the room, and on one of the windowsills was a glass bowl with sand and what appeared to be tiny seed beads scattered across it along with some kind of water insect.  She looked at the bowl with distaste, and turned to nudge her host.  “What is that?” she asked, indicating the bowl.

          “That?  Oh, it’s the young of a particular kind of fly that according to Frodo’s Elven book of insects is called a caddis fly.  Sam refers to it as the ‘water worm,’ by the way.  It protects itself by creating a shell for itself out of whatever materials it finds, and appears to produce what I must assume is a kind of glue to hold it all together.  The lads are fascinated by them, and have been experimenting by giving them different materials out of which to construct new shells.  Frodo has been building a collection of the shells once they’re emptied, and I must say they are unusual.  And in that one,” he added, pointing to a similar bowl on the other windowsill, “is a tadpole that has almost completed turning into a frog.  I’ve made Frodo promise he and the other lads will take it down to the stream in the woods and turn it loose tomorrow that they not be tempted to slip it down the neck of any of the lasses once the transformation is complete.”

          Remembering the times her brother had done just that to her, Esme gave a wry smile.  “I thank you, then,” she said, and received a mock bow in return.

          She found herself watching Pearl, who sat beside Frodo and was hanging on every word the young Hobbit spoke.  Why, she realized, the lass is besotted by him!  Then she caught Pimpernel watching her older sister with disgust, and noted that May Gamgee also was casting glances of adoration at Frodo and barely hidden envy at Pearl.  And Frodo sat there, not truly realizing that such emotions were aimed his way and yet unconsciously responding to the carefully timed smiles Pearl gave him each time he looked toward her.  Now, this could prove an interesting situation!

          At last Frodo, having examined the plates of each of the children, nodded his head.  “Well, if you are finished we will withdraw and leave the adults to complete their own meal in some peace.  I’d think they’d truly appreciate being able to hear a thought make itself known in their heads, should such an event occur, of course.”  He flashed a grin at Bilbo, who responded with a sharp look.

          “Don’t be insolent, child,” the older Hobbit returned as Frodo rose and took up his plate and cup and indicated the other children should do the same.  “And don’t go too far in your rambling about!”

          “We promise we shall return in good time for supper,” Frodo said, turning at the door.  There was an unspoken exchange between him and his guardian, and with a smile the younger Hobbit led the rest of the children back toward the kitchen.

          “I must say,” Gandalf said, turning his own gaze from the back of Pippin, who’d slipped off the great book that lifted him up high enough on his chair he might sit more easily at the table, “that the hole is truly brightened by the presence of so many children.  You ought to have married and produced your own brood, my dear Bilbo.”

          Bilbo shrugged as he looked thoughtfully toward the door, his hand automatically slipping into his vest pocket.  Esme thought that for a brief moment he appeared troubled, although the expression had smoothed once he turned his attention back toward the Wizard.  “Do you really think so, a decided old bachelor like me?  I fear I would have found ways to make the life of any lass unlucky enough to accept me particularly miserable.”  Yet Esme thought somehow the light tone with which he said that was perhaps more than a trifle forced.

          The old Hobbit rose and went to the sideboard to fetch the bottle of wine that sat there, pouring some into each of the goblets that he’d prepared earlier, taking one to Gandalf and then returning, taking the two remaining and bringing them back with him and presenting one to Esmeralda.  “In the general run of things,” he commented as he resumed his seat, “I ought to be glaring after children for ruining the peace of the day with their boundless energy and noisy chatter--that’s certainly what one sees in most Hobbits my age, after all.  But I find I revel in it, and find them enchanting and their turns of interest fascinating to watch.  They are so in love with life, and so easily awed by the complexity and simplicity of all they see around them.  And our lad--he’s fascinated by everything about him.”

          “Does he have that pony yet you spoke of during my last visit?”

          Bilbo shook his head in regret.  “No, he’s decided not to accept one until he finds one he feels he can truly love.  He’s learned to ride, however.  Griffo most graciously has taught him, and he has proved to have an excellent seat and a way with the beasts.  I fear, however, he’s absorbed my own preference for independence.  Perhaps had he come to me a bit younger he would have fallen in love with one and I’d even now be sponsoring one in the stables of the Ivy Bush or the Green Dragon; as it is he refuses to be tied down to a single pony when he can rent one at will but not need to be responsible to it the rest of the time.  Although he often goes down and helps in the grooming of those kept at the Ivy Bush.”

          “I see,” Gandalf noted as he sipped at his wine.  “He has quite a way with the younger children.”

          Bilbo nodded as he drank from his own glass.  Then setting the goblet on the table he turned his attention toward Esme.  “And was there anything you wished to do now, lass?”

          “I’d promised Menegilda I’d lay some flowers on Camellia’s grave.  Gilda always was rather taken by Dudo’s wife, you know, as was Adamanta as well, the few times they met.  It’s too bad, really, that Dudo left Hobbiton after her death.  Do you hear from him often?”

          “I hear of him far more than I hear from him, I’m afraid.  He’s never quite forgiven me for leaving the Shire before, you realize, for he had always held with Dora’s prejudice that a proper Hobbit does Nothing Unpredictable.  Yet, faced with the loss of his wife and son, the first thing Dudo himself did was to remove himself about as far from Hobbiton as he could without leaving the Westfarthing.  But the village head lets me know how things are going with him--just keeping track of him as part of normal family business, you understand.  Although Daisy does write to me two to three times a year.  She seems to like Westhall, but says she misses Hobbiton and Bywater.”  He straightened.  “I try to weed Camellia’s grave a time or two a year.  Shall I accompany you?”

          “If you wish.  And you, Mr. Gandalf?”

          She was positive the Wizard was amused at being so addressed.  “If you don’t mind being accompanied by such a one as I, I admit I would be honored to come with you as well.”

          So it was that, having repaired to the garden where between herself and Bilbo they’d carefully chosen and cut some blooms adequate to their purpose, they headed down the hill and across the bridge, edging about Bywater until they came to the common burial grounds for the region of the Hill.  However, they found that they’d managed merely to follow the children.

          Pearl and Pimpernel were kneeling over the grave of Bungo Baggins and Merry over that of his wife Belladonna, carefully pulling out weeds and dropping them into a basket brought from the workshed at Bag End; while Pervinca and Pippin, under the supervision of Estella Bolger, were setting pebbles in a line about the borders of the freshly cleaned grave of Camellia Baggins.  Freddy looked up from where he and Folco Boffin were working on that of a Bolger relative.  “Sam was coming down to check his mother’s grave,” he said in almost a whisper, “so we all thought to do some weeding.”

          “I see,” Bilbo said, looking at the graves for his parents with the roses that he and the Gaffer maintained over them.  Esme could tell that he was moved to see they’d done such work.  He cleared his throat.  “And I thank you,” he added to the lasses and Merry, his voice particularly gentle. 

          The children glowed, she noted, at the appreciation expressed.  Merry straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers.  “It was the least we could do, Uncle Bilbo,” he said.

          Esme laid her bouquet on the grave of Camellia Chubbs Baggins, and stood for a moment, thinking on her life and how her hope for a second child had ended with her own death, followed by that of the infant.  She remembered the statement Bilbo’d once made that throughout most of Middle Earth few lived to reach the status of old age and that even within the Shire a significant number of children born didn’t reach adulthood, and thought how that made it important to find what joy one could and to make ones mark on the world while it was still possible.  Suddenly she shivered.

          The breeze shifted direction slightly, and she realized she could hear murmuring off to the right, past a stand of forsythia and flowering quince; she exchanged glances with Bilbo, and at his shrug in return they turned that way to follow the quiet voices of the other children, Gandalf like a great grey shadow behind them.

          Frodo stood by Sam, looking down at a grave that was relatively new yet planted with pink hyacinths, white narcissi, and primroses of blue and gold.  Sam had his arm about the waist of his sister May; Frodo held little Marigold in his left arm with her right about his neck, and had his right one around Sam, with his hand resting on May’s left shoulder.  Esme, Bilbo, and the Wizard halted immediately, listening to Sam.  “She come to love you as much as she did us, Mr. Frodo, and she was always glad as we was friends.”

          “As I’m glad I was able to know her as well.  She made me feel welcome, and when I was with her I didn’t feel motherless.  Your mum and my Aunt Esme--they’ve been my second mums, you know.”

          Marigold was wiping her nose with the back of her wrist.  “I miss her, Sammy--I want her to come home again.”

          “She can’t, Goldy,” Sam sighed, looking up at her.  “And don’t do that--here, use my handkerchief.”  He produced a square of cloth and handed it to her, and she took it awkwardly with her left hand and wiped her eyes and then blew her nose.  “Maybe we should go home now,” he said as he accepted it back and stowed it again in his pocket.  “It looks right fine, it does.  She’d like it, I’m thinkin’.”

          Frodo withdrew his right arm and set Marigold on the ground, at which time the child turned to her older sister.  May now lifted her up, and stepped back so she could return toward the other children.  Now it was Sam who was surreptitiously wiping at his eyes with the end of his sleeve, and it was Frodo who was bringing out a clean handkerchief to offer him.

          “I’m not a bairn any more to cry all the time,” Sam was muttering.

          Frodo, however, was shaking his head as he knelt to look into the smaller lad’s face.  “No, Sam--don’t be ashamed when you want to cry--that shows you’re alive and that you’re able to feel things.  The time to be ashamed is when you don’t want to, for that shows your spirit is more dead than the one you’re missing--like a tree where the sap can’t rise any more.  My Aunt Esme told me that, you know.”

          She must have straightened in response to that and managed to catch his eye, for he turned his head and noted Gandalf, Bilbo, and her, and his cheeks grew decidedly pink; but he turned his attention back to Sam.  He reached out and pulled the gardener’s lad to him.  “How proud your mother must be of you,” he murmured.  “How very proud.”

          As yours is of you, sweetling, she thought.

          As she turned away to return to where the rest of the children were gathering, she noted Bilbo’s eyes were decidedly damp, and that Gandalf stood slightly behind him, protectively, his large hand on the old Hobbit’s shoulder.

 *******

          As Frodo shook off his rain-soaked cloak before hanging it on the peg that had always been his there in the entranceway, he asked, “Is he in his room or in the infirmary?”

          “His room.  I fear he was very adamant about it, too, insisting that he didn’t want to be where all the other lads could come and smirk at him.  Where’s Bilbo?”

          “He went with the trap to the stables--he’s concerned the mare they gave us may have a pulled muscle and wanted to examine her himself.  I’m always amazed at how much he knows about ponies and their care.”

          “He appears to have inherited his mother’s eye for pony flesh,” Esme agreed as she saw the umbrella provided by Horto for the drenching walk from rig to door shaken and set loosely in the stand to dry.  “I’m told that the pair Bag End sported in her day were always chosen by Aunt Belladonna, and that she saw mostly to their care.  Uncle Bungo never had that much time for ponies, my Gamma used to tell me.  But then the Bagginses never were big ones for riding--not until Bilbo came along, at least.  Although he never has appeared to be as happy spending time in the stables at the Great Smial or the Hall as most of the other lads his age were, and it appears you are set to follow his lead.”  She led their way toward the main sunroom--and considering the downpour obscuring the windows it certainly didn’t deserve its name today.

          “For all I was so keen to have one when I was younger?  I find that now I’ve been amongst them I quite like the beasts, but that they are nowhere as intelligent as I’d been led to believe.  I remember Mum and me making up stories about the adventures my first pony of my own and I would have--he’d be a bay, a lovely, shining bay, with the longest mane and tail, sleek and dark and quite a contrast to his barrel; and he’d carry me on long journeys....  And then I actually met them, and find most are skittish of anything unfamiliar and likely to be jealous of their fellows and wish to nip their withers; or else they’re stolid and without any imagination at all.  It’s rather like dealing with four-legged children, you know.”  They laughed as they waited for Bilbo’s arrival. 

          “I ought perhaps have gone with him,” Frodo commented.  “Horto and I brought in the two hampers, but there was a large box on the tilt I could manage better than he can.”

          At that moment the door opened, and they could hear the rain dashing down on the pavement before the Hall, then the voices of Horto and at least two other Hobbits in the entranceway, then Bilbo’s cheerful laugh.  “Oh, no, lad--I’m not so aged and decrepit I can’t handle a box, you know.”

          A younger voice responded, “Nonsense, Cousin Bilbo--it’s my honor.  Look, you can carry that hamper there if you’re so keen to carry something.”  A moment later Bilbo appeared, followed by Horto and Gomez. 

          Frodo nodded easily.  “Good to see you, Gomez.  And how have you been faring?”

          “Very well.  I’ve been spending a good deal of my free time in Bucklebury lately.”

          Frodo smiled delightedly.  “Have you a lass under consideration, then?  Let me guess--the Bunce’s niece from Stock!”

          More proud than he was embarrassed, Gomez nodded.  “Yes--Addie and me--we’re talking about when we come of age.  She’s been in Bucklebury, apprenticing as an apothecary.  She’s a fine lass, she is.  And you, Cousin Frodo?”

          Frodo’s cheeks colored as he shrugged.  “I’m still young to be thinking of lasses,” he said.

          Bilbo laughed, “No--but they’re thinking of him, believe me!”

          “Uncle Bilbo!”  Frodo’s cheeks were flaming now.

          “Good for you!” Gomez returned.  “Well, we’d best get these to your rooms, so I can be back to the stables again.”  He indicated the box he carried.  “Which way does this one go?”

          “That’s mine, as is the hamper I have here.  Horto, that one goes to Frodo’s room.  I’ll see you in a few moments, lad--go and ease young Merry’s heart.”

          “Yes, Uncle,” Frodo said, smiling, as he turned toward the Heir’s apartments and Merry’s room.

 *******

          “Peregrin Took!” Frodo was exclaiming as Esme came into the room.  “How many times must I tell you to not jostle Merry’s bed!”

          “But, Frodo----”

          Frodo picked up his smaller cousin and held him where he could look the child in the eye.  “Merry has a broken leg, you know it aches him terribly when it’s jostled, and yet you can’t seem to remain still enough to keep him from having it bounced about every ten minutes or so.  Do you have to be sent from the room?”

          In a very small voice, Pippin answered, “No, Frodo--don’t send me away, please!  I’ll be still, I promise!”

          As he set the lad in Merry’s cushioned chair Frodo was shaking his head.  “I know you intend that, dearling, but I doubt you can keep to it.  Oh, Aunt Esme--let me take the tray!”

          He suited action to word, quickly settling the tray on the table by the dresser, swiftly preparing a single plate of elevenses for Pippin to keep him busy and away from the bed before fixing up a plate for Merry.

          Esme lifted the back of her hand from Merry’s forehead.  “No fever, sweetling, so that’s to the good.”  She checked his eyes, then had him open his mouth so she could examine his tongue.  “Well, it appears your body is now adjusting to the fact the leg is broken and is settling down to the tedious business of mending it.”  She fetched a still steaming mug from the tray.  “Beldir and Markos are agreed with your grandmother that you’re beyond poppy juice, especially as it would only cause you to sleep all the time, so they’ve sent you willowbark tea instead, and a hearty beef tea and calves-foot jelly to aid in the mending.  Now, drink this.”

          Merry dutifully took a swallow, and all but spat it back out.  “Mummy, but it’s bitter!” he exclaimed.

          She smiled.  It had been a time since her growing lad had last addressed her as Mummy.

          Little Pippin looked up from his breaded fish to advise Merry, “You’re lucky you didn’t break your head, falling off that ladder.  Uncle Ferumbras said so.”

          Merry made a face at his beloved younger cousin, and set himself to drink the remainder of the draught.  At last he had it down, and gladly traded the mug for the glass of apple juice Frodo was holding ready for him.  It was as Frodo turned away that Esme noted the knuckles of his right hand were red and swollen, and that his hair half-hid a bruise near the temple.

          “No, Frodo--wait but a moment.  Let me see.”

          Frodo, who’d become less comfortable with caresses in the past few years, stiffened.  “It’s nothing, Aunt Esme,” he said, his voice formal.

          “Nonsense, beloved.”  She swept the curls away, and saw he’d sustained a definite blow to the side of his head.  “Have you been having to fight, Frodo?  I’d believed Gomez long past that--he’s settled so well since his fall into the river a few years back--certainly he has appeared far less likely to remember imagined slights.”

          Frodo brushed her hand away, his face pale but his cheeks reddened.  “It’s not Gomez at all--you’re right--he’s a much more enjoyable fellow now than he was when we were but lads.  Yes, there’s a lad who tried to give grief, but I doubt he’ll try it again.”

          “You hit him?”

          “Please, Aunt--it’s over, and let it remain over, unless he shows he’s not learned his lesson.”

          “But who taught you to hit someone?”

          Frodo’s expression was decidedly closed, but after a moment he gave a huffing sigh.  “I asked Mac how best to deal with the situation, and I’ve found his suggestions worked admirably.  Again--the lad in question won’t be trying it again soon.”

          She examined him closely.  “Well, I’ll have someone bring you some ice from the ice house to use on your knuckles--that bruise looks to be fresher than the one on your forehead.

          When she returned to the kitchens she sent young Holden, who’d been hanging about begging Willow for tastes from the dishes she was preparing for luncheon, to go off to find his cousin Merimac to fetch some ice for Frodo’s use. 

          At Frodo’s name the lad’s expression lit up joyfully.  “For Cousin Frodo?” he asked.  “Oh, yes--anything for Cousin Frodo!”  And as he turned away she noted that he had a marked bruise on the back of his neck, as if someone with large hands had been pinching him there.  She thought she now had an idea as to how it came about Frodo had gotten involved in his own fight.

          Later in the afternoon she looked back into Merry’s room to see how he and his favorite cousins were faring, and had to smile.  Quickly she went to fetch Bilbo from his own room where he’d retreated earlier to do some reading.  “Come and see, but be quiet,” she warned him.

          At last they arrived at Merry’s door, and very softly she pushed it open.  Merry lay dozing in the center of his bed, his head resting against the top of Pippin’s head where the child lay beside him; on the other side of the bed lay Frodo, definitely asleep as well.  Both children had their heads pillowed on Frodo’s outstretched arm.

          Esme and Bilbo shared a smile.

 *******

          Esme was sitting by Menegilda’s bed when there was a knock at the door.  At the older Hobbitess’s nod, she called out, “Enter, please.”

          The door opened, and she smiled, then looked down into the ailing Mistress’s eyes.  “It’s Frodo, Mother Gilda,” she said softly, and was relieved to see the smile on Gilda’s face.

          The Mistress of Brandy Hall and Buckland turned her head slightly to peer up at the young Hobbit who now stood over her.  “You’ve become so tall, sweet lad,” she whispered raspingly.  “So tall, and such a fine figure of a Hobbit to look up to.”

          Esme gave up her own place to Frodo, and he sat down, taking his aunt’s hand.  “And you still turn the heads of the gentlehobbits when you walk through Kingsbridge,” he said gently.

          She gave a soft laugh, then coughed.  “Perhaps,” she murmured.  “But I won’t be going there again, I fear.  It’s my time now.  And if there’s anything I’ve--I’ve ever been ashamed of, it’s the way----”  She stopped to take a deep breath before continuing, “It’s the way I treated you.  But I like--I like to think that you’ve come out as--as well as you have in part due to me.”

          There were a couple tears working their way free of his eyes.  “Oh, Aunt Gilda--certainly that’s true.  No one could have taught me to care for others as much as you have.”

          She smiled, tightened her grip on his hand as she could, and drifted into a doze.  A half hour later she woke, then smiled up again at him.  “And you still in your cloak.  Off with you, lad--get something to eat.  Comfort my Rory for me.  Go on.  I’m not off yet, you know.”  She decidedly loosed his hand, and as he leaned over her to kiss her cheek, she caught at his shoulder, drawing him down to kiss his in return.  “Love you, my sweet young rascal,” she breathed into his ear.

          A couple hours later, once those keeping watch by her deathbed had been reduced once more to Esme and Bilbo, Gilda looked up to solemnly search the eyes of each.  “I’ve dreamed of him again,” she said softly.  “I still see him, apparently not much past coming of age, suffering as his heart fails him.  But this last time--this last time Merry and Pippin and that Sam were by him, all of them Hobbits grown.  They’re by him, and together--together they’ve known something terrible and something wonderful.  But now they’re all there--there for him--guarding him as he’s tried to guard them.  They’ll do what they can to safeguard him.”  She gave a deep sigh.  “I suppose,” she said at last, “that’ll have to do.  I did what I could.”  Again she went quiet for a time.  At last she asked, “Could you have my Rory come in?  I need a last cuddle.”

          Esme rose to fetch the Master from the private parlor that had been Menegilda’s personal domain, and found him held by his sons, all of them weeping.  At the quiet word given, he pulled away, wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, and, with a final smile at Sara and Mac, turned to go toward the bedroom he’d shared with his wife all these decades.

          Merry and Frodo sat side by side with Berilac on one of the cushioned sofas, Frodo’s arms about both Menegilda’s grandsons protectively.  Esme smiled tiredly at them, and pouring herself a small goblet of wine sat opposite them to wait.  Shortly afterwards Bilbo came out, also took a glass of wine, and sat himself in a wing chair, his face sad.  “It won’t be the same without her,” he said quietly.

          “No, it won’t,” Saradoc sighed as at last he sat beside his wife, allowing her to put her arm about him and draw his head onto her shoulder.

          Mantha and Mac agreed as they, too, settled down together. 

          Dirna was sitting by a table, thoughtfully refraining from her usual litany of complaints, looking up watchfully at Saradas as he paced the room, watched also by Dinodas and Dodinas.  Asphodel and her husband Rufus sat quietly in the corner with their son Milo and Frodo’s cousin Peony from Hobbiton near them.  Seredic and his wife Hilda and their children had come from their home outside Hardbottle--they now planned to move back to Buckland to spend time with Dick’s parents, uncles, and aunt as they could.  Amaranth had died the previous year, and Dodi’s health had been fragile since the accident with a ladder that had led to Merry’s broken leg and his own punctured lung.

          They’d been waiting perhaps three quarters of an hour when the door opened and Rory returned.  He walked rather proudly, if slower than had once been his wont.  He looked around the room.  “She’s gone now,” he announced simply in that very gentle tone he saved for his more profound statements.  “She was smiling when she kissed me--and let go.”

 *******

          Esme and Lanti sat together with Adamanta at one of the tables at the edge of the dancing floor at the Free Fair, watching the couples whirling past, and one in especial.  “Look at his eyes,” Lanti was urging.  “At last he’s looking back--do you see?  I told you that Pearl was intent on capturing his heart!”

          Maybe so, Esme thought, but there were any number of lasses also taking part in the dancing who were anything but happy at the situation.  Hyacinth Tunnely was glaring stones at Pearl every time the Took lass came within sight, her eyes caught by Frodo’s; and Bluebell Chubbs was all but sniveling.  As for Narcissa Boffin--she’d refused a dance with Brendi, and was standing in the shadow of the ale tent, her arms clasped tightly about her, her face inconsolable.

          Meanwhile Merry galloped by with Pervinca on his elbow, both faces glowing with enjoyment.  As for Isumbard Took--with the fury to be seen in his eyes Esme found herself glad that Frodo didn’t appear to have noticed him.

          Just then one more couple spun into sight, and Esme smiled to see young Samwise Gamgee’s dark gold curls beside those of the daughter of Tom Cotton.  And as young as she was, there was about the child a definite possessiveness.  Now, if there was ever a Hobbitess in the making with the one she’d chosen as the love of her life, it was small Rosie Cotton.

 *******

          Esmeralda managed to corner Bilbo as he returned from the privy toward the common room of the Green Dragon where his Dwarf friends and Gandalf awaited him.  He looked at her warily.  “What is it you want, Esme?” he asked.

          “Where’s Frodo?”

          “He and the lads remained at home tonight.  I believe he has them up atop the Hill, telling tales on the stars.”

          She examined his features, trying to memorize them.  He’d changed so little in the past how-many years since his disappearance into the Wilds.  She asked, “You’re planning on leaving, aren’t you, Bilbo?”

          At last he met her eyes, then gave a sigh.  He looked about them, then pulled her aside into the darkness and isolation of one of the inn’s private parlors.  There, in the light from the lanterns set on the outside of the inn and what moonlight sifted its way past the chestnut tree that grew outside the window, he at last answered her.  “I have to go, Esme.  It’s time and long past time.”  After a moment of silence he admitted reluctantly, “I don’t understand, dearling, how it is I’ve--I’ve stayed the same all these years.  As I told Gandalf when he arrived, I may not look my age, but I now feel it.  There’s something--something decidedly--off.  Yes, something off, and I don’t know what it is, but it’s disturbing me.  I ought to be bent over and hugging my shawl about me, not drinking freely with Dwarves and Wizards.  I hope to find out, perhaps, just what it’s been that’s affecting me so.”

          He was quiet for a moment, then continued hurriedly, “You should have seen Gandalf’s eyes when he arrived.  The fact I’ve not aged frightens him, Esme!  And I will assure you that Gandalf the Grey is not easily frightened, not at all!  Whatever it is, I must get away before our boy--before our beloved boy is affected by it, too, although....”  But there he stopped.

          At last she demanded quietly, “You think that whatever it is could endanger Frodo?”

          He shook his head, and she realized as the leaves of the tree outside were blown aside by the breeze and a bit more moonlight fell on the old Hobbit’s face that he was pale.  “I can’t say more, Esme.  Please--swear you won’t tell the others.  Please!”

          She gave a nod.  “All right, as you desire, Bilbo.  But can’t you tell me what might endanger Frodo?”

          He was decidedly frustrated.  “I don’t know, Esme.  I just don’t know!  But what I’ve felt lately--there’s someone angry who wants me to be angry, too, only I can’t tell for certain who it is or where he is.”  His hand was clasping onto the pocket of his waistcoat. “But the sooner I leave, the better it will be for our lad.  I know that for certain.  And--and I want to perhaps go back to the Lonely Mountain again with Gloin and the others--that’s why they’ve come, you see--and stand by Thorin’s tomb once more and assure him I know he forgave me and that I truly have forgiven him in return.  I’d hoped to see good old Balin again, but they tell me he’s gone off to try to reopen one of their other old dwellings, so he’s not there.  I’m sorry, but I should be able to see most of the rest.

          “I’m restless, and I can feel that the world is getting ready to move.  A storm is brewing, a great storm the violence of which I can’t begin to imagine.  The Dwarves speak of it, and many of the Elf-kind are fleeing before it, abandoning Middle Earth to what will come.  None have stayed to speak to me for ever so long save for those who come from Rivendell, and they are girding themselves once more to fight.

          “Yes, a storm is coming, and I fear I will be a leaf in the wind if I don’t hurry to do what I can and find some place to shelter myself.”  He loosed his hold on his pocket and searched her eyes as he could.  “Thank you for listening to an old Hobbit’s ramblings, lass,” he said huskily.  “But remember--you are never to speak of this to any other.  I won’t have Frodo further burdened just when he is coming into his own.”  And without warning he leaned forward to gently press his dry lips to her forehead.  “You’ve been so dear to me, lass--I so wished at one time to have a daughter as wonderful as you.”

          She looked after him as he turned and strode out, and when she peeked into the common room she saw him surrounded by the Dwarves and Gandalf, Sara and Merimac and some others, his eyes alight with amusement as he spun them some tale.

 *******

          She watched Frodo’s face carefully in the wake of Bilbo’s remarkable disappearance.  He’d known it was coming--that much was clear.  But now he was hiding his own grief, deftly handling the loud complaints of Odo Proudfoot, Dirna’s repeated demands to know what had become of the old reprobate,  Bartolo Bracegirdle’s suspicious glares as he bundled his wife and young son out of the pavilion, and the shrill cries of upset by Aunt Lilac Hornblower.

          Ferumbras had gone out in a right fit of wordless temper--if there’d been a door to slam, she was certain the hinge would have needed to be replaced; and he’d dragged young Isumbard and several others of the Smial Tooks with him.  Paladin and Eglantine, however, had refused to look at him at all, much less follow him, further increasing the Thain’s fury that his proper Heir wasn’t reflecting his own righteous anger. 

          As for the Sackville-Bagginses--well, they’d been amongst the first to leave, although not before in a fit of triumphant pique Lobelia had stowed the spoons, forks, and knives from about her place at the table into the rather capacious bag she’d brought.  Esme found herself smiling at the thought, for as Lobelia sat herself at the Baggins table Bilbo had turned to murmur into Esme’s ear, “I made certain the cutlery near her assigned place is all the cheapest of pewter so no one’s too out of pocket when she leaves.”

          As she went closer she could see Merry taking the elbow of one of those intent on going closer to Frodo and suggesting, “Let him be tonight.  This is as much a shock to him as it is to you.  Come tomorrow, and I’m certain we can learn just what Uncle Bilbo was playing at.”  Not far the other side of Frodo Pippin was glaring up at an irate Took cousin, and she could see the confusion in the Hobbit’s eyes as he found himself backing away from the lad--and from Frodo.

          Rory, who’d undoubtedly realized that this day was coming, refused to be upset, announcing loudly that as the food and drink hadn’t disappeared along with Bilbo he couldn’t for the life figure out why anyone else should be upset.  Then, after the other Brandybucks nearby, including Dino and Das (Dodinas having died a year previously) relaxed back into their seats, she saw Rory, the humor going out of his eyes, watching Frodo with some level of anxiety: then at last giving a sigh, he raised his mug in toast to his nephew just as Frodo turned his way, and she saw Frodo give a rather wavery smile in return.

          As she and Saradoc finally gathered Merry to them to leave the Party Field, she realized that amongst the younger Hobbits there were a few who were more concerned with one another than with the fact they’d just seen eccentric Uncle Bilbo disappear in a flash of light and puff of smoke.  Isumbard Took, who must at some point have managed to free himself from Ferumbras, was escorting Pearl Took through the gate toward the line of carriages belonging to the Great Smial, his expression comforting and tender, his arm possessively about her shoulders.  Pearl was looking up into his face not with the look of adoration she used to give Frodo, but with a look of surprisingly mature appreciation.  Why she’d thrown Frodo over a couple years earlier no one knew for certain, although Esme had her own suspicions that somehow Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was involved.  However, it appeared that what Pearl was now willing to offer Bard would be far more considered and adult than what she’d once thought to know with Frodo.  Esme certainly hoped Bard appreciated that fact.

          The other youngling who caught her attention was Narcissa Boffin, who was fair glowing with joy.  “Oh, Folco,” she confided to her cousin, pointedly ignoring her mother’s attempts to draw her back toward their trap, “did you see?  He danced with me so many times today--and he was looking at me, and smiling at me!  Oh, it’s a dream come true, Folco!  He’s finally recovered from Pearl throwing him over.”  As she at last turned to follow her mother, Narcissa wasn’t walking so much as dancing.  Esme felt relief--much as she loved Pearl as her niece, she truly felt that, considering their natures, Narcissa was a better match for her Frodo.

Master of Bag End and the Hill

          "You can't think that it's quite proper for Frodo to be so--familiar--with a mere gardener, do you?" Lobelia asked in careful tones.

          Esmeralda Took Brandybuck took a deep breath, and suppressing her rage wished she could merely slap the oh, so solicitous expression from the other Hobbitess's face.  If there was one individual she'd not looked to fall in with on the journey from Buckland to Whitwell, it had to be Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.  But Lobelia had been visiting relatives in the Northfarthing and was now on her way, she explained, to meet Otho and Lotho in Hardbottle, from whence they would be making a progress about their properties in the Southfarthing before returning to Hobbiton in about a month's time.  And, appearing to have forgotten the origin of the pendant she wore, she'd thrust herself on Esme.

          "Familiar with a gardener?" Esme said, and she knew her tone must be distinctly arch.  "But his cousin Dodiroc is first gardener for Brandy Hall, and he used to serve alongside Dodi as part of his chores for the Hall.  All the Hall lads, including my son Meriadoc, take part in the chores for the place, as do all the lasses.  Yes, we have hired servants, but they are educated alongside our own folk, and we work alongside them as well.  I would never ask our sewing mistress, for instance, to help with cleaning a larger room for a celebration if I didn't work alongside her, you know.  Even Mother Menegilda, when she was Mistress, served as assistant healer and head midwife for years, and kept the apartment for herself and Rorimac as Master until her final illness.  I'm afraid that Frodo was never raised to see himself as above work or those who do it--indeed, he did more than was ever asked of him the entire time he lived with us as ward to Saradoc and myself."

          Again, Lobelia was unable to find any adequate response to make, so Esme decided to twist the knife but a bit further.  "We're to meet at Whitwell, you know--at the farm my brother, the Thain's Heir, works.  Those of the Tooklands, as is true of those of Buckland, tend to believe that working directly with the soil is an occupation that one should look on with feelings of pride and accomplishment."

          She could see Lobelia thinking rapidly before blurting out, "And what honorable occupation is it the lad knows now?"

          Esme purposely smiled slowly before replying, "First of all, there is no question that the 'lad,' as you've called him, is no longer merely a lad, but a Hobbit grown, and properly accepted as having come to his majority and his inheritance, as witnessed by yourself--you were at the party marking his coming of age, after all, and have several sets of cutlery attesting to your attendance."  She felt a fierce pleasure as she saw the sullen flush that indicated that particular barb had indeed hit home.

          "Second," she continued, "Frodo is recognized as the best copyist and scribe within the Shire, and with good reason.  Certainly Master Rorimac has made use of his services, as has my husband as the Master's Heir, and Merimac as seneschal for the Hall.  Even Thain Ferumbras and Mistress Lalia have employed him in that regard."  Frodo had done more than one series of invitations for the Great Smials in the past few years, and had copied out, illustrated, and bound several texts for not only the archives of the Great Smial but for Will Whitfoot and the archives of Michel Delving as well as documents for various lawyers in the region of the Hill.

          "Third, Frodo has been trained in recordkeeping and accounting, and now sees to the welfare of his tenants as is expected of the Master of Bag End and the Hill.  He's assisted in the cultivation of Bag End's orchard and in the harvesting and preservation of its fruit since he came there, and often works in its gardens alongside his gardeners, who are, after all, recognized as masters of their craft throughout the Shire.

          "I do not believe, Lobelia, that any would see him as idle--quite the contrary--particularly as I don't believe there has been a home in Hobbiton or Bywater, not even yours, where he has not at one time or another offered physical or monetary aid or other comfort as a neighbor able and willing to help at need."

          The flush was deeper.  "But then there are the various pranks he's pulled on my son and myself."

          Esme allowed herself to laugh merrily.  "Ah, yes, the pranks of young Hobbits in their tweens!  Are they not amusing?  I believe he's left the seat of your trap tacky with new paint--isn't that true?  And didn't that follow the oh, so amusing prank pulled by your own son and Ted Sandyman in which they waylaid May Gamgee and tripped her up in the dust and, in helping her to rise to her feet, not only trampled the basket of bread she was carrying to a family where there was illness, but also managed to tear her bodice and leave her feeling sullied?  Oh, but Lotho himself has been quite the fount of simple mischief worked on the good folks of Hobbiton, Bywater, and even Overhill, hasn't he?  Such as the time he removed the linchpins from the cart that carried barrels of ale from the Green Dragon to Michel Delving, allowing the cart to lose a wheel and several barrels, three of which smashed and two of which were found in the stable of your home that evening.  Or the time...."

          Lobelia's fury was barely contained.  "How about the many times Frodo has assaulted folk about Hobbiton, Bywater, and even Overhill?  He's struck my own Lotho at least four times, you know, and without provocation!"

          "I believe the count given me by Griffo Boffin was closer to seven.  Once when he found Lotho using his walking stick to trip a lass carrying pottery to her parents' market stall to watch it smash.  Twice when he caught Lotho tormenting cats.  Once when he and Ted Sandyman between them were shoving that simple lad from Overhill who has that pronounced stutter between them--they'd already torn his clothing and his braces strap, and the poor thing had a black eye and a nasty bruise on his chest and a worse one on his back; the basket of apples he'd been delivering from the Boffin orchard was quite spoiled you know.  Once when he caught Lotho stealing a set of goblets from the market and refusing to admit he'd not paid, the time the Shiriffs were called--but you do remember that time, don't you?  And then----"

          But apparently Lobelia had no stomach for further reminders, for she rose abruptly, looking down coldly at Esmeralda.  "I will not stay to hear my son called a thief."

          "Why not?  Hasn't he come by the practice of it honestly enough?  Perhaps if you do not like accusations of dishonesty, you should not wear openly the locket stolen from me at Bag End that first year after Bilbo took Frodo as his ward.  Lotho didn't accompany you to the Hill that day, Lobelia."

          The flush was gone--Lobelia's face was now stark white.  Her hand trembling, she reached up and grasped the ornate locket she wore, then gave a wrench, breaking the clasp to the chain from which it was suspended.  Throwing it down on the table before Esme, the older Hobbitess turned and fled the room, leaving Esme looking after her, grief and fury filling her.  At last she turned her attention back to the locket, lifted it up and held it to her, realizing she was crying.

          At that point Sara, followed by Merry and Pippin, came into the inn from the stable where they'd been seeing the wagon and ponies readied for the day's journey, Sara asking, "Dearling, did I see Lobelia here, in Frogmorton?  And she was----"  He stopped, taking in her tears.  His tone became direct.  "What was she saying?  And what's that?"

          She opened her hand to show him, and he looked shocked at first.  "Your locket--the one you had from your mother that your dad gave her the day you were born!  The one you lost at Bag End...."  His face went as white as ever Frodo's had done.  "That thieving shrew!" he hissed.  "And she was accusing Frodo of having taken it--'to have something to remember you by'--isn't that what she said?" 

          Looking at the fury in his eyes and the matching anger in the faces of her son and her nephew, Esme thought it well for Lobelia that she wouldn't be returning to Hobbiton for at least a month--she suspected the Sackville-Bagginses would most likely stay a bit longer than usual in the Southfarthing, in fact.

*******

          The wagon and the led pony were entering the Tooklands when its occupants spied a familiar form walking in the soft grass growing alongside the wagon track.  "Frodo!" Pippin cried.  "It's Frodo!  Oy, Frodo--there you are!"

          The young Master of Bag End turned.  He wore a sturdy shirt and trousers, his waistcoat and jacket rolled with his cloak about his bedroll, the day being particularly warm for early April.  His eyes lit with pleasure at the sight of his approaching relatives, and he waited until they had caught up even with him and Merry had pulled the rig to a halt.  "I'd hoped to arrive before you did," Frodo said, looking up at those in the cart, "but I see the best I could hope for is a ride the rest of the way at this point."  He examined the pony tied on behind and noted the saddle slung over one of the barrels of cider being carried in the tilt, then gave his attention to Pippin.  "So--you've ridden off again without permission, have you?"

          Pippin refused to have his good spirits stifled.  "Yes--since I knew my Merry was coming, I decided to ride out and meet him.  I made it past Frogmorton, even."  The lad scrambled into the back in order to free the place by his aunt.  "Come and get in," he invited as he reached out to take Frodo's pack and bedroll.  "Mum and Da will be that upset," he continued, "but I think they're getting used to it by now.  At least this time we're going to the farm and not back to the Great Smial."

          "Is that why you've been taking off so often all winter--to avoid the Great Smial?" Merry asked.

          "Of course.  Uncle Ferumbras keeps treating Da as if he wants to be Thain and as if he wished Uncle Ferumbras gone already; and Lalia's just too awful for words.  If I'm quiet she says I'm plotting things.  If I'm not she says I'm too noisy.  If I wear my favorite things I look a fright, and if I wear my Smial clothes she calls me a little dandy.  If I try to play with the other lads I'm too familiar; if I don't, I'm stand-offish."

          "I see," Frodo said as he hopped up to take the seat by Esme.  "She has it so no matter what you do, it's wrong then."

          Pippin nodded.  "She doesn't like it when I'm there, and she doesn't like it when I leave, neither.  So I may as well go be with one of you so I don't have to listen to it."

          Esme and Frodo found themselves sharing a grin as Merry set the team in motion--and then Frodo's eyes lit on the locket she once again wore, suspended by a ribbon until she could obtain a new chain, for she refused to wear the one Lobelia had worn.  Frodo's grin softened into a look of pleasure and relief as he reached to touch it with one finger.  "You found it," he said softly.  He looked up into her eyes.  "Where?  Was it in your things all this time?"

          "No," she answered carefully, "I found it in Frogmorton."

          He looked again at it, shocked.  "Frogmorton?  How did it end up in Frogmorton?  The time it went missing, you went home by way of Stock and the Bucklebury Ferry."  She nodded, and knew he was seeing the stiffness of her jaw.  "I remember worrying that you thought I might have taken it," he said, his eyes searching hers.  "I mean, that's what Lobelia was say----"  Then his face grew set.  "You mean, she took it--she took it and tried to throw suspicion on me?"

          "We knew you wouldn't have taken it, Frodo.  But I never dreamed that she'd done so.  I thought perhaps that odious son of hers might, but couldn't imagine how he could have managed to get his hands on it.  But we met yesterday in Waymeet, and she was wearing it.  That time she arrived right at tea time when Sara and you and Bilbo were with the Gaffer and Sam in the orchard--she must have taken it that day, although I didn't notice she'd gone back toward the bedrooms."

          Merry asked over his shoulder, "Did she go to the privy, Mum?  She could have taken it then.  The day after Bilbo left, Uncle Mac found her in Frodo's room taking things and hiding them in her umbrella, and we'd all thought she'd left."

          "She was trying to steal that day?"  At Frodo and Merry's nods she shook her head.  "Trust Lobelia Sackville-Baggins to be the absolute worst a Hobbit could possibly be.  Benbo must rejoice that she married Otho and isn't his responsibility any more."

          "She's still in the Bracegirdle family book," Frodo sighed.  "She can still call on family ties if she wishes.  But now she's my primary responsibility, I suppose.  Can you imagine what that's going to be like--having to remind Lobelia Sackville-Baggins that in taking things that don't belong to her she's bringing shame on the Baggins as well as the Sackville names?  Just imagine how she's going to take that from me!"

          Sara was turned to watch the two of them, and now and then Merry had looked over his shoulder during the conversation while Pippin leaned on the back of the seat.  Frodo glanced briefly at each, then looked away.  "Maybe I ought not to have been so quick to accept being named family head after Bilbo," he said to no one in particular.

          "Then you would have bear with Otho and then Lotho lording it over you, lad," Sara reminded him, and Frodo shuddered.

          "You're right," Frodo sighed.  "But at least you have it back."

          Esme smiled.  "That I do, sweetling--and you didn't even have to interfere.  Be glad."

          Frodo turned her way, then flashed her his brilliant smile.  "Yes, I have that to be grateful for."

          She laid her hand on his shoulder, and he leaned toward her and put an arm about her. 

*******

           It was late.  Sara and Pal were still talking, although they'd moved to the kitchen, and Lanti was doing some straightening in the parlor before putting out the lamps there.  Merry and Pippin had gone to bed reluctantly, as had Pimpernel and Pervinca, and Esme assumed Frodo and Pearl had done so as well.

          She was feeling restless, and decided to go out and do a turn about the garden.  She pulled her spring shawl off the back of the chair in which she'd been sitting, wrapped it about her shoulders, and slipped out into the moonlight.  As she went round the side of the house, however, she heard voices, and realized that she'd been wrong about the whereabouts of her niece and young cousin.

          "I still don't see why you'd even consider it, Pearl."

          "It's my duty, Frodo.  All of the older lasses are taking it in turn, you see, and as Da's daughter I can't be seen to be shirking my responsibilities toward the Tooks."

          "She'll treat you terribly.  She treats all the younglings in the Great Smial badly, and you know it.  And the fact you're Paladin's daughter is only likely to make her more painstaking in her fault-finding."

          "Actually, she tends to treat me better than most of the rest.  I'm not certain why, for the way she treated Linden when it was her turn was enough to cause the poor lass to break down in tears a half dozen times a day.  But in spite of Da she actually seems to like me.  Maybe that will help me get through the three months I must dance attendance on her.  And I will be there at the Great Smial and not out here on the farm any more."

          "Don't you like being here in Whitwell?"

          "Actually, no.  Oh, I know I was born here and have lived here most of the time, but the closer I get to being of age the more I find this isn't the life I want to live.  I don't like having to get up each day at the crack of dawn and go out and haul food and water to the pigs and ponies, or to spend my nights amongst the ewes during lambing season, half the time dragging with tiredness and with my skirts filthy and no chance to change them sometimes for days at a time.  I'd rather weed flowerbeds than rows and rows of beets and carrots, and I hate working in the cornfield.

          "I like knowing that if I don't feel up to cooking for myself I can go to the common dining room and have a real choice to what I eat.  I like the idea that if I were to become ill I don't have to send for a healer to come, only to find out that she's been called away because someone else's baby is teething and the young parents don't know what to do to keep it from screaming.  I like knowing I can ride in the coach if the weather's bad, and not look forward to becoming soaked through from having to ride pony back or in an open trap or wagon when the rain or snow is pouring down.  I like knowing that if the pump loses its prime I don't have to be the one who fixes it this time."

          "Plus Isumbard is there."

          "Yes, there's that."

          The two of them were silent for a time.  At last Frodo's voice broke the quiet.  "Did you truly love me once, do you think?"

          Pearl's answer was a bit delayed, but at last it came, her voice very low.  "Yes, I did--I truly did."

          "What changed?"

          Again there was quiet, and Esme could hear the breeze rustling the leaves on the cherry trees out front and the lilac beside which the two young Hobbits stood.  Finally, "I realized, I think, I was more in love with a dream than with you, Frodo.  I was terribly shallow, you know, and you deserve someone who accepts you as you are, not the self-centered little beast that I was."

          "And does Bard love you, do you think?"

          "Yes, and he loves me knowing how petty I can be at times, and how lazy I can be."

          "Lalia won't let you be lazy."

          "No, she likes to have folks always on edge, or so the other lasses tell me.  Hurry up, wait here, we'll go there so get ready--no, not yet.  That kind of thing.  I think I can live with that for three months."  Then she asked, "Do you still love me, Frodo?  I don't mean I wish you to, only--only...."

          "Only you want to know--if I'm over you?"

          "Yes."

          She heard a sigh.  "I don't know for certain, but I think I am.  And--and you're doing well to look to Bard and not me."

          "Why?"  Esme could hear the surprise in her niece's voice.

          "Because I've--well, since I came of age I've been finding out that--that I'm not always as--as patient I as used to think myself.  I find myself fighting the urge to snap at people, and struggling to control my hand when what I really would like to do would be to just slap someone or box his ears.  Or worse," he suddenly added.

          "Everyone gets impatient, Frodo Baggins.  You should see me about Pimpernel and Pervinca sometimes--they can be so very childish."

          He gave a breathy laugh.  "Well, what do you expect from children?"

          Esme turned away and decided to give them back their privacy.  

*******

          Esme had been listening for news of his arrival all day, ever since she and Saradoc and Rorimac had arrived with Merry from Buckland.  The Great Smial had been in an uproar ever since the accident; and there were those who wished to blame Pearl, those who wished to blame Lalia's personal maid and nurse Begonia (slave, more like, Esme thought), some who wished the fault to fall on both Pearl and Begonia, and the majority who in truth felt no one should be blamed or found at fault in the glad lifting of the feeling of oppression that had overshadowed the Tooklands ever since the death of Fortinbras the Second.  That had been when Lalia had announced she was retaining the power of the Took to herself, and had all but openly robbed her son of the authority of his Thainship as well.

          Where Frodo was in all of this no one knew, for the word from Samwise Gamgee was that his Master had left four days previous on one of his walking trips and had indicated he might well spend a fortnight in the Binbole Forest.  If he'd made it there there could be no telling when he might return, for there were few proper roads and even fewer villages there.  It was a wild place and more than a little uncanny.  But somehow she was certain that Frodo Baggins would hear the news and come, and she hoped he would arrive soon.  For if there was anyone to cut through this cacophany of calls and countercalls she knew in her heart it was her young second cousin.

          Suddenly Gordolac Whitfoot, the Mayor's nephew, was at her side.  "Mistress Esmeralda, you asked to be notified when Frodo was found--it appears he's approaching Tuckborough from the northwest and ought to be here in about half an hour."

          Breathing a sigh of relief, she said, "Thank you, Gordo.  Please tell the Master and Mr. Paladin."

          She looked at where Pearl sat, white and still shaking even three days afterwards, surrounded by her mother, her sisters, and her aunts, both Eglantine's sister and hers and Pal's three.  Jade and Morigrin had arrived from Long Cleeve at about the same time as the party from Buckland; Diamente had arrived from Michel Delving the evening of the accident; and Primrose, as a permanent resident of the Great Smial, had been here all along.  It was as well that she and Sara had already been planning their own trip to fetch Pippin away for a month's visit when the Quick Post rider had arrived at Brandy Hall--it had taken little to get Rorimac's own kit packed and added to what was already in the trap and to choose one of the swifter pairs rather than the single gelding Sara had originally intended to use; and there were changes of teams waiting for them in Whitfurrow and Waymeet as well as the pair Griffo Boffin had brought to the turn toward Hobbiton.

          She approached Lanti.  "Frodo's arriving, and I'm going to the door to meet him."

          Pearl's mother gave her a distracted nod, turning her own attention back toward her firstborn, trying everything she could think of to break through the layer of shock that seemed to have wrapped itself about her daughter, isolating her in the midst of it all.

          Frodo had apparently been walking more quickly than those who'd reported his approach estimated, for shortly after her arrival at foot of the great stairs from the main door he could be seen.  She went out to meet him.  He was somewhat dusty but appeared suitably dressed for presentation at the moment--Bilbo had insisted that clothing chosen for walking trips be sturdy yet appropriate to be worn in company, as one never knew what might be required of one while away from home.

          Seeing her, Frodo quickened the pace even more until he reached her side.  "The tale is that Lalia is dead, and of an accident," he said questioningly, "and that her attendants are suspected of negligence in the handling of her chair."

          "Yes," she said quietly.  "She would come out to take the air, sitting in her great wheeled chair up there, on the pavement before the main door."

          Frodo looked up with a degree of distaste.  "What happened?" he asked.  "It's not that long a flight of stairs, after all."

          "No, not all that long, perhaps; but she'd become so immensely fat it's likely her own weight killed her as she fell."

          "How did she come to fall?"

          "No one knows for certain, although it appears that the brake failed on it.  As she fell she lost her seat in the chair itself, and appears to have struck her head, breaking her neck.  Begonia has become rather frail and is reported to have complained several times regarding how difficult it was becoming for her to set the brake, and Pearl has expressed concern about the sturdiness of the thing, for she said that almost any movement by Lalia tended to cause the chair to shift position.  And the artificer for the Great Smial admits that the chair was in need of replacement, as it was at least eight years since it was rebuilt the last time.  She had gained so much bulk that the chair could barely support her any more, and he says the joints were shaky.  Certainly it is on record that Pearl had requested it be replaced since her arrival a month ago, both on the basis of Lalia's safety and her comfort."

          Frodo nodded.  "Then they cannot fault either her or Begonia, it appears, particularly if there is ample indication that the chair itself was less than sound and both had brought this to the attention of the artificer and, I hope, Cousin Ferumbras."  At her nod, he looked up at the steps.  "No, not such a great fall for most.  But with Lalia's great weight----"  He stood, shaking his head at the thought.  At last he said, "I think I should see Pearl first."  They entered, and he handed his pack to young Smitting, who served as valet to the Thain's family guests, with a murmured word before following Esme onward.

          Pearl had barely changed position since Esme's arrival, sitting always in the same chair, on occasion shaking her head--as if, Esme thought, she were reliving the horror of the fall again and again, seeing it repeatedly being played out before her eyes.  As Frodo entered the room he paused, although whether it was due to surprise or dismay or simply taking count on who was there about the lass Esme couldn't guess.

          Then he was moving forward, and those about Pearl moved aside, automatically giving way to him as he knelt before her and took her hands.  At last she turned toward him, and taking a deep shuddering breath at last pulled herself out of the shock.  She searched his eyes, and seeing no question or condemnation there she licked her lips.  "Oh, Frodo," she said hoarsely, "some are saying it was a'purpose, and that Begonia or I didn't set the brake, or that one of us--that I--pushed her down the steps.  But it isn't true!  I'd never--we'd never--Begonia couldn't!  Oh, Frodo, she's dead--it was horrible!"  For the first time, Pearl broke into tears, and he pulled her to his shoulder, murmuring in her ear and stroking her back.  At last he pulled away slightly, producing his handkerchief for her use.

          Only when at last her shuddering gasps began to subside did he rise.  He turned to Lanti and suggested, "You'd best send now for Isumbard.  I need to see Cousin Ferumbras."  So saying, he squared his shoulders and left the room, Esme scurrying to follow after him.  

*******

          Ferumbras had unwillingly led Frodo, Paladin and Saradoc and their wives, Will Whitfoot, old Bernigard, and a few other of the more prominent family heads present as well as some of the more influential Tooks and North-Tooks, into the room where the remains of the wheeled chair in which Lalia had spent most of her days had been brought, and soon all were examining it.  A Gravelly who was known to be an excellent artificer spent a good deal of time checking out the  construction of the thing, and all realized that many of the joints had been weakened by years of use and abuse under Lalia's tremendous weight.  At last the Gravelly spoke quietly with the Took artificer, and the two made their joint pronouncement.  "It was needful of replacement, ladies and gentlehobbits," the Gravelly said with quiet authority, his Took counterpart indicating his agreement.  "The structure of it was much weakened, it was, and from what I can tell the brakes was all but wore out.  It's no wonder old Miss Begonia was a'havin' difficulties gettin' the levers to work.  I'd say as it was only a matter a'time afore somethin' of this sort happened, and I'd not put any a'the blame on the lass or the old nurse."

          There was quiet for some time before Will Whitfoot asked, "Didn't Pearl and others indicate as it was time and past time to have it replaced?"

          Ferumbras's face darkened.  "Of course, Mr. Whitfoot," he returned in a voice that made it plain the honorific was not intended to truly indicate courtesy.  "But what am I to do?  She controlled the purse strings, and out of my allowance I was to purchase all that was needed for the Smial and the farms and her chair as well.  Six years back the main coach needed replacing, the one my mother preferred.  Given the choice between replacing her chair and replacing the coach, my mother indicated we'd do better to replace the coach, particularly as it was the one in which she made her own infrequent visits.  It took me three years to pay it off.  Then there was the year the potato blight went through our fields, and most of my allowance went to purchasing potatoes from Buckland and Overhill to meeting the needs of our folk here."

          Many looked to Griffo Boffin and Rorimac Brandybuck where they received confirmation.

          "The next year Mother took it into her head that all who served in the Hall must receive livery, and I must purchase fabric and the services of the best tailors and dressmakers to see it all done.  I argued against it, for we were experiencing a leak in the back storerooms, but she insisted and would not be gainsaid."  There were grunts of affirmation from many of the Tooks.  "It was an abject failure and gross waste of funds desperately needed elsewhere, for the design was uncomfortable and the colors chosen flattering to only a few; but Mother was growing very difficult----" the growls of agreement were many, "and no one else's opinion mattered aught at the time, although at last young Pearl was able to talk some sense into her and got her to give up the project before it ruined us completely."

          Esme was startled, and she remembered Pearl's comments to Frodo on how Lalia appeared to like her somewhat, and wondered if that liking had stemmed from that time.  She noted several were exchanging looks over this intelligence.

          "This past year I had a choice--have that blasted chair replaced, or replace a harrow and six plows and two teams of oxen and three farm wagons.  You cannot begin to dream how deucedly expensive it has been to have these chairs made, for she is--was--the only one in the whole of the Shire so extraordinarily--obese who must needs have such a thing in order to leave her bed at all.  And I am sorry if any of you consider me to have been neglectful towards my mother, but given the choice between her and her self-centeredness and the needs of the Tooks of the Tooklands, I must choose the many over the one."

          He looked at Isembold's grandson Berengrim who kept most of the accounts for the Great Smial, who sought to loosen his collar somewhat as he unhappily confirmed the Thain's explanations.  "Most of the wealth garnered by the Tooks has been stored away, and Mistress Lalia insisted that we must make economies with what funds she would make available.  I can show you the account books...."

          After some discussion on the matter, all went quiet.  At last Frodo spoke up.  "What of this matter of Miss Begonia and my Cousin Pearl being blamed for the death?  I believe all of us are now agreed that there is no question of this being anything other than a most regrettable accident, and much of Lalia's own making as she wouldn't take responsibility to see her own chair replaced or agree to lose some of her extraordinary weight.  But this could terribly blacken the names of this unfortunate nurse and my cousin, and I will not stand for that."

          Ferumbras looked rather coldly at the yet youthful head of the Baggins family, but at last remarked, "I will let it be known that the situation has been examined closely, and all agree that there is no question that neither Miss Begonia nor my niece Pearl was to blame for the accident.  And I will seek to make it plain that young Pearl is in my favor for the courtesy and care that she showed ever to my mother. 

          "She--she has a way with her, your cousin does, Frodo Baggins, one that worked to the good with my mother and that was able to reach past her humors to the remains of her good sense at the last.  Mother was a most difficult individual to deal with, and most of those who have taken it in hand to aid her as they could have been reduced to bowls of quivering jelly once she began loosing her acerbic tongue at them or blaming them for her own pains and discomforts.  And be advised, young Frodo, that my mother did know true discomfort.  Nor is all of her weight due to her own indolence, although the situation certainly began through her inability to distinguish food from comfort.  Indeed, although the amount she has eaten has grown less over the years, yet she has not been able to lose any, and indeed has gained even more pounds with each passing season.  As her ability to stand and move about on her own decreased, her weight increased correspondingly."

          This last was food for thought, and Frodo's face had gone rather pale, although his cheeks had colored more in his own embarrassment.  Now he spoke, "I regret having so disparaged your mother, Cousin Ferumbras.  Please forgive me.  Having myself been the target of her tongue more than once, I fear I was unable to look past the bulk to see that there might be poor health behind it."

          Ferumbras examined Frodo for some minutes before his expression softened.  "No offense taken, Master Baggins," he said, almost congenially.  "None taken.  And I will do my utmost to make it plain, as I've said, that I do not hold Pearl or Begonia either one responsible for what has happened.

          "And now," he said in a more business-like tone, "if there is anyone wishing to pay their respects, we have Mother's body laid out in one of the more formal parlors.  If you will follow me."

          It was to be a coffin burial, and the coffin provided was quite enormous, far larger than that which had held the bodies of Drogo and Primula Baggins, Esme noted.  The bier provided was held up with far more supports than such things usually required, and Esme noted that it was not only more sturdily constructed than usual but that it had four pairs of rods with which it would be carried.  Esmeralda Took found herself supremely glad that she would not be amongst those expected to carry Lalia to her grave.  

*******

          "I hear that that Pearl Took, Paladin's lass, saw the chair given just that last nudge needed to see it down the stairs," Esme and Frodo's cousin Peony Burrows, Peony Baggins as was, was confiding to a member of the Hornblower family come for Lalia's funeral.

          The source of Peony's intelligence was made plain a minute later as Esme caught Lobelia Sackville-Baggins whispering into the ear of one of the Goldworthies.  Dirna stood on the other side of Lobelia and was murmuring her own confirmation to Lobelia's pronouncement.

          Even amongst some of the Tooks the idea that Pearl was complicit in Lalia's death was murmured about, although here the idea was welcomed not so much with the hint of scandal as it was with a degree of admiration.  And when, at the end of the week that saw the death examined and the funeral completed Ferumbras announced at the last formal dinner given for those come to see the late dowager Took laid to rest that he had examined the situation leading up to his mother's death and had determined that no blame of any sort could be laid at the feet of Pearl Took or Lalia's paid companion and maid and nurse, Begonia Rushie, there was a good deal of quiet skepticism shared around the banquet room.

          When the talk looked to go on longer Ferumbras cleared his throat impatiently, and at last all went quiet.  "I wish all of you to know," he continued, "how deeply indebted I feel to young Pearl for her great patience and caring shown to my mother.  Mother was--not--an easy person to deal with on a daily basis.  My young cousin Pearl was most understanding of my mother's infirmities and was able to soothe her tempers due to the great discomfort she often knew most effectively.  Pearl was one of the few individuals whom my mother came to care for and to respect deeply, and one of the few to whom she would display her wit and humor, which I assure you were present."

          Esme could tell that this pronouncement was greeted with even more skepticism--considering how many had suffered the sharp side of the tongue of Lalia Took, few were willing to believe there had been any other side to the old Hobbitess.

          Again Ferumbras cleared his throat, and all went silent more swiftly than the last time.  He lifted up a flat box.  "Miss Rushie has been granted a stipend to provide for her in her retirement, and has chosen to return to her own family.  Now I wish to thank young Pearl for the care given, and to give her this in memory of my mother.  My great-uncle Isengar is said to have brought these back from his travels in his youth, and of the many treasures and heirlooms of our family, this was one item my mother especially appreciated.  I now wish that young Pearl have them as her own in memory of my mother, who so appreciated her caring and patience shown, and to show how much esteem I, too, feel toward her."

          Pearl gave uncertain glances toward her parents and Isumbard, who sat by her, before accepting the box and opening it carefully.  In it was a most magnificent strand of pearls, and she lifted it out, amazed at the quality and colors.  Her eyes were swimming as she looked up at her uncle and murmured, "Thank you so deeply, Uncle Ferumbras, but I don't know that I can accept such a gift, even in the spirit you offer it.  It is far more valuable than I could dream to own in my own right."

          He gave a careless wave to dismiss her misgivings.  "Nonsense--considering how closely you will be related to the Thain one day and how much respect I hold for your courtesy and discernment, there is no question that this will be leaving the treasuries of the Tooks, particularly as it appears you shall be soon sharing your own life with another of the lineage of the Tooks of the Great Smial."

          Esme felt her heart fill with dismay.  Did he not realize that it appeared he was possibly rewarding Pearl for helping see to it his difficult mother was now out of the way, and that he himself might be paying her court?  She looked to Isumbard and saw the manner in which the young Took's jaw was now set--he certainly foresaw where the Thain's remarks would lead the gossip of the Shire regarding this unfortunate incident.

          As for Frodo--it was obvious that her beloved former ward was doing all within his power to keep from strangling the Thain for the damage he'd just unwittingly inflicted.  And a glance at Dirna and Lobelia showed they were right in their element with the manner in which they might construe Ferumbras's gift and remarks.  

*******

          Frodo had come to Buckland to share in the celebrations of the Spring Ball, but he'd danced far less than she remembered him ever doing.  Oh, he'd danced the Bounder's Jig and the Husbandman's Dance with as much skill and even more grace than ever; but when it came to the couples dances he'd sat on the sidelines as often as he'd taken part in the dancing, and Esme saw signs of frustration in his face--a face, she suddenly realized, that hadn't changed appreciably since the day he came of age.

          Suddenly she realized he'd slipped away, and she began looking for him, finally finding him outside the pavilion where the dancing was taking place, leaning against the ancient pillar that had stood there since long before the Hall was excavated, watching the dancing with a distinct expression of unhappiness on his face.

          "What is it, dearling?" she asked as she joined him, startling him, she noted.

          "It's nothing," he said as he turned his gaze back toward the dancers, his expression now carefully guarded.

          "Why aren't you dancing?  Melilot would die happy if you'd but ask her; and Absinthe is eager as well."

          He looked at her, and she couldn't place the expression he showed.  "I can't inflict myself on them!" he said.

          "They wouldn't exactly see it as you inflicting yourself on them, Frodo Baggins," she pointed out reasonably.

          "You just don't understand----"  She could hear the frustration so clearly expressed in his voice.

          "Understand what?" she finally asked.

          He turned to look back at the pavilion, and now she heard pain there as he said, "That's the problem, Aunt Esme--I don't understand, either."  

*******

          Esme looked between Brendilac's eyes and Frodo's.  They'd just come back from the burial grounds, having seen Brendi's childhood sweetheart and wife of not quite a year buried after succumbing at last to a growth in her belly.  Frodo had encouraged Brendi to marry Merilinde anyway in spite of the fact she would most probably die shortly, having known how devoted Brendi and his beloved had been to one another for so long, and there was no question there had been a good deal of joy between the bride and her bridegroom as a result of their decision.  All had wondered at the choice--herself and Sara, Merilinde's parents, Brendi's father; but none had regretted it--at least, not till now.

          Frodo asked in a low voice, "Do you blame me, Brendi, for the pain now?"

          Brendi looked surprised at the question.  "What are you asking, Frodo Baggins?  Blame you?  For what?  For encouraging me to seize the joy of the day with both hands both for myself and for her?  One of us or the other was bound to most likely go first anyway--that's just the way life is, you know.  Yes, I hurt now, but at least I know I had that joy, and not just regrets at what we might have known.  No, I don't blame you, Frodo--I thank you--thank you with all my heart."  

*******

          It was Sam's birthday, his coming-of-age, and Frodo was sparing no expense to make it a memorable one for his friend.  Boxes of flowering shrubs stood here and there.  A marvelous kitchen tent had been erected where between the Gaffer's brood and the Cottons most marvelous odors were filling the air of the party field.  There were tables and a bandstand, stacks of kegs from the Green Dragon and the Golden Perch, and a most, most wonderful cake baked by young Rosie Cotton, who all agreed was a dab hand with baking.

          Frodo himself had purchased a large consignment of mushrooms from the Maggot farm in the Marish, and had prepared at least ten whole chickens baked with mushroom sauce, a dish Esme had taught him to fix while he lived in Brandy Hall; and he was providing at least a half dozen bottles of Old Winyards from Bilbo's cellar.

          Esme smiled as Frodo teased Sam and exchanged banter with the other lads--with Fatty Bolger, Folco Boffin, Berilac, Merry, Pippin, the Cotton lads.  How wonderful it was to see Frodo surrounded by these, his friends.  Then she felt her smile slip a bit.  Sam was only today coming of age, April 6, and Freddy wouldn't do so until October 5, while Beri'd just done so last month.  Folco had been of age only two years; Merry and Pippin wouldn't reach their majority for years yet.  She wasn't certain about the Cotton lads, but she thought young Tom was the only one Sam's age.

          Yet Frodo didn't look a day older than Beri, and he was almost forty-five already!  What was it with the Bagginses of Bag End?  

*******

          "Merry, are you going to the Westfarthing again?" demanded Saradoc of his heir.  "We have that report to give tomorrow to the farmers in the Marish."

          "I finished it, Dad, and it's lying on your desk now.  I'm sorry, but you or Mac will have to read it.  But this is important--truly important.  I suspect Frodo's planning on slipping away on us."

          "I almost wish he'd do so and save you all the concern at his expense.  Stars and clouds, Meriadoc Brandybuck, you are so very worried about what Frodo might be doing all the time!"

          Merry's voice grew stiff.  "I'm sorry, Father.  However, Frodo's always been as my brother, and I won't see him endangering himself needlessly."  

*******

          There was a meeting of the family heads in the grange hall in Hobbiton, and the Brandybucks had stayed in Bag End with Frodo so that Saradoc, now Master of Buckland and the Hall, might attend, accompanied by Merry as his heir.  While the menfolk were at the meeting, Esmeralda wandered into Bywater to the tea shop, having decided that she didn't wish to remain at Bag End alone.  She'd just been served a mug of jasmine tea and a plate of scones and cherry jam when someone approached her table and sat down opposite her.  Well, she thought as she turned to look at her new companion, she hadn't wished to feel alone----

          ----Only she hadn't thought that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would be the one to sit opposite her.

          She didn't know quite what to think of the expression on the older Hobbitess's face, for it certainly wasn't either the superciliousness or the slyness Lobelia usually displayed.  It had been several years since the confrontation in Frogmorton--several years and the loss of Otho; and something subtle had apparently changed in Otho's widow, something that Lobelia herself wasn't quite certain how to react to.

          Esme continued to search the face of Lobelia, seeing there a level of uncertainty, and as the searching continued some degree of annoyance as well.  Finally she asked, "And what can I do for you, Missus Sackville-Baggins?"

          "You know that my Otho died not that long back."

          "As I attended his funeral, I rather think I do."

          "You and Master Saradoc both did.  Not that most appear to have bothered."

          Otho's funeral had been remarkably sparsely attended, Esme remembered.  Two of the Sackvilles who lived in the area had come, the Thain and his Heir, the Master and his Heir and wife, Griffo Boffin as village head, Frodo Baggins attended by Samwise Gamgee, and Mayor Whitfoot.  Lotho had turned up followed by Ted Sandyman--quite late in the proceedings, and apparently drunk, from what Esme remembered; very sorry behavior from the new head of the Sackville family, really.  He'd glared at the others present, saving his foulest looks for Frodo, who'd not appeared to have paid them the least attention.  Instead, in the absence of her son for the earliest portions of the ceremony, Frodo had helped carry the bier holding Otho's shrouded corpse to the burial ground and had helped lower the body into the grave, then had stood by Lobelia to offer her what comfort he could as Will and Griffo had stepped forward to speak over the grave of one no one had truly liked in years.

          She remembered that at Lotho's arrival Frodo had stepped away from Lobelia to allow the son to take his proper place at the side of his grieving mother; but Lotho hadn't done so, continuing to stand across the open grave, staring down into it, leaving those who watched uncertain as to whether he was trying to will his father to stand back up and return home or if he was decidedly happy not to have to deal with the old, bitter Hobbit any further.  At last Frodo had stepped back to Lobelia's side, and it was on Frodo's arm that Lobelia had at last been led away, once those present had thrown in their handsful of earth and, at a nod from his Master, Sam had stepped forward, more tardily followed by Merry and Pippin, to finish filling in the grave.  Where Lotho and Ted had disappeared to then was anyone's guess.

          Esme remembered all that, then found herself looking into the shockingly serious face of Lobelia.  "Yes, we attended, although I regret to admit that had we not already been here in the Westfarthing at the time it's unlikely we would have made the journey merely to do so."

          Lobelia shrugged as if that were unimportant.  "Not that any would have faulted you--you're no twelve-mile cousins, after all."

          Esme gave a slight nod in return.

          "None of the Hobbiton healers have been willing to deal with us for some years," Lobelia continued.

          "No?"

          "Only reason Drolan Chubbs came, there at the end, was because Frodo asked him.  Drolan's always been a better healer than Modo Brownlock, who's the only one who's been willing to see to us for years.  Not that that's any recommendation--I certainly never got the impression that Modo's much cared whether we became well or not, as long as we paid our coin for his attendance and whatever nostrums he's thrust at us."

          Again Esme nodded her understanding.

          "Then Drolan wouldn't let me pay him.  No, he told me, he did, 'I said years ago, Missus Lobelia, I'd never take coin from you again, and I won't start now.  Master Frodo--he's paying for this,' and off he goes.  But for all that, he was thorough and gentle with my Otho, and saw to it that there at the end Otho was comforted and never alone.

          "Why'd he do that, Esmeralda--Frodo, I mean?  Why did he care?"

          Esme found herself thinking furiously, trying to put the reason into words Lobelia could understand.   At last she said, rather slowly, "First, there's the fact that when Bilbo chose him as next family head, Bilbo was choosing the most responsible member of the family to succeed him.  And as family head for the Bagginses, Frodo feels responsible to all of the family name, including you, Otho, and Lotho."

          At Lobelia's impatient nod, Esme continued, "Secondly, Frodo's the most compassionate individual I've ever known.  There when he lived in Brandy Hall he'd help anyone who needed it, once he realized they did need it, even the lads who tormented him the most.  Oh, yes, there were a number of lads who did their best to make certain Frodo's life was miserable at the time, taunting him as a mam's lad and trying to stick his head into the privies.  But he won them over in the end, not through besting them, but by being the decent, caring, capable individual he's always been.

          "If he stood by you through Otho's final illness and funeral, it was as much because he truly cares as because, as Baggins family head, it's his duty.  Now, if you would like to join me for tea...."

          Esme was amazed to find herself pleased when Lobelia, obviously taken by surprise by the invitation, accepted and behaved in a most exemplary manner afterwards.  

*******

          She saw Narcissa sitting in the Common in Bywater, speaking to a young Boffin cousin, both faces alight with laughter at some joke shared.  As was often true, Narcissa had a book by her, and had closed it, folding it over a finger to hold her place as she welcomed her cousin's company. 

          Then she saw Frodo also watching Narcissa, and she couldn't believe the expression she saw on her lad's face--it was ugly--leering--lustful!  She saw he had his right hand in his waistcoat pocket, clearly clutching something there--did he still carry that green stone with the hole in it he'd found as a child, she suddenly wondered?  His left hand was clenched at his side for as long as that terrible expression lasted--which thankfully wasn't long.  The expression changed, appeared shocked perhaps to find such feelings contained within himself.  Frodo slowly but purposefully opened his left hand, and he looked with great distaste and, if she was right about it, with a hint of fear at the marks where his bitten nails had dug into the heel of his hand.  Again he looked at Narcissa, but this time without lust, this time with a raw longing and grief that was as terrible in its way as had been the ugly expression earlier, before he purposely turned away, back toward the Hill in the distance, there across the Water.  

*******

          Esme looked into the room that had always been Frodo's when he was in the Hall since the death of his parents, and found it empty.  She wondered where he'd got to, and suspected he might have gone out where he could look at the stars.  That seemed to give him a good deal of comfort when he was troubled, she knew.  She looked in at Merry and Pippin, sleeping comfortably together in Merry's room--Pippin had refused the guest room offered him--and wondered what it was that had Pippin so anxious.  For months Merry and his beloved younger cousin both had been tense as bowstrings, and it seemed either Pippin was just arriving or just leaving or drawing Merry away for quiet talks in the corners of drawing rooms or behind shrubs in the gardens. 

          Now there was this talk of Frodo coming to the end of his money...how had that happened?  Bilbo had been more than comfortably well off even before he'd come back from his infamous adventure with two chests of treasure and the hints that more was his by rights from the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.  He'd always invested well and had taught Frodo to do likewise, and she'd heard no hint that Frodo had allowed himself to be bought out by all the farmers in whose farms he held shares or the businessfolk in whose enterprises he'd been a silent partner--not that she had any idea as to just how extensive those holdings might be.  However, she was certain it was Frodo who was backing the Chubbs brothers who'd purchased the tailoring business there in Kingsbridge, and although they were by report doing very well for themselves, they'd not come anywhere near being able to pay off their anonymous backer and run the place independently as yet.

          Merry had convinced Sara to sell Frodo the Crickhollow house, and Frodo had come out to check it out and finalize the sale.  He'd been markedly quiet and withdrawn, and had retreated to his room after dinner, pleading a headache.  Only, obviously he'd not stayed there.

          Esme went through the door out into the Master's private garden to find Frodo wasn't there.  Sighing, she went beyond it to the place where rough steps had been set to allow access to the top of Buck Hill, and sure enough at last her search was rewarded.  She could smell his pipe--not Old Toby as Bilbo had always favored, or even Longbottom Leaf, which was the favorite of Sara and Merry; but the lighter, fruitier tang of Goolden Lynch.

          She found him sitting back against the chimney pot for the Master's private parlor, his pale face upturned toward the heavens, his glowing pipe held for the moment in his hands, seeming to glow a bit himself as happened as often as not.  She could tell that he'd indeed changed into a nightshirt, and that in leaving the Hall he'd merely pulled his trousers on over it, and his waistcoat as well.  She wondered at that last--why bother donning a waistcoat over a nightshirt at this time of the night?  Who was there to see or care?

          "Hello, dearling," she said.  "Mind if I join you?"

          He looked at her, and finally nodded, patting the grass beside him.  "Do, Aunt Esme," he said quietly.  He lifted his pipe and drew on it thoughtfully as she seated herself beside him.  She had the distinct impression he knew what she'd ask first, and decided not to disappoint him, allow him to get it out of the way.

          "Why on earth did you decide to sell Bag End to Lotho and Lobelia?" she asked.  "Lobelia will truly appreciate it, but Lotho never will."

          "No," he agreed, again holding his pipe between his hands, "he won't.  He's never wanted the smial so much as he's wanted the power he's seen it as representing."

          "You didn't pass over to him the family headship, did you?"

          He shook his head, then took another puff on his pipe.  "Certainly not--never that--not that he realizes it.  I doubt he's thoroughly read the sales document as yet, and when he does he'll be furious.  He remains merely head of the Sackvilles and nothing more.  I didn't even sell him the deeds to the holes along the Row."

          She felt relief.  "I'm glad of that, for I suspect that had you done so he'd have raised the rents outrageously, and especially for the Gamgees and the Proudfoots and the Chubbs."

          He nodded.  They remained silent for a time.  At last she ventured, "When are you going to pay court to Narcissa, Frodo?  You know she's loved you about forever, and I saw that look you gave her when you saw her in the Common in Bywater last spring.  You've always wished to marry and be a father--see your children loved as your own parents loved you."

          "And as you love Merry, or Pal and Lanti love the lasses and Pippin."

          "Then why don't you pay court to her?  She'd have you and do proudly as your wife and as Mistress to Bag End--or Crickhollow, I suppose."

          He looked away, his face set.  "No, I'd not do that to her."

          "She wouldn't mind leaving the Westfarthing, not as long as she was by your side."

          "I don't mean that.  I'd be an awful husband--I'd make her life miserable."

          She was the more shocked because she realised he meant it, that he truly believed that to be true.  "But Frodo----"

          "No!" he interrupted her.  "Don't think more highly of me than I deserve, Aunt Esme.  You don't know what horrid thoughts that there are, hiding in the darker corners and nooks in my mind." 

          He held her gaze for a few minutes, then looked away, finally tapping his pipe against the chimney pot to shake out the compacted ashes.  At last he said, in a very low tone, "I've been horrified, Aunt, to find that deep down I have the capability to be a monster, and I have to work hard to suppress it.  I won't subject anyone I love to that."

          They were quiet for a time.  Finally she asked, "Is your headache still bothering you?"

          "A little--mostly it was gone when I awoke."

          "Then you did sleep for a time?"

          "Yes."

          "What woke you?"

          "A dream."

          She turned to look at him.  "Did you dream of your moving water again?"

          He reluctantly shook his head.  He was turning his empty pipe between his hands, she realized.  "No, not the moving water, not this time."  He looked up at the stars overhead, the pipe in his hands going still.  "No, this time it was the eyes...."

          Suddenly he was rising.  "I'd best get back to bed, for I want to leave early.  I promised myself I'd go to Westhall before I returned to Hobbiton."

          She rose as he stowed his pipe in his trousers pocket.  "And who do you know in Westhall?  Drogo's been dead for years, and Daisy lives there in Hobbiton with Griffo in Dora's old smial."

          He gave her a half smile.  "Family business is all, Aunt.  Good night, dearling."  He leaned over to kiss her cheek, then quietly but purposefully headed back down toward the Master's garden again.

          By the time she rose the next day he was already gone, slipping away without saying goodbye, as usual.  

*******

          As they gathered in the Master's parlor, Sara looked up from the report sent him by his agents down near the Sarn Ford, his expression thoughtful as he looked at Merry as he sat, elbows on knees and face in hands, looking into the flames in the fireplace.  "Do you have any idea when Frodo, Pippin, and Sam ought to arrive tomorrow?" he asked.

          Merry looked surprised to find himself in his parents' presence.  "Hmm?  Oh, no, I don't.  Probably about midday, I suspect."

          "And you're all to stay tomorrow night at Crickhollow?"

          "Yes--I have the furniture all placed, and do thank Mac and Beri for all the help they gave me.  Mantha came over to help make the beds and set out the towels and all--she's been a gift as well, seeing to it the place is just as Frodo intended."

          "I still cannot believe Frodo's anywhere near poverty as he's claimed.  I know he has partnership agreements and----"

          "I'm certain I can't tell you, Dad.  He's been close as anything ever since Gandalf was there in April.  I just wish we knew where Gandalf is now, for he was supposed to have returned immediately when he left in June."

          "This isn't some scheme by that Wizard to get Frodo off on some adventure to build character or something?  I think that's how he excused his attentions toward Bilbo when I confronted him at the Party."

          Merry straightened.  "Since when does Frodo need his character built?  He's the best Hobbit in the Shire as it is!"

          "I know.  But any time that old grey fellow turns up it seems that somebody--usually a Took, takes it into his head to up and disappear.  I just don't want it to be Frodo this time."

          Merry turned his face back toward the fire, but Esme could hear him mutter, "None of us want that.  But what if there's no choice?"  She didn't think that Sara had caught it, though.

          Sara turned his attention back to the report, finished it, and at last set it aside.  "I wish I knew what these rumors mean of odd black-cloaked Big Folk coming across the Brandywine River at the Sarn Ford the other day.  It's bad enough with Rangers riding through whenever they please, although they never seem to bother anyone--indeed they're always courteous to our folk when they must speak to us, and never leave a mess behind as do the tinkers and traders who go through from time to time.  Wish all Big Folk were as responsible as the Rangers seem to be, in fact.  But these black blokes--this report from Aldo is gibberish!  Said they'd scared him out of six years' dinners or something.  Doesn't sound good.  And Largo Longbottom's most concerned about some of his shipments of pipeweed apparently being diverted--said he's had a wagon he'd intended for the Great Smial disappear, and word from the southern Bounders is that it apparently was seen in a line Lotho was sending off south, out of the Shire.  I need to pass this on to Paladin and Will, I think."

          He gave a great sigh, then again fixed Merry with his attention.  "And what's this from Mac about you moving those six ponies you bought yourself at the horsemarket in Kingsbridge off Hall land?"

          "I suspect one of the mares has the scours, Dad, and was afraid the others might have been exposed as well.  Moved them to the pasturage we keep near the road to the Hay Gate.  I don't want any of the Hall's ponies affected, of course."

          "And Fatty's staying at Crickhollow house as well?"

          "Yes--he's putting on the final touches tonight so it will be ready when Frodo arrives, and I'm to join him in the morning."

          Sara nodded, then having apparently made some decision, asked, "And what's this about you having Treasure put up a stock of jerked meat and trail food for you to take in the morning?  Certainly after a three-day tramp from Hobbiton Frodo's not thinking of going off on another walking trip right away?"

          Was Merry's shrug just a bit too casual? Esme wondered.  "Well, Dad, you know Frodo--he's become so restless these past few years.  He's--he's spoken about maybe going to Bree for a few days--he's always been keen to go, you know."  He sighed.  "I'll wager Frodo Baggins knows more about the Shire and its smaller lanes than any other Hobbit there is, maybe more even than Bilbo.  But for all that he's never been out of the Shire."

          "I hate the idea of anyone going out to Bree with the reports we're getting from the Bounders about the strange folk gathering along the roads and wandering about our borders, Merry.  Discourage Frodo if you can."

          "I'll try, Dad, but you know Frodo.  He's a stubborn Baggins, he is."

          Merry rose abruptly.  "I'd best get to bed, Dad, Mum.  And don't be surprised if I'm not here when you get up.  We do have some arranging of the supplies to do in the morning, and I think I'll want to stop by the Bucklebury market to get some things--I promised Pippin I'd have some of Sweetwater's mints for him.  Is it all right if I take the smaller wagon tomorrow?  I'll leave it in the stable there at Crickhollow."

          "No problem, son.  Give our love to Frodo on his arrival, and make certain he comes to see us as soon as he's settled in, understand?"

          Merry gave each of them a hug and kiss goodnight, startling them both, for he'd not done such a thing in years.  And Esme could swear that he was anxious and even excited as he held her close.

          Indeed, when she rose in the morning Merry was already gone, and as she walked out into the lawns before the Hall and peered down the road he must have taken with the smaller wagon she felt a prickling of foreboding that had little to do with the fog that was creeping up toward the Hall from the river.

Missing

          “Where were you when I awoke?”

          “I went early to the main barn.”

          “To speak with Merry before he left?”

          “Yes.”

          “Did you learn anything?”

          Sara was quiet for a time, then finally admitted, almost grudgingly, “I learned only enough to know I learned almost nothing.  And he swore me to secrecy about what little he would say.  He said to have any knowledge of the situation is itself dangerous, but that Frodo is trying to keep the Shire safe from an extraordinary danger, and he and the other lads are going to do their best to help him.  I can tell you no more than that, Esme.”

          She turned her attention back to her elevenses, a meal she and Sara had decided to eat in the Master’s parlor.  As she split and buttered a roll she considered.  At last she commented, “Whatever danger there is, they must have learned of it from Gandalf.  Or do you think that this is but a lark of some kind?”

          Sara shook his head.  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Merry so serious, Esme.  No, he doesn’t see it as any kind of a lark, and from what I’ve seen of Frodo in the past few months he also is very worried.  One thing I believe to be true, however, is that Frodo doesn’t realized that the other lads know as much as they do.”

          She nodded.

 *******

          They didn’t come that evening, but then neither she nor Sara expected them to do so.

          They didn’t come the next day, either, nor the one following.  Why not?

          Esme herself had, throughout her life, known dreams of foretelling from time to time, although she wasn’t certain either as to how useful or how comfortable a gift such could be.  Mostly when such dreams came to her they showed but a single scene shorn of almost all detail sufficient to give it meaning as a vision; and when they did come to pass she would recognize the portion experienced in the dream only as it was lived.  Nor did she appear to dream of aught of any import most of the time. 

          She’d dreamed of a pony in a field; three weeks later her father brought the family out to show them the new pony he’d bought to pull the farm wagon.  Yes, on occasion she’d ridden that pony; but it had proved neither particularly intelligent nor particularly important to the life of the folk on the Whitwell farm.  She’d dreamed of sitting in such a way she looked past her own familiar toes at the sky beyond the canopy of a particular tree that grew near the front hedge; four days later her father hung a swing in that tree, and the first time she had a turn in it she saw just that view as she swung forward at the height of the arc.  There had been a green bird on a twig that she’d seen in life over the open grave of her mother as the Thain had begun to speak; and a phrase of music and grey eyes she’d recognized the first time she danced with Saradoc Brandybuck at the Free Fair; but mostly her glimpses had been of mundane chores and commonplace walks made special only by a difference in weather or the chosen clothing of her sisters or what specifically her father was reading aloud to the family after supper on a Highday.

          Recently, however, she’d had some dreams that were disturbing:  looming black shadows following after the lads; the sound of hoofbeats of a few to numerous beasts much larger than even a good-sized draft pony pounding across turf; Frodo with something that served as a source of light held high in a dark place she couldn’t recognize, anxiety and defiance clearly to be seen on his features; grey eyes in a bearded, angular face examining something methodically and intently; some black structure far too straight and tall to be natural, way off in the distance; the sound of falling water singing just out of sight.  Several nights after Merry left with the small wagon to welcome Frodo and Samwise to their new home in Buckland she awoke gasping for breath from a dream in which a vague shape with rather luminous eyes was watching after a dull grey form she knew was Frodo passing.  She’d sat up as she woke, and had obviously roused Sara.

          “What is it?” he asked, but all she could do was to shake her head.  There was an echo of an unearthly screech in her mind, and she shook her head to rid herself of it--except that it appeared to be continuing on.  Sara was also sitting up now, listening intently, then leaping from the bed to throw on clothing as rapidly as possible.

          “The Horncall!” he exclaimed.  “I’ll be needed.  Dearling, Mac will need to go with me--you’ll have to deal with folk here in the Hall and those who come demanding to know what’s going on.  Keep the womenfolk calmed and the children under control as well as you can--I’ll speak to Berilac and Dodiroc as I go out and have them take over with the older lads who’ll be keen to do whatever they can, no matter how misguided--Dodi can find ways to set them to doing helpful things.”

          She was rising and pulling her dressing gown over her night dress.

          Awake!  Awake!  Fear, Fire, Foes!  Awake!  Awake!  Fear, Fire, Foes!  She could hear it now clearly, echoed from several directions.  Awake!  Awake!  Fear, Fire, Foes!  Esme headed for the main dining hall where those not involved in learning the nature of the danger would be gathering.

 *******

          It was almost time for elevenses before Sara returned, pale with exhaustion and concern.  He and many of the older and wiser Hobbits from the Hall gathered in the Master’s parlor, Adamanta, Liliana, Dodiroc’s wife Violet, and Esmeralda joining the menfolk.          

          “What is it?” Esme demanded.  “Who sent up the call?”

          “The first to sound it was Nerendas at Orchard Place.  They’d been sound asleep for hours when they heard a pounding at the door, and opened to find Fredegar Bolger outside in a fit of terror.  They say they couldn’t make out what the matter was, not at first.  He wasn’t making the least sense--just going on and on about Black Riders and the Old Forest, and at last they thought he meant that the trees in the Old Forest were attacking the Hay.  Mac and Marmadas went through the Hay Gate while I tried to get sense out of Fatty--there was nothing to be seen, although Marmadas says the forest is upset, but not at the High Hay or us.”

          Mac was nodding.  “The trees near the Hay weren’t paying us the least mind.  They were focused toward the Road and Bree.”

          “What’s this about Freddy?  Where are the others?”  Esme felt almost desperate.  “Where are Merry and Pippin--and Frodo?  What are these Black Riders?”

          “We don’t know--Big Folk of some kind, from what Fatty could tell me.”

          “Like the ones who came over the Sarn Ford in that report Aldo sent?” Esme asked.

          Sara thought for a moment.  “Could be--it certainly sounds much the same--got up in black, riding great black horses, dreadfully uncanny.”

          “Where’s Freddy now?”

          “On his way here.  I sent Marmadas here to fetch back a trap once he came back from the Hay Gate--the lad’s still so shaken he can barely walk.”

          “Did they attack him?”

          “No--he said he felt as if something terribly evil was approaching the house, and he looked through the window in the front parlor and saw several huge black shapes entering the garden.  Said his hair stood right up all over him, so he barred the door and ran out the back, heading for the nearest place.  Said he’d never run so fast in his life.  Said that when he was almost to Orchard Place he felt a shock of power, almost like one of Gandalf’s bigger fireworks at the Party going off, behind him, back at the house.  He says the next thing he remembers after that was finding himself in the kitchen at Orchard Place with Nerendas and his family all about him and pressing a mug of tea into his hands.”

          Berilac examined his Uncle Saradoc.  “Just after dawn a report came from the Brandywine Bridge.  Old Cardoc Sandheaver was found about two hours before dawn, dead.  Apparently he was ridden down by folks riding large horses.  The smith there in Kingsbridge has examined the tracks--he says there were at least three and perhaps as many as five animals, and they were real horses such as Men ride.”

          “You mean those Ranger fellows----” began Dodiroc, but he was interrupted by Beri.

          “No, Cousin Dodi--we must assume it’s these black-cloaked Big Folk Cousin Fredegar speaks of.  The very few times there have been reports of the Rangers riding through at night they’ve always walked their beasts through Kingsbridge quietly, and they have always given a quiet greeting to whatever Bounders or Shiriffs they’ve seen.”  A few of the other older Hobbits who’d dealt with those in Kingsbridge nodded their agreement.

          “But what of our lads?” asked Markos Longbottom, now head healer for the Hall.  “You didn’t answer all of the Mistress’s question, you know.”

          “They weren’t there,” Sara said, his voice now guarded.

          “They weren’t there?” demanded Seredic.  “Why not?  Didn’t Frodo and Pippin arrive there a week back?”

          “Yes,” Sara admitted, “they came over on the ferry, poling themselves, on the evening of the twenty-fifth, just after Rollo went off duty and left it on the Marish side so he could sup with his wife’s family near the ferry landing.  One of our lads took it back over to fetch him the following morning.”

          “Then where were they while Fatty Bolger was running for his life from Crickhollow to Orchard Place?”

          Sara took a deep breath and held it before finally answering, “We don’t know where they were, or where they are now.  Fatty closes his mouth when he’s questioned about them--will only say they left again almost as soon as they arrived.  I’m hoping we’ll learn more once he’s here, and Markos, I want you to look him over thoroughly.  With his great weight, running that far could easily have caused a serious strain on his heart.”  A reminder, Esme realized, that his own mother had known training as a healer and midwife.

          He continued, “Nerendas and two of his hands went with me to Crickhollow.  There were signs of several horses--again, horses, not ponies, and big ones at that, for their hooves were very large--having been left outside the hedge near the gate, apparently being held by one Big Folk wearing boots.  There were footprints made by Big Folks to be seen in the garden, approaching the house from different ways.  The front door was hanging open, and that new oak bar I had installed last week was blasted to splinters, as was the part of the jamb where the latch and lock mechanism engaged.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  Even the main stone for the stoop was cracked across, and there was a smell like scorching.  But it didn’t smell like Gandalf’s fireworks.  Several panes in the windows were broken, missing, or cracked; but it didn’t appear they’d been struck with any object.

          “There was something lying across the threshold as I came up--I--I thought it might be Frodo, for it looked like that cloak Mum gave him that last Yule before she died.  I was right about the cloak, but wrong about it being him.  You know how sturdy it was, Esme--someone had apparently started to rip it in half--the collar was torn right through, and the inner pocket pulled loose of it.”

          “All Frodo’s things had been put away neatly from what I could tell, but not touched by him.  But someone had been through his room and pulled out drawers and spilled them on the floor, and one small chest his dad made had been cleaved in two, but not with an axe.  The wardrobe in Sam’s room had been wrenched open and the hinges twisted.  I’ll have it repaired as soon as I can--that and the door.

          “There was no sign of any packs or saddlebags save Fatty’s own, or any of the trail food we know Merry had Treasure put up for him.  It appears Freddy had been there alone for days, apparently trying to make certain none of the stores we sent over went to waste,” he added rather dryly.

          “The gate to the place was hanging open and there’s no sign of the pony that pulled the wagon.  I found only one of the ponies Merry bought at the horsemarket, and it was skittish as a deer--wouldn’t let anyone near it.  Nerendas’s son who does so well at breaking ponies is going to work with it and see if he can get it ready for use again.  Something terrified it completely out of its training, apparently.”

          They all exchanged looks in light of the Master’s report.  At last Mac spoke.  “Marmadas noted that the key had been moved and replaced from the last time he’d been through the Hay Gate a few weeks ago to see to the state of the hedge on the far side, and saw signs several ponies had been ridden through it.  We saw a place where five ponies were halted just the other side of it, then some signs leading where there’s usually an open trail to the Bonfire Glade--we couldn’t find the trail this time, though--the trees appear to have shifted position since they went that way.”

          “Then--then----”  Esme found she had to swallow before she could continue in a hoarse whisper, “Then they went into the Old Forest?”

          “So it would seem,” Sara said, and she saw his face was as pale as her own must be.

 ******* 

          “Fredegar Bolger, we need to know where they are!” Esme insisted.

          “Please, Cousin Esme,” he answered her, “please don’t ask.  You don’t know how dangerous it could be if they learn for certain where Frodo and the others were headed.”

          “Who are they?”

          Freddy’s face was pale, but set with purpose.  “I don’t know, and I hope I never have to know at this point.  All I know is that they’re an enemy to us and to the Shire.”

          “Why are they following Frodo?”

          “They were told to find a Baggins, and they’re evidently certain Frodo’s the Baggins they’re searching for.  From what Frodo said they questioned Sam’s dad on Bagshot Row and Farmer Maggot, and who knows how many others.”

          Esme straightened.  “Maggot?  What about?”

          “From what Farmer Maggot told Frodo and the others, one rode across his fields to the lane leading to the house and byres, and on seeing him demanded to know where Baggins was.  When he told the Rider that the Bagginses lived in Hobbiton, the thing told him he knew Baggins was coming to Buckland, and offered him gold if he’d agree to tell if any news came of Baggins’s arrival.  Maggot said he was flat shaken and his dogs cowering.  Then Frodo and Pippin and Sam finally found their way out of the woods and onto Maggot’s farm, and he found them and took them to the house and fed them and brought them in his wagon to the Ferry, where Merry was waiting for them with his pony.  Merry said he’d crossed over with Rollo and had ridden a bit west in search of them, then poled the four of them and the pony back across the river himself.  He said that after they were a good ways out he saw a great black shape appear out of the fog at the landing, a shape that even as far away as they were terrified all of them.”

          Saradoc, who’d stayed quiet till now, sighed.  “That’s basically what Maggot told me when he came to see me on the twenty-sixth, Esme.  Said that as he drove away he felt the horror of whatever it was behind him, and his pony started to run in fear.  Then he said that as he got the pony back under control he felt as if whatever it was had moved away toward Kingsbridge.”

          Esme considered her next question.  Finally she asked, “Why did Frodo move to Crickhollow, Freddy?”

          “He needed to get near the eastern borders of the Shire, ready to leave.”

          “Why did he need to leave the Shire?”

          “What he had--it’s dangerous--more dangerous than you can imagine.  He has to get it away to where it’s safe to leave it.  That storm Uncle Bilbo used to speak of--it’s building now, and that--that thing can’t be here when it hits Middle Earth properly--it would lead to the destruction of the Shire.”

          “But what is it?  How did it get into the Shire to begin with?”

          But Fredegar Bolger would only shake his head.  At last he said, “Please don’t ask me--it could mean you yourself would be targeted if they learn you know anything.  I don’t know who or what they are, but I don’t want them anywhere near anyone I love or care about!”

          By the time Markos ruled Freddy was ready to return home to Budgeford and Budge Hall they’d not been able to get anything else out of him.

 *******

           Sara and Farmer Maggot looked up as Esme joined them in the Master’s study.  “I know you’ll want to hear this, beloved,” Sara said.  “Come, sit down.”         

          Farmer Maggot waited until she was comfortable, and finally began his tale.  “I don’t know as you’re aware, but I have--those as don’t usually come into the Shire who’ll have a word with me from time to time.  I went to Haygate Farm the other day on business--we’re arrangin’ to have my herd bull cover his best cow in a few months’ time, you see, so we’ve been discussing how it’s to be done.  As I was leaving, my--friend came to me.  I was surprised--he doesn’t usually leave his own place once the rains set in, he don’t; but he says as his lady insisted he get word back to the Shire, to those as cares for them as he’d seen.

          “He found your four lads in a mild spot of trouble, apparently--some of those as he rules pullin’ some mischief on them, he said--nothin’ too serious and soon put right.  He hosted them two nights, then sent them on their way.  They got waylaid, though, not far short of the Road.  That Baggins lad o’ yours, he managed the business well, and--my friend was able to get to them free and safely on the road to Bree.  He saw as one o’ those Rangers was watchin’ for them--figures as that Gandalf--only he calls him the Grey Pilgrim--set the Man to seein’ to it they made it safe out of the Shire.  Says that if they’ll allow the Ranger to join them they ought to be all right.”

          “Then they did go to Bree, then?”  Esme couldn’t tell if she felt more relieved or alarmed at the news.

          “Apparently.  He’s not always real clear on time, but from what he said of the rain, it ought to of been the twenty-sixth as he found them, what with the heavy rain we had that night and all the next day.  ’Twas the day after I found them comin’ cross my fields, chased by those horrid Black Riders.”  He shuddered visibly.  “Fang’s never been cowed by anyone I’ve ever seen; but he was cowerin’ worse than the greenest pup as I’ve ever had on the place when that horror spoke to me.”

          Sara asked, almost urgently, “Did they follow the lads into the Old Forest?”

          Maggot shook his head.  “I don’t think so.  After I came here on the twenty-sixth I felt the shudders take me a few times over the next few days, I did, as if one of them was hauntin’ the road near our lane, lyin’ in wait for me, I’d wager.  But I wouldn’t go off my own place until I’d not felt them for days.

          “I’ve never felt anything, anywhere, like that ever in my life until the day as your lads come over my fields, and I wouldn’t care if the one as they’d wanted was the most horrid Hobbit in all the Shire--I wouldn’t turn anyone over to those--creatures.  Don’t know as what they are, but I got my doubts as they’re anythin’ natural.”

 *******

          Garthfast, a young Bounder originally from the Northfarthing, knuckled his forehead as he made his report to the Master and Mistress. "Beggin’ yer pardons--but I thought as ye’d wish to know as that Gandalf was seen last night. He’s ridin’ the biggest horse as I’ve ever seen--silver as moonlight, runs smooth as smooth, if’n ye take my meaning--and come up the road through Buckland from the South, past the Hall, all the way to Kingsbridge and out of the Shire again. Paused to ask me if’n I know anythin’ about Frodo Baggins, and I told ’im as he’d left the Shire, followed by great Black Riders as rid down old Cardoc--an’ he curst, if’n ye’d believe it. ‘They found as where it’s been all this time, then," he says. "Will I be able to find them? Did that Strider find ’im afore he gets into too much difficulties?"

          “Then he thanked me--said as he must go quickly, and hopefully find Frodo and help guard him against the others.  Was gone about as swift as he come, and the horse--not a great clatterin’ with that horse--neat as neat he run, and quieter’n me pony.”

 *******

         Esmeralda sat beside her husband in a private dining parlor in the small inn that graced the village of Bucklebury, examining Lotho’s emissary.  Why Marco Smallburrow had asked them to meet him here rather than coming to the Hall or to the Bridge Inn by the Brandywine Bridge she had no idea; she had even less idea as to how the likes of Marco Smallburrow had come to serve as a representative for Lotho--no, perhaps she did.  Marco’s mother Alyssum had, after all, been born a Bracegirdle and older sister of Bigelow Bracegirdle, purveyor of crooked dice and dosed ponies, and long ago banished by the family to Westhall in the far Westfarthing where hopefully he wouldn’t be able to bring too much additional shame on the family name.

          “Besides the plan to allow for the gathering of the Shire’s bounty for the benefit of those who cannot provide for themselves, it’s the intention of Mr. Sackville-Baggins to help improve the yield of our mills through replacement of older designs with new ones that will grind the grist more uniformly and with greater efficiency,” Marco explained.  “He’s already seeing to it that new mills that run not by water wheels but by the power of steam are being built throughout the four Farthings, and hopes that you will allow him to purchase the mills of Buckland as well.”

          “First of all,” Sara pointed out, “the two mills we have to serve Buckland are already idle much of the time, and have proved adequate to our needs for the past two hundred years.  Save for the three years after the bed of the stream that powered the Hall Mill itself changed a hundred years back and we needed a new building constructed along the new course, we’ve always had more than adequate facilities to meet the needs of the whole of Buckland.

          “Second, the mills of Buckland have always belonged to all the residents of Buckland and not to either the millers nor the Master, and thus I have no authority to sell them.  I serve at the pleasure of the folk of Buckland, and were I to seek to sell one of its assets to any one individual or entity I’d be stripped of my duties and authority, and rightly so.

          “Third, I already administer such a program as Lotho has outlined to meet the needs of those who are in want within Buckland and the Marish, and hold the responsibility to all of those of my family of name and who make demands on family ties to do what Lotho proposes to do with this scheme of gathering and sharing.  It is an insult to all family heads throughout the Shire to even propose such a thing, and I must wonder what advantages to himself Lotho intends with such a scheme.

          “Fourth, Lotho Pimple has always been a git of the first order.  Considering the crooked contracts he has sought to foist on those of Buckland and the Marish and on members of my family of name outside Buckland in the past two years, advice has been sent out to all in the lands I administer and to Brandybucks elsewhere throughout the Shire that they should bring any contract held that binds them to your devious client to be examined before myself, the Mayor, and the Thain.  Nor will I support any claims of your client against any of those under my authority and protection within or without Buckland and the Marish without a full hearing before a panel consisting of three of the elders of the family of name for the one involved, his family head, the Master, the Mayor, the Thain and at least two legal representatives for each, the family head for the Bagginses and his legal representative, and the family head for the Bracegirdles and his representative. This declaration has been filed also with the Thain and the Mayor, with Benlo Bracegirdle as family head for Lotho’s mother’s people, with Frodo Baggins as family head for himself and his father’s people, and last week with the family head for the Sackvilles as well, although I doubt Lotho had known sufficient time to read that communication at the time he dispatched you to meet with me.  Warnings of this have also been given to all village heads and family heads residing within the lands under my jurisdiction.  This proscription extends to all known to have presented contracts found to have been intended to cheat others, including you yourself.”

          As he shoved a thick carton sufficient to hold several documents in front of Marco, he continued, “I don’t know what Lotho is playing at, but I won’t have him taking any more advantage of those under my authority.  He’s already done rather too much--do you understand?”

          Marco’s face had gone decidedly pale.  “I’m certain I don’t understand what you mean....” he began.

          “You don’t?  But weren’t you the one who presented the loan agreement to Baradoc Brandybuck requiring him to replace his extraordinarily serviceable existing shutters with new ones manufactured by one family in the far reaches of the Shire and then painted pink using a paint mixed by another purveyor, again from the far reaches of the Shire, or he would lose the deeds to his own hole and lands to Lotho?  It rather appears to me that it was your name on that document; and the list of those who would inspect to see that these nearly impossible requirements be met in the time granted by the contract included your brother-in-law and two of your cousins.”

          Esme thought Marco looked rather like a fish just taken from the water--rather limp and surprised and gasping, trying to understand precisely what had just happened to him.  At last he blurted out, “But Frodo Baggins has left the Shire!”

          “Perhaps, but I am assured he named a family head after himself, and one I am further assured is in proper line for the position--and it most decidedly is not Lotho Sackville-Baggins.  Nor is the fact he’s temporarily absent from the Shire grounds to give over his place as family head for the Bagginses--he filed a will before he left granting himself two years from leaving the Shire and Buckland combined before he might be declared dead, and he appointed a proxy for himself to stand in his stead until he returned home or two years had passed, should he absent himself from the Shire.  That proxy document was filed six years ago, and the warrant to assume authority in his name was served a week after he left the boundaries of the Shire and Buckland as dictated by Shire law.”

          “And who holds this proxy power?” demanded Lotho’s lawyer.

          Sara smiled--a very calculated smile.  “I do.”

          Marco stared at the Master of Buckland and the Marish for some minutes.  Sara’s expression had become stern once more.  “I now suggest, Marco, that you leave.  Rollo has been advised to take you across the river as swiftly as possible, and you are not to be allowed to return unless you come with your family head and three of the elders from your family to request pardon for the damage inflicted on my family and those under my protection and to make reparations for that damage.  Do you understand?”

          Marco Smallburrow stood abruptly, and taking up the carton turned, and stalked out of the room, sufficiently rigid still in shock that his footsteps could be heard.  He found that those who’d accompanied him and who’d been intended to enter the private parlor to the intimidation of the Master at the signal he was to give had all been gathered to a single table in the common room, where they sat surrounded by a party of about twenty Brandybucks, all of them at the prime of their strength and particularly determined looking.  Esme, watching from the door, found herself admiring her husband’s obvious preparations for this confrontation. 

          Once Marco and his party had been escorted from the inn’s premises she resumed her seat and examined her husband.  “You never told me, Sara.”

          “I’m sorry, love.  Bilbo, after his last journey out of the Shire, had such a proxy document written granting my dad the authority to stand in his stead as family head for the Bagginses until Frodo should come of age once he’d adopted Frodo as his heir; Frodo filed a similar document within a week of the execution of Bilbo’s will.  Six years ago it was amended to change the proxy from Dad to me.  Then, when Frodo came to finalize the purchase of Crickhollow he requested a private consultation and let me know he’d become aware that Lotho had presented an inequitable contract to a widow running one of the smallholdings he’d inherited from Bilbo.  This contract was supposed to have used the smallholding’s herd of cattle as collateral, but instead sought to use the deed to the holding itself; she’d forwarded a copy to Frodo as her landlord as she was required to do as the loan had been intended to help dig a new well on the property, and in reviewing it Brendi had noted how the contract was written in such a manner it was intended to cheat her.  Apparently whoever wrote the contract hadn’t determined who the legal owner was before presenting it and obtaining her signature.”

          Esme was shocked.

          He continued, “You know how I had Berilac and several others riding off to various places in the North- and Westfarthing a few months back?  That was to forestall Lotho taking title to Baradoc’s hole.  When I told Frodo about it, he suggested we do something like what I described to Marco.  What I didn’t tell Marco is that Brendi was working on writing out a similar instrument to be filed on the part of the Bagginses as I’ve done for the Brandybucks, Buckland, and the Marish.  Brendi had me sign it as Frodo’s proxy when he served the warrant on me.”

          “Who is it that Frodo has named his heir and family head for the Bagginses, then?” Esme asked.

          Sara gave a shrug.  “Apparently one of the Bagginses who lives in the Westfarthing who’s more closely related to Frodo himself than Lotho is, or so Brendi’s allowed me to know.  However, until either proof is brought that Frodo has died or two years are accomplished Brendi won’t divulge the name of said heir, he says for the protection of that heir.  Seems he doesn’t trust Lotho.”

          “I wonder why,” Esme returned, her tone dry.

 ******* 

          Horto came out to the kitchens where Esme was helping prepare the next meal, as colds along the servants’ corridors had left the Hall decidedly understaffed.  “Cousin Esme, Brendilac’s just arrived.”

          “Good,” she said, then turned to Marigold.  “Mari, would you please take over here--I must be busy about Hall duties for about half an hour to an hour.”

          “Certainly, Mistress Esmeralda,” came the response.  “There’s naught to do save to stir it and see as it don’t scorch from now on, after all, and I’ve the first loaves in the bake oven.”

          “Good enough.  And Lysette, you’d best do as you’re instructed with no reports to me of any sauce to her, do you understand?”  The new scullery maid had yet to appreciate the way things were done here in the Hall.  It came, she supposed, of accepting the application of a Sackville.  “And you are to go to the lessons when you are done with cleaning after luncheon.  Lessons, as we explained, are required by all who live and serve in Brandy Hall.”

          “Yes, mum,” Lysette answered, her expression resentful.

          Brendi was waiting for her in the Master’s parlor, his expression wary.  She nodded as she entered, closing the door behind her.  “Sit down, please, Brendi.  I need to talk to you as Frodo’s lawyer and as his friend.”

          Reluctantly Brendi sat on one of the few wooden chairs in the room.  She sighed as she examined him.  Finally she asked, “Did you know he was to leave the Shire?”

          He didn’t answer, merely focused on the far wall over her shoulder.

          “Please, Brendi, I need to understand what’s happening.”

          His face was set, although she sensed a good deal of pain behind the mask.  At that moment the door behind her opened, admitting Sara.  He looked between the two faces, then focused on that of his wife.  “You’re wasting your time, Esme.  Frodo forced him to take the oath, as he’s done with the Goodbodies.  He may not tell you anything regarding Frodo’s business until either Frodo returns and frees him of the oath, or whatever conditions were set by Frodo are met.”  He looked at Brendi.  “Horto told me you’d come.  Did you have anything we need to know or see?”

          The lawyer sighed, and finally nodded as he reached to the inner pocket of his jacket.  “I was made to take the oath in this case to say nothing until now, a month after it was determined Frodo and the others left Crickhollow.  Then I was to bring you one letter and see two others posted to the Westfarthing.  I may not tell you what I know or guess about where they went or why.  I sent the other letters from Kingsbridge.”

          “To the Great Smial and Hobbiton?” Esme guessed, and with a sigh Brendi again fixed his attention beyond her as he produced a letter and held it out.  She exchanged glances with Sara, and at a slight nod from him she took it, noting the flap of the envelope had been sealed not with mere sealing wax but with actual glue.  She managed to open it and draw out the sheets it held, scanned the first page briefly to recognize Merry’s rather precise writing with that slight tilt to the last letters of each word, and began reading.

Dear Mum and Dad,

          You both have chided me for worrying about Frodo trying to slip away, out of the Shire, some day.  Well, the day comes, only it’s not just for an adventure.

          Bilbo left something for Frodo that has finally proven to be terribly dangerous, far more so than any can imagine.  With the evil growing in Middle Earth at this time, were this thing to remain here in the Shire it would draw that evil here to the destruction of all.  Frodo has determined to leave the Shire to take it away, hopefully to a place where it might be hidden or destroyed that it not cause the Shire to fall.  He’d planned to go alone, but we can’t let him do it--he’s quite impractical when it comes to his own safety, and he’d be dead or captured within a fortnight.

          I know I appear to be running away from my responsibilities, but I swear that if I were to stay and if Frodo and what he carries were captured,  within a fairly short time there would be nothing left for me to be Master of  when my own turn comes.

          As to the question of Gandalf being involved--only insofar as he’s the one who sought out the means to test to find out if this thing is what he’s come to fear it is, and he’s the one who told Frodo what it is and what it will do if it remains here with things changing in the outer world as quickly as they are.  He was supposed to go with Frodo, but was called away and hasn’t made it back.  We hope he’ll be back by Frodo’s birthday, but if he isn’t--well, we’ll just have to go without him.  Frodo’s been feeling the danger out there growing and coming closer and closer to the Shire, and he knows if he doesn’t leave as soon as he can it will find our borders and cross over into our lands.  He intends to draw the danger away from the land and people he loves, even if he has to sacrifice himself to do it.

          Frodo won’t find out we’re going with him until just before we leave.  The dear old Hobbit’s certain we know nothing--thinks he has the wool pulled nicely over our eyes.  What he doesn’t know is that we’ve been spying on him for years--Sam, Pippin, Freddy, and me.  I’ll admit that when I started it was because I was young and foolish, and because I feared my Frodo would grow so lonely for Bilbo and so full of Elvish knowledge that the Shire wouldn’t be able to keep him anchored any more, and I didn’t want him to have an adventure without me.  But now--oh, Dad, Mum--he’s not just my Frodo any more.  I’ve watched him all these years, and have seen how responsible he’s become, how caring, even for the S-Bs in spite of themselves.  We need him, Mum, Dad.  Will’s wanted him to run for Mayor for years, and he wouldn’t; but we need him as Mayor anyway.  The Shire needs him and his example of decency and compassion and fair dealing and thoroughness.  If we can--we mean to bring him back, safe and whole.

          Please don’t devil Fatty or Brendi--they’ve been sworn to secrecy and can’t tell you any more.

          I love you so, and will miss you terribly.  But we’ll come back--all of us, if it can be managed.

          Watch out for Lotho--don’t know what he’s about, but I have a feeling he’s got himself in over his head with what he thinks he’s doing.

  Love, Merry

  PS--Yes, Pippin’s going, too, but only because I can’t stop him, no matter what I say or threaten.  He says if we try to leave without him he’ll just follow behind--better I let him go with us so we can at least keep an eye on him.  Stubborn Bagginses have nothing on stubborn Tooks!

          Sara and Esme looked to one another as he held out his hand to accept the letter and reread it.  At last Sara sighed, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed at his forehead with the back of his hand.  “Heavens above!  What could be so very dangerous that it would have to be taken out of the Shire?”  He looked at Brendi, who, looking equally miserable and determined, kept his silence.  “Did you know they were spying on Frodo--Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Freddy?”

          He shook his head.  “No--not until Merry approached me about seeing the letters sent.”

          “And you didn’t tell Frodo?”

          He shook his head, frustration clear in his eyes.  “I couldn’t tell him any more than I could tell you, any more than I could tell them what little I know of what Frodo told me.  I can’t even tell you aye or nay as to whether what Frodo’s told me matches what Merry’s said in that letter.  I can tell you only that Frodo, too, is terrified for what would happen to the Shire if he’d stayed here.”  He took a deep breath.  “The oath is very strong, and I’m bound by it, as are Ordo and Oridon.  But I don’t think they know even as much as I do.”

          Then they heard a voice, out in the passage outside the door.  “Wait, you--what are you about, listening at keyholes?”  They heard a scuffling sound as Sara and Brendi both rushed toward the door.  By the time they got it open it was to find Gomez, Beri, and Mac holding what appeared to be a lass between them, the lass struggling to get away. 

          Sara stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder.  “What is this?” he asked.  At a nod from Mac the two younger Hobbits let the lass go, and reluctantly she turned around to face the Master of Buckland.  Somehow Esme wasn’t surprised to find herself looking into the resentful, frightened face of Lysette Sackville.

          Sara turned his head to catch Brendi’s eyes.  “I think you and your father need to move back to the Hall.”

          His face pale, Brendi nodded his agreement.

 *******

          Gil was drinking heavily from a mug.  “Six parties of Men--awful, hateful looking Men, have entered the Shire across the Brandywine Bridge alone; and my cousin Phlox in the Southfarthing was able to slip a note along with a wagonload of peary being shipped to Stock.  There’s been an influx of Big Men coming in across the borders there as well as here.  Lotho’s somehow managed to buy up most of the inns throughout the Shire, it seems, and is starting to close them down.  Has taken over the Shiriffs, too, and has named himself Chief Shiriff.  Most of the Men have gone right to Hobbiton and then fanned out from there.  He’s using them to take over the whole of the Shire.”

          “We’ve been keeping them out of Buckland so far,” Mac said, “but we can’t do anything for those near the Bridge.  Too many of the Big Men there, you see.  Fred Oldbuck’s slipped us a warning to see to it that no boats are left for the Men to use to come across the river, and to keep an eye on the Bridge and the Ferry.

          “They won’t get into Buckland at the Ferry,” Beri said determinedly.  “Rollo sabotaged it once he got his wife’s family out of the Marish.  Has a family cousin staying on the farm to look after it as he can.  But until this storm is over we can’t do a thing.”

          “Any word from Paladin and the Tooklands?” Sara asked.

          “No, and none from Michel Delving either.”

          Sara closed his eyes tightly, and Esme could tell that he was terrified for what might be happening to their kindred elsewhere throughout the Shire.  Finally he opened them again, his face set with decision.  “We have to see to the integrity of our own lands and folk, then.  How can we make it difficult for these Big Men to get far inside Buckland?”

          “Pretty easy for us to manage, I’d think,” Gil said.  “These folk seem to be pretty stupid for the most part--dangerous, but stupid.  Now, if we were to mine the roads....”

 *******

          “Beri’s back,” Sara told her as he came back to their bedroom to dress himself.  “What little I’ve had of him isn’t hopeful.”          

          Esme threw back her covers, rose and began dressing as well.  “You don’t need to get up now, dearling,” he admonished her.  “It’s the middle of the night, and you’ve been pushing yourself so hard, trying to do the work of all the lads and lasses we’ve had to send off home to see to it their folks aren’t punished for them being here, working for the Hall.”

          “It’s my brother and his family he’s bringing word from, not to mention all the rest of the folk we’re related to and care about throughout the Shire,” she said grimly as she tied a bodice lace.  “I can’t pretend I don’t care; and I wouldn’t sleep anyway until you came back to tell me.  May as well hear it first hand.”

          Together they hurried toward the dining hall, which was filling rapidly.  Melilot was gathering some of the lasses to go to the kitchens to see to it that tea and some kind of sustenance were made ready, for already most of the residents of the Hall appeared to be gathered there, including many of the younger lads and lasses who were being kept close by fearful parents.

          Esme stopped short when she saw Berilac’s companion, for he’d not returned alone, evidently.  A lass with ashen hair was being wrapped in a blanket by Absinthe, and a too-familiar, sharp-featured face was peering fearfully and defiantly about her, stopping only when the lass’s eyes met Esme’s own.  Apparently Beri was going to let her speak first, as he patted her shoulder reassuringly.

          Licking her lips, Lysette Sackville turned to the assembled Brandybucks.  “I come to say as I’m sorry--sorry for comin’ to spy on you the last time as I was here.  My cousin Lotho--he said as it was needful, and that you was enemies o’ the Shire, sidin’ with that awful Frodo Baggins against all decent Hobbits everywhere.  Well, I’ve seen now what Lotho’s done to protect the Shire, and with protection like this there soon won’t be any Shire left to us as loves it.  He’s brought in Big Men--awful Big Men everywhere, everywhere throughout the whole place!  And he’s angered at those as won’t let him move in and tell ’em as to how to live and breathe--he plans to see the Thain and the Master captured--he already has the Mayor locked up in them old storage tunnels there in Michel Delving.  None’s heard from him nor any o’ them others as they’ve drug off--anyone as questions Lotho or what the Big Folks do, they’re all drug off and locked up.  Callin’ them storage tunnels the Lockholes, they are.”

          She turned earnestly toward Sara and Esme.  “You don’t want them to get you.  Don’t know for certain as what they’d do, but you can hear them talkin’ about how once they get all of you--Master, Mayor, and Thain--as how they intend to make an example as the Shire’s not goin’ to forget soon.”

          She accepted a mug of tea offered her by Melilot, took a large swig and almost choked on it, but continued, “Oh, I’ve seen what we’d come to; and what they done to my little brother....”  Esme could see the lass was crying now.

 ******* 

          “We have the greater part of the stock on the farms closest to the Hay, and the roads are all mined.  We can get our carts and wagons through the older, hidden roads through the wilder places, but the Big Men and those Hobbits who’re helping them aren’t going to get anywhere within Buckland once they leave Kingsbridge.  And word from Maggot is that he and the farm folk there are being left alone, for the most part.  Seems as the Big Men want food and stores almost more than anything.

          “And there’s news from Bree--a cousin of Mayberry’s managed to slip past the Men at the Bridge and made it to the Hall last night.  I have him sleeping in my own quarters--Addie’s taking care of him.  Back in September four Shire Hobbits came there to the Prancing Pony--a Brandybuck, a Took, a Gamgee, and an Underhill.”

          All straightened at that, and Esme herself was staring at Gomez with startlement.  “Underhill?  What Underhill?  No Underhill from the Shire’s been out of it that I’m aware of in at least six hundred years--not even to Bree!” she said.

          “I know.  It appears as Frodo’s trying to hide his right name--well, we were already told those Black Rider creatures were asking around about Bagginses.”

          There was a low rumble of agreement and quiet comment before the stablehobbit continued, “They caused a right to-do, right there in the common room of the Pony, they did.  Were mostly bein’ quiet until Pippin started talkin’ freely about Shire doings, and was starting to tell about being at the Party and seeing Cousin Bilbo disappear the way he did, only Frodo appears to have got up on a table and interrupted.  Oh, yes, from the description he give I’m certain as it was Frodo all right--‘taller’n most Hobbits I’ve known, dark hair, young-lookin’ chap with an air to ’im.’  I mean, who else could it be?”

          Again the subdued buzz of comment before Gomez continued, “They all thought as he’d had a bit of a skinful, so some started to call out for a song from the Shire, and Frodo tried to say no but at last obliged them.  Sang some doggerel of old Bilbo’s from what I can tell, one of his songs about an inn and the Moon gettin’ drunk and cows caperin’ about.”  There were general nods of humored recognition throughout the dining room where all were gathered to listen.  “But when he was done they liked it so much as they begun to call for him to sing it again, and apparently one as had come in with his own fiddle started to play along, and then, if Frodo didn’t start to dance as he sang--until he got to the end and the table he was on suddenly tipped over and he disappeared as he fell.”

          He looked about, pleased to see the effect that last statement had had.  He nodded.  “Yes,” he said slowly and with some force, “as he fell off that table, Frodo disappeared, right there in front of everybody.  Disappeared with but a little flash of gold.  Although he did turn up again, over in the corner, sittin’ by a raggedy fellow in green riding leathers--big Man, but not like our Big Men--apparently one of those Rangers as rides through the Shire from time to time.”

          Again all looked at one another.  Merimac asked, “How long did the lads stay in Bree?”

          “But the one night.  Were apparently hopin’ to slip out quiet-like the next mornin’, but there was an attack on the inn that night, and all the horses and ponies in the stable was apparently run off or stolen.  Rumor was one of the rooms was attacked, too, one in the Hobbit wing on the north side of the Pony, but no one was sleepin’ in it.  Our lads left about time for elevenses with the Ranger.  Heldi’s shaking his head about them takin’ up with this Ranger--says as no one has any good to say about this Strider fellow.”

          But Esme, remembering Gandalf’s words to Garthfast, was reassured.  If the lads had managed to fall in with someone Gandalf trusted, they ought to be all right.

          Horto was asking, “What about the Big Men thereabouts?”

          “They’ve had their own troubles in the Breelands.  Bree was attacked, too, and the Men and Hobbits o’ Bree stood together and was able to deal with the invaders--drove them right out, those as didn’t end up dead of some farmer hittin’ him with a hoe or something like.  Some was plain Men similar to those o’ Bree, but most was odd folks indeed--ugly fellows with odd-colored eyes and skins more grey’n any right color for skin.  Most was broad and right ugly, Heldi says, muscular but more given to strikin’ blows than to planning on how those blows would be best struck.”

          Esme didn’t know whether to be frightened or not by this news.  A wary Hobbit could fairly easily avoid such folk; but if they were so brutal....

          “The other thing as Heldi’s said is that the Rangers there around Bree’s not been seen for some time, and had apparently all left just afore all these Big Men ruffians showed up.  No one knows where they went or why, but folks is beginning to talk about how no such things happened when the Rangers was about.”

 *******

          The winter had seemed interminable.  Twice they’d had word from Paladin, both times early on.  He’d received the letter Pippin had sent, and he and Eglantine were terrified as to what might be happening to the lads, and especially their son.  Things were bad--the Tooklands had been surrounded by a ring of Big Men apparently intending to starve them out.  They, too, had heard the news about Will being taken and imprisoned in the old storage holes, and the rumors that once Lotho had hold of Master, Mayor, and Thain all three he had plans to terrify all of the Shire and Buckland by what he intended to see done to them.  And if he could ever get his hands on Frodo himself--well, the tales of the various things he intended to do to his Baggins cousin didn’t bear repeating.

          Word trickled through the Marish that the Bolgers had been forced out of Budge Hall and made to live in an old storage hole that had been long abandoned as too damp for continued use, and that the folks of Bagshot Row in Hobbiton had been moved out of their own holes along the base of the Hill and into brick hovels Lotho had had erected on the site of a former common garden place for the folks living within the village who didn’t have room for their own kitchen gardens near their houses or holes.

          There weren’t more than three or four inns still open anywhere from what anyone could tell, and now there were large mobs of Shiriffs everywhere, under the orders of the Big Men.  And tales of shortages due to the actions of the Gatherers and Sharers abounded.

          Then came the word that Freddy Bolger and a group of lads, mostly from the Westfarthing, had been raiding the stores of gathered goods taken by Lotho’s folks, distributing what they took to families who’d been robbed of all by the ruffians and the looters, and that they’d been hiding out near Scary.  The news that Freddy himself had been captured and hauled off to the Lockholes came at the height of what Esme had thought of as the Dark Days.

          The skies had become increasingly oppressive as the winter had drawn to its close.  Even though the spring had officially begun, it seemed that nothing in the Shire wished to grow--trees were late to bud, and no green shoots yet rose over the carefully seeded fields and gardens.  Even the willows remained stubbornly grey-looking instead of turning pink and bright yellow with rising sap.

          To the south and east the skies were decidedly brown--not merely grey and colorless, but oppressively brown and dead-looking.  Winds seemed to blow only from that direction for weeks on end, it seemed.  One day the winds changed, and it appeared some winds from the southwest were struggling against those from the southeast; but then after two days of relative calm the easterlies resumed.

          All felt the oppression of the skies, and watched the resumed march of the brown clouds north and westward with concern--until March twenty-fifth....

 *******

          "Here, Master, you drink this, and eat that wafer of the Elven bread there.  Come on--don’t argue with me now--you need it worse’n I do."

          "Sam...."

          "Now, Master, what do you say as your Sam rides you pick-a-back, like we was home in the Shire, playin’ with the bairns?  Up you come now--almost there...."

          Esme woke with a start.  She’d merely sat down, exhausted, unable to continue with her attempt to see the Great Hall dusted, although she knew she’d done barely anything.  Liliana also sat, rubbing her forehead repeatedly with the back of her hand.  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Esmeralda, but I feel--I feel as if a weight were on me.”  She straightened, stretching her spine apparently without it bringing any relief.  “Will this brownness never end?” she suddenly spat.  “Or will the dark only grow until it covers everything?”

          Esme had heard of all going completely still before, but this was the first time she’d ever experienced it.  Suddenly she seemed to feel her heart seize in her chest, literally mid-beat; and she paused, her breath abated.  Liliana’s own eyes had widened with shock and terror, and her mouth had fallen open.  Outside the brown outriders of the clouds appeared to have overtaken the Sun at last, and all went drear and dead as the light no longer entered through the great round windows.  The few birds who’d reentered Buckland had fallen quiet around the Hall, and there seemed to be no wind near the ground.

          “The Ring is Mine!”

          She saw him--Frodo--bright and shining--his face stern, his left hand still settling the Ring he now wore on his right hand, the ragged garments he wore reweaving themselves as she watched into robes of silver, his exhausted body filled with strength unimaginable, his intelligence suddenly reawakened, his terror-filled eyes becoming steely with purpose, his will enhanced past bearing.  He was rapidly becoming far more than Frodo--and she saw the Ring he wore wreathing Its nature into a great Crown--or a mockery of a crown, one that would soon encircle Frodo’s brow--and when it did so, she knew the last of the Frodo she knew and loved so would be gone, devoured, transformed into an abomination the horror of which she couldn’t imagine.

          “No!  No, Frodo!  Don’t let It take you!  Frodo--take It off--before it’s too late!”  Esme realized she was crying out aloud, and saw the glorious, monstrous Frodo-creature of her vision turning toward her, seeming to hear her words, the humanity of him struggling to reassert itself--just before something hit him.

          Then Liliana was standing over her, and the world was moving again, and all life within Middle Earth seemed to be adding its own will to the struggle against whatever was even now seeking to settle the new order for the future.  And she felt her heartbeat resume in defiance, felt her body insist on taking that next breath, heard the sudden calling of birds and cocks, and felt a great west wind rattling the windows of the room, heard windows and doors all along the Hall protesting against it, saw the trees leaning toward the Hall, rejoicing, it seemed to bow before that wind.  There was a brilliant flash, and she realized the brown clouds were being torn asunder and the Sun shone out in transcendent glory. 

          Esme was suddenly surging to her feet, staring out those west-facing windows, seeming to see shapes standing there afar, watching the choices and actions of those who peopled the Mortal lands as if they were supremely important.

          NO!  YOU SHALL NOT HAVE HIM, BROTHER!

          Better maimed in body than crippled in spirit, advised a second voice, and she seemed to see the largest of the Western Shapes nod in agreement at the wisdom of those words.

          And she felt the echo of agony in her own right hand, near where she’d seen that Ring on Frodo’s finger....

 *******

          The spring came in now, and the seeds sprouted with a vengeance, the trees began to leaf, the blossoms were a wonder to be seen, the Brandywine teemed with fish while it seemed singing birds settled in whatever crotches would accept their nests.  In May ducks hatched out all along the river and about the margins of ponds, streams, and marshes; the Hall’s flocks and herds were marvelously increased; and the coops were filled with cheeping chicks.

          Throughout the spring and summer the not-quite-declared war against Lotho’s folks went on relentlessly; and the little word that managed to find its way over the river indicated that it was the same about the Tooklands where Took archers were beginning to take their toll of the Big Men ringing their lands.  One more message made it through from Esme’s brother--Ferdibrand Took had disappeared.  He’d tried to make it from the Great Smial to Buckland, but had been caught, and identified as being a Smial Took to the Big Men, who’d begun kicking him in the head before they dragged his still and blood-covered body off westward toward Michel Delving.  Whether or not he was still alive no one could say.

          Lysette Sackville was helping amongst the healers, and spending a good deal of time by the bed of Brendi’s father, who’d taken ill in February and was still rather weakened as April moved toward its close.  And Aldo was said to be courting her.  Esme smiled at the thought.

*******

          She watched Pippin, dressed proudly in black and particularly shining silver, walked before them, the Sword, it appeared, in his hands.  At her side walked a great and glorious figure--one out of legend, a great Light encompassing him, and beyond it she saw another, golden Light surrounding the form of Sam Gamgee, his head held proudly as he walked with joy and purpose, his face wreathed in smiles.

          When she rose that morning, the first of May, Esme went into the Master’s study and examined the Sword where it hung over the fireplace.  It was said to be ancient, given to Bucca of the Marish by the son of Arvedui Last-king himself in recognition of the courage of those Hobbits from the Shire who’d joined the war against the shadows from the north and east....  Yes, very like the sword she’d seen in the hands of Pippin in her dream.

*******

          She stood immobile in the hazel thicket, listening to the voices beyond it.

          “Garn, I thought as I’d seed some of those ratlings gone this ways.”  The voice, she thought, was easily amongst the most grating she’d ever heard.

          “I know,” another, less grating but still filled with loathful purpose, returned.  “They’re hard to catch if you lets them get into the scrub.  Best to catch them out in the open fields.”

          “I don’t know as why Sharkey wants them from this side o’ the river,” the first complained.  “Why bother?  We gots more’n enough booty that side, after all.  And it’s not like we’d be able to use’m for more’n idle sport.”

          “Baggins lived here,” the second one said.  “Nasty little sprig o’ mischief that one turned out to be.  Sharkey wants someone to trade for ’im, once he’s back.”

          “I still don’t see’s why we couldn’t do’s well with some o’ those that side.  There’s that skinny one as all’ve said as loved him once--bet as he’d give hisself up for her.”

          “But these here’s the ones as all says as he loved back.  No, if we’s to get leverage o’er ’im, it’ll be with some o’ the Bucklanders as was as family to ’im.”

          “Well, let’s go closer to that Hall o’ theirs,” suggested the first, and she saw the black shadow of his shape turn the direction of Brandy Hall--and then stop stock-still and fall, his body filled with arrows; the next moment the other broke and ran at one of the positions that must have hidden some of the archers, and then he, too, fell, an arrow taking him in the throat.

          Saradoc came crashing through the thicket toward her, sliding his bow over his arm as he ran.  “Esme!  Are you here?  Are you all right?”

          She came out into the open, and he turned her direction, sweeping her into his embrace, holding her close to him.  “I’m all right, Sara,” she murmured into his shoulder as he held her possessively to him.  “I’m all right--but it was so close!”  Other hunters were appearing out of the scrub; then Gomez and Gil between them bent to drag one of the bodies away, while Dick and Beri leaned over the second one.

 *******

          All gathered outside the Hall, watching the group of Hobbits approaching from Kingsbridge.  “It’s over!” Nilo Bridgemaster called once he was near enough to be understood.  “Our lads--they’re back!  They’ve raised the Shire, and we’re winning!  They’re back!  Merry, Peregrin Took, Sam Gamgee, and our Frodo--they’re back!  Climbed over the gate and found the key and threw that awful Bill Ferny right out, they did.  Reckon as he’s still running!”

          And suddenly the folk of Brandy Hall were shouting questions, then someone broke out in song.  Folks were running back to the Hall to fetch instruments, and then they were playing along with the song, and one song led to another.  And all clapped and cheered as the Mistress and the Master began to dance together as lithely as they ever had when young tweens at the Free Fair, many, many years past.  And as she swayed, stamped, turned and curtseyed wildly and with purpose and more energy than she’d known in years, Esme saw the same joy shining back at her from Sara’s eyes as she felt in her own heart.

Renewal

          Esme’s first glimpse of her son and her nephew after their return shook her deeply.  First, there was the fact that both of them were so much taller than they’d been when they left the Shire.  It was strange enough to see in Merry; but in Pippin, who’d been rather short even for a Hobbit before he left the Shire it seemed very strange indeed.  Now both appeared to loom over everyone else, plus both appeared to find looking down at all other Hobbits in the Shire to be somewhat unnerving.

          “You have to remember, Mum,” Merry tried to explain, “that for the past year we Hobbits have been the shortest ones around.  When Frodo and Sam awoke and we realized we were looking down on them, it took us both by surprise, for we still had to look up to Elves, Men, Ents, and even Dwarves.  I mean, Gimli was still looking down on us.  We had to have new clothes made, and we grew even some more on the way home, I think.  After all, we had another drink with Treebeard once we reached Orthanc.”

          “You’ve been with Elves, Men, and Dwarves?” she asked a bit taken aback.

          He nodded.  “Oh, yes.  We’ve met a spate of folks, even the Great Eagles, although I only saw the one up close, and I doubt seriously Frodo or Sam remember them at all.  Pippin didn’t see them, he says, although he heard others calling out when they arrived.  We’d see them from time to time flying overhead after we returned to Minas Tirith and while we were returning home--Sam said he saw one flying over the Shire just after the Battle of Bywater and a second time as we left Bag End----”

          “Did you see this Sharkey fellow?”

          “Yes, we did.”  The joy in Merry’s face had faded completely, and there was a certain sternness that made even that of which his father was capable appear benign.  “He taunted Frodo, and even tried to threaten him.  I only hope that Frodo doesn’t take that last thing he said to heart.  But then he was taunting the Lady Galadriel while we were on the road as well, and she certainly didn’t appear to be taking him seriously.”

          She was shocked.  “Then, you’ve seen him before?”

          He nodded.  “Oh, yes.  The first time was when we visited Isengard with the Ents when they threw down his fortress and trapped him in his own tower, then closer up when we went to the foot of the tower itself when Gandalf was seeking to offer him the chance to leave his alliance with Sauron, then broke his staff.  Then we passed him on the road, and the last time there at Bag End.  We saw Wormtongue kill him--it was pretty horrible.  Frodo was grief-stricken.”

          “To see him die?”

          “Oh, I don’t think that bothered him as much as Saruman refusing the offer to give him the chance for healing for his spirit.  Saruman didn’t want healing of the spirit, and treated all who offered him pity the same, even me, with contempt and curses.”

          “But to see someone murdered before ones eyes----”

          “Do you think Frodo hadn’t seen that along the way, Mum?  No, the Ring showed him that in plenty.”   Merry, grief and determination in his eyes, turned away as Berilac entered the room, calling out his name in joy.

*******

          Give him the chance to talk, and Peregrin Took would appear to be no different at all than he was before he left the Shire--voluble, filled with unexpected twists of thought, veering off onto new subjects with each new sentence.  “Oh, Aunt Esme,” he said, “if you could have seen what the cooks at Minas Tirith can come up with!  I would never have thought to stuff a great goose with a great duck with a great capon with a game hen with a partridge, but they did it!  Although I must say that Aragorn didn’t appear extraordinarily impressed.  But give him a more simple dish extraordinarily well prepared and spiced, and he would wax poetic to the cook.  And when they found he wished to teach them how to make certain dishes that he favored--the head cook was just amazed.  It was the first I truly appreciated that not all Men learn to cook, and among them women cook more than their menfolk do.  Oh, I know that when it was Boromir’s turn to cook for us along the way he could turn out some atrocious messes; but I’d put that down to simply being away from his familiar kitchen and his favorite spices.  When I found out he had no idea what borage is and couldn’t identify comfrey when we came across it....” 

          But then his speech had tapered off, and his eyes grew distant, the smile forgotten.  He murmured, “I’d promised to teach him how to prepare a capon when we reached his home, and I never got the chance.”  He drifted away to find Merry.

*******

          “Did you deliver my letter to Frodo?” she asked Merry.

          He gave a nod.  “He thanked me for it, and he sent a note back, but he’s not had a good deal of time to write much.  He feels that by insisting he serve as deputy Mayor Will has put a good deal of responsibility on his shoulders.  And after speaking to Hildebrand Took about the state of the Mayor’s office when they arrived it sounds as if Frodo’s not overstating the situation at all.  He says that the stacks of documents requiring review, registration, and filing literally were well over the head of even Isumbard, and that when Gordolac brought them in he must have used a ladder to place some of them.  Gordo admits it’s true, too.”

          “But surely he could come here for a few days....”

          “Not easily, Mum.  Sam’s insistent he not work more than four days a week, and preferably three.  But if he doesn’t work at least three days per week the job will never get done.”

          “And since when does Sam tell Frodo Baggins what to do?”

          A strange look, something akin to grief she’d have guessed, came and went across her son’s face.  “Sam’s always taken care of Frodo as Frodo needed it from the time Sam first met him when they were lads, Mum.  That’s not changed.  Realize this--if it hadn’t been for the presence of Sam at his side, Frodo wouldn’t have survived to come back.  And Frodo needs him still.”  He held out the letter Frodo’d sent by him.

*******

          “What does he look like, Sara?” she asked once he’d returned from the bathing room where he’d washed off the dirt of the road.

          “Thin--remarkably thin, even for him.”

          “And he’d only just recently begun looking a proper Hobbit, there before he left.”

          “Yes, I know.  Will and Mina say he doesn’t eat anywhere near enough.  He’s more solemn--and somewhat wary.  Yet he can laugh, and it’s as delightful as ever to hear him do it.  But there’s a worry line now between his brows, and definitely some silver in his hair, mostly beginning to show at his temples.  And before you ask, I did notice the missing finger--the ring finger of his right hand, right at the base of it.  Whoever dealt with it was skilled, for it doesn’t look particularly ugly, and it doesn’t appear to bother him much, if at all.  However, he seems to grow cold fairly easily, and rubs frequently at his left shoulder as if it aches a good deal.

          “He is still a most compassionate individual, however, and even more observant than ever.  All agree he can be moody, but that when he speaks of the new King his face lights with joy and pride.

          “You’ll recognize him easily enough, Esme--you don’t need to worry for that.”

          “But the thought of him still troubles you, Sara.”

          Saradoc looked down at the floor momentarily, then turned his eyes back to hers.  “Yes, Esme.  Whatever happened out there--it’s left him with some very painful memories.”

          “I see.”

*******

          “I’m afraid that must have seemed terribly dry,” Frodo commented once Hillie Took had finished explaining the new system for filing documents dealing with the sales of property and homes and showing the new archive room that had been excavated to further extend the Council Hole.  “Aunt Lanti was all but yawning openly.”

          Eglantine had indeed immediately retreated to the privy once the tour was over, and Esme found herself glancing in that direction automatically, but she returned her attention to his face immediately.  She shrugged.  “Actually, I found it fascinating.  Do you remember, when you were about thirteen, how you and I went through the library and reorganized it completely to make it easier for the children to find their favorite books or books on particular subjects?”

          He smiled, and she was pleased to see that the smile reached his eyes.  “How could I forget?  Uncle Dodinas and Aunt Amaranth were so upset to see any changes made.  First, it took us several days to update the catalog of books, and then another to plan what place we would put each subject.  Then there was the problem of trying to figure out where a particular book fit into the categories.”

          “Yes, and you decided that we should shelve Great Aunt Maida’s description of Great-grandmother Adamanta under animal stories because it was so catty.”

          He laughed briefly.  “I was a judgmental thing at the time.”

          “Dearling, you were only thirteen.  Actually, I thought it was quite clever, and so did you, if you’ll remember.  But you did most of the organizing, and you decided where each book should go as well.  And the only one who never agreed this was a marvelous system was Dodinas, who simply never liked things being changed about anyway.”  She looked beyond him at the new archive room.  “It appears your ability to find the best way to arrange documents is again standing you--and the entire Shire in good stead.  I salute you.”

          She could see that Frodo appreciated the praise.

          After a moment she went on, “I will admit, however, that I was more surprised by your decision to have this--this gaol built.  Yes, with the likes of Marco Smallburrow and Timono Bracegirdle around and considering the evil they helped Lotho wreak on the Shire we have need of such a thing--but I’m surprised you would agree.”

          Frodo sank, rather heavily, she thought, into a chair at one of the tables where documents to be reviewed remained stacked.  “While we were in Gondor I found myself engaging in quite a long, involved discussion on the subject with Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Prince Imrahil, Prince Faramir, Lord Halladan, and Lord Elfhelm, the emissary of Éomer King of Rohan.   That we of the Shire have historically had no means of imprisoning wrongdoers that they not flee justice or continue their evil ways was a shock to all of them.”

          “I’m afraid I don’t know who these folk are, Frodo,” she interrupted him.

          His cheeks grew somewhat pinker.  “I’m sorry--they’ve become so much a part of my life in the past year it’s hard to think those I’ve known and loved longer don’t know them also.”  He gave a small sigh.

          “Now, Aragorn, or Strider--he’s also the King Elessar, am I right?”

          He nodded, relieved he didn’t have to explain that fully.  “Yes.  He’s the direct descendant of Arvedui Last-king of Arnor and Ondoher of Gondor, the latter via Ondoher’s daughter Fíriel.  Fíriel’s brother died leaving no heirs, and Ondoher’s successor’s line also failed.  Prince Imrahil is the Lord of Dol Amroth and the province of Lebennin, while Prince Faramir is the Lord of the province of Ithilien and hereditary Steward for the realm of Gondor, as Lord Halladan has been made Steward for the realm of Arnor, succeeding his brother Halbarad.”

          “I think I understand,” she said.  “So, the princes know a similar relationship to the King to what Sara as Master of Buckland knows to the Thain.”

          “As best as I understand it, yes.  Prince Faramir and Prince Imrahil are among the highest authorities within the realm, Prince Faramir being second only to the King.  Legolas was speaking as the son of King Thranduil of the Elven kingdom of Eryn Lasgalen, Gimli as the son of one of the advisers to the king of Erebor, and Lord Elfhelm as one who has served as a commander under both King Éomer and his uncle and predecessor King Théoden.

          “All at times have needed to keep suspected malefactors safe and secure, both for the safety of the people and for their own safety, until all the facts of the case against them are made known.  Captain Madog, the warden for the prison for the Citadel of Minas Tirith, has told me that in at least one case a young woman made an unfounded accusation against an innocent young Man, and her father and brother became so incensed they sought to kill him out of hand; had he not been kept safe in the prison he could easily have died before the facts were made known, and the young woman’ lies would have made murderers of her kinsmen and neighbors.”

          “I see,” Esme said.

          “Bedro Bracegirdle has a long history of bullying that goes back many years--in one of my visits to Westhall I had the dubious privilege of observing him tormenting two children, and afterwards more stories were made known to me.  I’ve received many reports on excesses he committed as one of Lotho’s Shiriffs, and considering his history of brutish violence I truly believe the Shire needs protection from him.  Marco Smallburrow’s attempt to intimidate you and Uncle Sara was first reported to me by Brendi, and I’ve not only received additional reports of the same incident but reports from six other individuals who were threatened with the possibility of having their homes or barns or fields fired or violence against themselves or members of their families.  As for Timono--not only did he also threaten folks, but he’s already demonstrated that given the chance he would flee the Shire and justice.  You heard where and how he was found, didn’t you?”

          She nodded.  “Where he used to hide during that house party we all attended.”

          “Yes.  To be plain, Aragorn doesn’t need these self-centered fools wandering freely throughout Eriador, ready to be victimized by those worse than themselves or to help other thieves and brutes commit more crimes against others.  We’re not doing the rest of the combined realm any favors by merely marking them and showing them the bounds and turning them loose. And, unfortunately, most of those in authority outside the Shire would fail to appreciate just how dangerous to others Hobbit malefactors might be--too many mistake our small size and usual lack of ambition for childishness and thus don’t give us full respect for what we can do, both for the good and for the bad.

          “Lotho’s Big Men--now that the Rangers have returned they will recognize them for what they are--brigands and half-orcs and worse, and they will be treated appropriately.  But if we merely send the likes of Timono out of our borders, he would only end up settling in the Breelands and encouraging folk there to seek to cheat us to avenge himself against us.  He’d already planned to take the bulk of jewelry stolen in the Gathering and Sharing to sell to help buy a new life and influence out there.

          “But if we’re to have a prison here, let it be proper to our kind.  So, I had these new Lockhole cells prepared for those times they may be needed, and the Valar grant that be seldom.  And let Lobelia’s cell show what we refuse to sink to again.”

          Esme thought on the contrast of the comfortable if somewhat plain stone-lined rooms, with beds, tables, chairs, and proper facilities for hygiene and meals as opposed to the bare, dark, dank alcove into which Lobelia had been sealed with only a slot for a couple pans to be passed back and forth for toileting and food and water, and shuddered.

*******

          “That was such a wonderful ceremony, Frodo,” she commented once the banquet for Sapphira and Oderiadoc’s wedding was begun.  “Sara is so proud of how well you’ve officiated.”

          Frodo gave a slight nod, looking away to the head table where bride and groom sat together, their hands clasped, as their fathers competed to make the most elaborate toasts.  “I pray their marriage will be long and fulfilling,” he murmured.

          “Has Sam asked his Rosie yet?”

          “No--not until I’m settled back in Bag End, I fear.  Once he speaks, though, I suspect it won’t be long before they’re married--probably a matter of weeks, if I know my Sam.  Rosie’s being very patient, I must say, bless her.”

          After a moment she continued, “Merry and Pippin both say that the stories Bilbo used to tell, the ones about a magic ring that made him invisible--that they were true.  They say it was real, and that he left it to you.”

          He looked away, at the bride and groom.  His tone when he answered was noncommittal.  “Yes.  Gandalf made him leave It.”

          “Why?”

          “He thought It was changing him.”

          “Changing him?”

          Frodo shrugged, glancing briefly toward her, then away.  “Why do you think,” he asked in a low voice, “he never seemed to grow any older?  But he felt It dragging at him, seeking to remake him into a creature only of appetite and regrets--like Gollum.  It frightened him.”

          “Did you ever wear it?”

          He shook his head.  “Not before I left the Shire.  Gandalf warned me not to do so.  He didn’t know what ring It was, but was becoming suspicious of It.  He didn’t wish for It to gain power over me.  So I never wore It, but I did carry It--I carried It everywhere, in my pocket.  I had a chain made to fasten It to loops I sewed there, inside my vest pockets, to keep It from abandoning me as It did with Sméagol.”  His eyes looked very weary.  “I wish I never took It out of the envelope--that I’d never touched It at all.”

          He was again looking at the bride and groom, and she thought she could see longing there--longing for that joy he saw in their eyes for himself.  Finally she asked, “When are you going to start looking around?”

          Frodo’s expression closed immediately.  “Oh, Aunt Esme--we’ve been through this.”

          “And Merry’s confessed he thinks that--that Ring was to blame for how you found yourself reacting to the lasses, dearling.  It’s gone now, isn’t it?  Now you’re free of it, why not give yourself a chance?  There are so many who’d be thrilled if you looked at them.  Narcissa Boffin alone----”

          She stopped, seeing how tightly Frodo was squeezing his nails into the heel of his hand, and the pain reflected in his eyes.  “You don’t still react that way, do you, dearling?”

          He shook his head, looking away from her.  At last he murmured, “No, I don’t have those--urges any more; but they remain indelibly etched on my soul at this point.  And....”  He trailed off, then just sat shaking his head.  Finally he turned to look at her.  “Please, let it be, Aunt.”

          “If you wish, Frodo.”

*******

          “Mistress Esme, you’re not goin’ to try to serve him only that, are you?  Why, it’s not enough to keep body and soul together!”

          “I’m going on the recommendations of Mr. Isumbard Took, who’s worked by his side for months--he says more than this and he’ll only become ill--we’ll need to keep giving him very small amounts every half hour or so for the next day, and then go to a slightly larger meal per hour until he can tolerate a more normal amount on a more normal schedule.  I have the feeling he felt ill during his walk here, and that’s thrown his digestion into a tizzy.  He’s much paler than he was when we were at Bag End for Sam’s wedding.”

          “At least he’s back at home in his own place, and he’s back with us, he is.  I was afraid as he’d not come back at all.  No one ought to be forced to face such a wicked world as is out there.”

          Esmeralda shook her head.  “Considering what he found when he got home, it was about as wicked a place here as anywhere else he went.  But he and the others are all doing their best to see things set straight as they can, bless them for it.”

*******

          His room was empty, so she went out to the Master’s garden, then up to the top of the Hall, finding him once more sitting back against the chimney pot for the Master’s parlor.  “Can’t sleep?” she asked.

          Frodo shrugged.  “I was dreaming, and woke up--came out here fleeing the dreams, I suppose.  Fleeing them, or perhaps seeking them.  I don’t know.”

          “What were they about?”

          After a time of silence he finally answered, “Several things--looking out at the world from the fog I found myself in after I was wounded the first time; then a star--a star shining on me, guiding me.  I felt I could almost make out the shape of Vingilot and Eärendil at the helm, the Silmaril on his brow.  Then I was on the ship on the water, and the wind was singing in the rigging while from afar, beyond the curtain of rain, I could hear the singing of Elven voices and more.  I turned around and saw----”  He shook his head, his face, from what she could make out in the dim light, suddenly troubled.

          At last he continued, “Then I was there at the cove on the river, and Mummy was teaching me to swim, was telling me how if I’d just relax and feel at one with the water it would buoy me up; and then it was Gandalf, and I was an adult, and he was telling me if I’d just let go the--let go the fear I would be able to float again.  And the Voice was saying the same, telling me I could trust the water to hold me up, and my joy to support me once more.”  After another silence he added, as if to himself, “I miss my joy.”

          She somehow got the feeling he’d not realized he’d said that last aloud.  Finally she asked, “There, in the King’s city, did you ever wish you could go and lie out under the stars?”

          He nodded.  “I’d often go, sometimes with Sam, to the gardens for the Houses of Healing, and sit there near the herb garden and watch the stars for most of the night.  Now and then I’d go up to visit the White Tree--it’s such a beautiful tree, as beautiful in its way as the mallorn that’s growing in the Party Field--and often Aragorn would join me there.  He often had difficulty sleeping at night, especially before the arrival of the Lady Arwen.  We’d talk and walk about the gardens, and he’d lean on the wall looking down on the lower levels of the city and he’d smoke his pipe.”

          “He smokes pipeweed?”

          He nodded again.  “He was born and raised here in Eriador, and we Hobbits have managed to pass our own love of smoking to Dwarves and Men all throughout the northern lands.”

          “I don’t think I’ve seen you smoke since you returned.”

          He shrugged, rose, and looked off westward, leaning on the chimney pot.  She rose and came to stand beside him, looking across the width of the lands given Hobbits by Argeleb the Second.

          “It looks so peaceful,” she sighed.  “Hard to believe a few months ago we were besieged by Lotho’s folks.”

          “I know.”  His face was thoughtful.  “One evening as we stood looking out over the Pelennor Aragorn and Pippin and Gandalf were telling me what it looked like when the Enemy’s forces filled it with his troops and the Oliphaunts and his weapons of war and siege engines.  It was so quiet and peaceful--oh, you could hear singing from an inn down in the Fifth Circle, and now and then a bark from the dog who lived in the house there by the ramp up to the level of the Citadel; and once I heard a Guardsman singing a marching song as he came up from the barracks in the Sixth Circle to take up his duty.  Trying to imagine the smoke and chaos only three months earlier, and the fires in the lower city and the crashing of the Enemy’s great ram upon the great gates--it seemed so ludicrous that Aragorn and I could now attend the birth of a child in a city so recently under such attack and over which they swooped on those horrid beasts they now rode.”

          “They?” she asked.

          His answer again was delayed.  “The Black Riders.  They went back to him, and he gave them these--these beasts to ride--like a cross between great bats and lizards, huge beyond imagining.  Bilbo says that from their description they were not dragons, but some great dumb beast such as oliphaunts are.”

          “What was it like in Mordor?”  She wasn’t certain what possessed her to ask--but they’d all said that Frodo had been to Mordor, and she wanted to get a feel for this place that appeared to have changed him so.

          “Drear.  Very drear.  Dry, and dusty, and--and the air was difficult to breathe.  Rocks and ash and dust; old campfires from when his armies camped near the pass from Minas Morgul; fouled places.  But I don’t remember a lot of it--so much of it was the same--rocky and dead--there’s not a good deal special about it to remember, I suppose.”

          Then she couldn’t keep the question inside:  “Why you, Frodo?  Why did you and Sam have to be the ones to go there?”

          When his answer finally came it was so soft she barely heard it.  “I chose to go.  I couldn’t bear even then to let another take It from me.  I couldn’t bear to think of another touching It.  And I could feel It--what It was doing to----”  He didn’t go on.

          She had no idea what he was speaking of.

          They remained in silence for over an hour, and at last she took his hand.  “Come inside and eat a bit more, sweetling, and see if you can get some more rest.”

          He looked at her, and she seemed to see the face of the young Hobbit who’d just learned he’d lost his parents, searching her own face for the answers that never truly came.

*******

          “Why didn’t he accept the nomination to serve as Mayor?” Eglantine demanded of her husband as she paced the private parlor of the Thain in the Great Smial.  “What happened?”

          Pal shook his head.  “How am I to know, Lanti?” he asked.  “Frodo hardly ever speaks of himself.  But I was certain he’d stand up and accept the nomination, too.  To have him announce that he was giving the responsibility back to Will----”  He continued to shake his head, looking toward Saradoc.

          Sara had accepted a glass of brandy, and took a sip before he shrugged, setting the glass on the table by him.  “He barely speaks of himself at all, and I haven’t the slightest idea as to what’s going through his head any more.  However, I doubt he’d have given over the job if he didn’t believe he had good reason.  It’s simply not like Frodo to just do something on a whim.

          “Except to drag our lads off on a particularly dangerous adventure with no word,” muttered Pal as he lifted his own glass.

          “You said that you got the letter Pippin sent you,” Sara said, suddenly stern.

          “Well, yes, but you can’t convince me that the lad decided to go without discussing it with Frodo.”

          “Well, that’s what Merry and Pippin have both told us, that they’d decided to go without discussing it with him at all--that they didn’t spring it on him that they knew what he was planning on doing and why until that one night they spent in Crickhollow.  And Frodo and Sam say the same--that Frodo hadn’t intended to take anyone with him at the beginning, and wouldn’t have agreed to take Sam if Gandalf hadn’t insisted.”

          “Frodo certainly behaved irresponsibly, selling Bag End to Lotho!”

          “How was anyone who wasn’t close to Lotho to have any idea what he’d planned?” Esme asked, exasperated with her brother.  “Be reasonable, Paladin Took!  I doubt anyone other than Timono and Marco Smallburrow and perhaps Ted Sandyman had any idea of Lotho’s plans ahead of time.  And I’ll bet that they didn’t know all of it.  That idea of capturing Thain, Master, and Mayor and making examples of the three of you, whatever that meant, I suspect came to him only after he realized you Tooks and we Brandybucks refused to allow his folk into our own lands.  Nor do I think he had any plans for Frodo until after he realized he’d not been made Baggins family head.  I’ll bet that’s why he targeted Ponto and Iris so with that Gathering and Sharing--because he knew that Ponto was the most appropriate one to be named that should Frodo fail to return.”

          There was a knock at the door, and Isumbard and Pearl entered, followed by Ferdibrand and Pimpernel.  Bard sprawled in an armchair, his handsome face troubled.  Ferdi, who sat beside his wife on one of the narrower sofas, merely looked thoughtful, while the two sisters both appeared sad.

          “I was afraid he might not agree to run in the end,” Bard said.  “He’s been pretty thoughtful for the past few weeks.”

          “Did he discuss it with you, Hillie, or Tolly?” asked Paladin.

          Bard raised his eyebrows and gave a brief shake of his head.  “No--I fear Frodo Baggins isn’t much of the confiding type any more--not that he ever talked that much about personal matters.”

          Pimpernel asked, “But why didn’t he say he didn’t want the job weeks ago, instead of allowing Will to do all that talking with everyone as he has?”

          Bard shrugged.  “I don’t think he’d fully made up his mind until the last minute.  Although he’s found a good deal about the job to be stressful, yet he’s also found a degree of satisfaction to it, managing to find ways to make a difference for folks and carefully following the trail of Lotho and Timono’s activities.”

          Ferdi commented, “Has Frodo been well lately?”

          Bard thought for a moment.  “He’s not appeared to have much wrong with his digestion in the past few weeks.  Indeed, he’s been eating rather well compared to the times his stomach has been decidedly off.”

          Esme considered his words for several minutes.  “That’s good, for after Sam and Rosie’s wedding he seemed able to handle only very small amounts at a time.”  She looked toward where Ferdi sat.  “Why did you ask if he’s been well lately?”

          Ferdibrand was rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.  “Well, considering it’s Frodo we’re speaking of, I can think of only one reason why he might decide at the last minute not to pursue becoming Mayor in his own right.”

          “Which is?” asked Paladin.

          It took the blind Hobbit a moment to decide to answer.  “If he were to realize there was a good chance he might not be able to fill an entire term in office.”

          “You think his health is impaired?” asked Esme, her heart beating fast.

          “Consider, Cousin Esme,” Ferdi suggested.  “One, he cannot eat normally much of the time.  Two, although none of them speak of it, he’s not smoked any that I’m aware of since his return--I’ve not smelled it on his clothing or his hair any of the times I’ve been about him, and the others, when they do smoke, always do so where the smoke won’t blow on him, as if this is something they’ve accepted as needful.  Three, he’s not only thinner than he was when he left--well, from what folks tell me they were all four thinner when they returned than they were before they left, although none of them like him; but where they’ve either developed muscle or have begun to put it back on again, Frodo hasn’t, and, from what I saw of him at Sam’s wedding, had lost even more compared to what he looked like when he was here in the Great Smial the last time.  Four, all tell me that he seems to rub a good deal at that left shoulder of his, and Pimmie tells me she’s seen grimaces of pain when he didn’t realize anyone was looking.  Five, there are times when he gets downright snappish, which certainly wasn’t true of the Frodo Baggins I remember.  Six, he doesn’t dance now, and when I saw him at Yule he told Estella he didn’t have the stamina for it any more.

          “Now, you tell me what you think about the state of his health.”

          “And he had a bandage on the back of his neck again, there at the Free Fair,” Bard added.  When the others all looked at him in question he shrugged as he poured himself and his wife each a glass of wine.  “It’s happened at least once before, in March or April, I think.  Merry came in quietly and was demanding to know why Frodo hadn’t told him it had happened again--why he hadn’t admitted he was going through another bad patch.”  He looked at Pimpernel and Ferdi.  “Would you two like some wine or brandy?” he asked.  “And there are some deviled eggs to your left, Ferdi.”

          “Wine for me, please.  You were listening in?” Ferdi asked as he located the plate of eggs and carefully took one of them.

          “I’m not exactly deaf, and I wasn’t too far from the Mayor’s desk, after all.  Pimmie?”

          “You’re not even going to ask me?” Pearl asked with a twinkle in her eye.  But as she looked back to her aunt all thought of humor fled.  “It’s not fair, that he should have to have ill health,” she sighed.  “He always tries so hard to make things good for everyone else.”

          Sara gave her a slight nod as he took another sip of his brandy.  “Will is devastated.  Feels Frodo’s the best thing the Shire’s known in centuries.”

*******

          Esme looked at the letter she’d just finished writing.  She wasn’t certain she ought to post it, much less how soon she might expect an answer--or even if she should expect a response to it at all.  However, she felt she needed to at least try, for the request never made is not likely to be answered at all, she knew.  One last time she read it through.

August 14, 1420 S.R.

From Esmeralda Took Brandybuck, Mistress of Brandy Hall

To Lady Arwen Evenstar, Queen of Arnor and Gondor

Dear My Lady Arwen,

          You do not know me, of course, although I must suppose you have heard at least my name given you.  I am the mother of Meriadoc Brandybuck, whom you know as a knight of Rohan, I understand, and as one of your husband’s former companions during their long journey to the Southlands.  I also am second cousin to Frodo Baggins, who I understand bears the title of “the Ringbearer,” although I confess that I do not fully appreciate what that entails.  I am told that among other things he traveled to Mordor, of which he has spoken freely only once, when he told me it was dark, drear, and full of ash.

          It is due to Frodo that I am writing at all.  You see, after the death of his parents my husband and I served as his first foster parents, and certainly I think of him as being as much mine as is Merry, for all I continue to love and honor the memory of Primula and Drogo.  Both were very dear cousins to me in spite of the fact I was several years younger than both; they supported Saradoc and me when we were courting and attended our wedding, and comforted me when I lost the bairns I carried first.  It was an honor to be asked to accept their son as our fosterling, and both Sara and I tried to do well by Frodo while he lived with us.

          At the time his parents died, it became known to us that Frodo’s heart had a whispering to it, and my husband's mother, who had training in the healing arts and was herself a competent and experienced midwife, feared for his health--perhaps too much so.  In the winter especially, seeking to protect him, she forbade him to take part in any endeavor that might cause him to overexert himself, and he did not respond well to such precautions.  Over time he grew increasingly pale and listless, slowly losing his hope and natural joy.  At last our mutual cousin Bilbo Baggins exercised his right and duty to provide for his best welfare and took him to Bag End to become his ward, protégé, and adopted heir, and we saw our beloved lad returning from the ashes.  Again he began to smile, to thrive, to bloom before our eyes.

          Now he has returned to us, but in many ways it is as if I were seeing him in the years when he began failing before.  He seeks ever to honor his duty and responsibilities; but the ability to embrace joy appears to have been mostly withdrawn from him.  And, although he will not admit to it, it appears his health is indeed affected and that he knows a good deal of discomfort.

          Is there anything that I should know, or that I could do to help him recover?  I love him dearly, and Merry, if possible, loves him the more as the older brother he’s adored all his life.

          Thank you for your patience in reading this.  I just thought that as a woman who has seen and reportedly honors our Frodo as much as we do, or at least so Merry, Pippin, and Frodo have all reported, I hoped you could perhaps help shed light on the situation and help me to support Frodo as I can.  It would be such a grief to all of us should we lose him.

Yours ever with greatest respect,

Esmeralda Took Brandybuck

          She reread this missive twice more, and finally folded it and stuffed it hastily into the envelope she’d already addressed:

To our Lady Queen Arwen

The Citadel of Minas Tirith

Gondor

The South Kingdom

          She forced herself to apply the sealing wax and impressed it with her personal signet of a key, then, fetching her bonnet and a light shawl, set out to the stables to see her pony saddled for a ride to the Brandywine Bridge.  There she entrusted it to one of the Bounders on duty to be given to the King’s messenger when he came.

*******

          She awoke early the morning after Frodo’s fifty-second birthday, and wandered into Bag End’s kitchen to see to preparing first breakfast.  She found she enjoyed those times she found herself in a private dwelling where there was a kitchen adequate for a single person to work rather than trying to cook a small meal for consumption by her family and private guests in the midst of the kitchen staff preparing food sufficient to feed the greater part of the residents of Brandy Hall.

          The fire had already been stoked and built up sufficiently the stove would soon be ready to begin cooking, so she set out to explore the cool room and larders, soon gathering enough for all who’d stayed the night.  She was cracking eggs when the door from the garden opened and Frodo entered.

          “You’re up already?” she asked.

          He shrugged as he slipped his cloak off and draped it over his chair at the table.  “I never quite got back to sleep last night,” he admitted.  “Once the storm was over I decided to go up atop the Hill and watch the sunrise.  It was very lovely--a gentle one indeed.”

          “You’ve always loved watching the sun rise and set,” she noted as she cracked the last two eggs into the largest bowl she’d found and began whipping them.  “Would you mind preparing some cheese and ham to be stirred into the eggs, dearling?”

          “Gladly,” he responded.  He fetched a small knife and a cutting board, and sat at the table to begin slicing from the slab of cheese she handed him.  She watched him for a few minutes, realizing she was this time indeed seeing the gap where his finger was now missing.  It wasn’t a particularly ugly wound, she thought, and although his grip on the knife was different from what she remembered he handled it deftly enough.  Finally she asked in as casual a tone as she could manage, “Who was it who closed the wound after your finger was lost?”

          He paused, and his face went pale, although his cheeks reddened.  She could tell he had to force himself to continuing his work.  “Aragorn, or so I understand.”  His voice, when he at last answered, was as studiously casual as her own, she decided.

          “I see.  He appears to be a skillful healer and surgeon.”

          “Yes.  Lord Elrond and his twin sons, all of whom have inherited the gift of healing common to the descendants of Eärendil, saw to it his own healing gift was fully trained and supported by whatever skills they might give him.”

          “Was it difficult to--to do things with your right hand--afterwards?”

          “For a time.  I had to practice to learn to write and draw again, and Aragorn came to our guest house, or would send one of his Elven brothers, to see to it I learned how to wield a knife and other utensils in the kitchen again, as he knew that as a Hobbit I should suffer greatly should I have to depend solely on others to prepare food for me.”  He sighed.  “He would watch me at meals and advise me how to adjust my grip to compensate for the missing finger or to keep from bumping handles against the scar during the time it was especially sensitive.  Is this enough for all of us, do you think?”

          “I think but two more slices as thick as you did the first two.  I’m grateful he offered you such caring, best beloved.”

          “So am I,” he murmured as he prepared to cut the amount she’d suggested.  She was measuring out sufficient softened butter to mix with the flour and other ingredients to make scones.  “I’ve come so to love and honor him as a friend and companion and guide, and then as King as well.  That he was able to continue to devote time to us as well as to serve the people of both Gondor and Arnor as well as he did was something I’d never have believed possible if I hadn’t seen it day after day.  He has to be the most competent mortal I’ve ever met.”

          “No more so than you, I’d wager, Frodo Baggins,” she responded.

          He looked up to meet her eyes.  “I doubt Odo Proudfoot agrees with you.”

          She shrugged dismissively.  “Odo Proudfoot has made a habit of disagreeing with everyone for years.  Do you think I take his opinion seriously, Frodo?”

          He gave her a small smile, then a chuckle.  “You are right.  If you exclaimed how blue the sky was he would find the one small cloudlet to be seen to comment on to suggest it was ready to rain.”  Having finished with the cheese he set down the knife and handed the cutting board to her; she poured the cheese into the bowl and set the small ham she’d brought on it and handed it back.

          She asked as she stirred the cheese into the eggs, “How did you come to meet the Man who is now King?”

          “He saw us come out of the Old Forest onto the Road, heading for Bree, and followed us there.”

          “Then, he’s the one who was Gandalf’s friend Strider?”

          He paused and looked at her, obviously surprised.  “How did you learn that?”

          “Farmer Maggot spoke of him, Gandalf named him to Garthfast when he came through in search of you, and one of Mayberry’s cousins from Bree commented you’d taken up with the Ranger Strider when he slipped into the Shire to assure himself she was well, considering what rumors were reaching there.”

          “And what does Farmer Maggot know about Aragorn by any of his various names and titles?”

          “He has so many?”

          He grinned and nodded.  “I think I’ve counted about twenty so far.  He’s very close to ninety years old now, which is very old for common Men, although as the Dúnadan he tells me he can expect to live at least at least another century; and he’s wandered through many lands and accepted whatever names and titles they’ve given him here and there.”  He considered for a moment.  “I still must wonder how it is that Maggot knew we’d been followed by him before he introduced himself to us at the Prancing Pony.”

          “He said his friend found you and got you out of a spot of trouble, although he understood it wasn’t too serious, and that after you stayed with him a couple nights you managed to protect the others from another, more serious danger.”

          His mouth had opened slightly with surprise, and she got the distinct feeling he wasn’t certain whether to be amused or appalled.  “Old Man Willow--but a spot of trouble?  Sweet Yavanna--only Tom could consider that one but a spot of trouble!  Well, he did indicate he was familiar with Farmer Maggot after all.  But he’d indicated he wouldn’t be going far from his home again until spring, when he comes along the Withywindle to gather bulbs and flowers of water lilies for his wife Goldberry.”

          “She sent him to speak with Maggot--she apparently felt we should know you four were all right when you left them.”

          He gave a nod as he turned his attention back to the ham he was cutting into small cubes.

          “I’m glad you weren’t left with no word whatsoever,” he murmured.  “You must have worried.”

          “Oh, yes, we did.”

          As she accepted the cutting board back and stirred the ham also into the eggs Sam came out, settling his second brace’s strap over his shoulder as he yawned.  “Mornin’, Mr. Frodo, Mistress Esmeralda,” he said.

          “Good morning, Mr. Samwise,” Frodo responded, a gentle smile on his face.

          Sam gave him a thoughtful look.  “Did you get any sleep last night?”

          “Not a good deal--but then, that’s not unusual.”

          “Not with a storm comin’ on,” agreed Sam.  “Let me do that, Mistress.”

          “No, I have it,” Esme said.  “Why don’t you set the table?  Did you have more of that brambleberry jam you and Rosie put up?”

          “Wish we had some of the cherry preserves Aragorn helped us with in Minas Tirith,” Frodo said.

          “They was good, wasn’t they, Master?” Sam answered.  His expression was somewhat bemused.  “Wonder if’n he knows as yet as we’re expecting?” he said.  “What with his gift o’ foresight and all.”  He looked at Frodo and grinned.  “Just think--I’m goin’ to be a dad, and Rosie a mum as of the spring.  And you’ll have a nephew--or maybe a niece--one as’ll always love you as Uncle Frodo.”

          “I look forward to the day this one will address Aragorn as ‘Uncle Strider.’  Now, that will be a wonderful thing to hear and to see him respond to.”

          Sam laughed outright.  But when he went off toward the bedroom with a mug of tea and some dry toast for Rosie, Esme could see the look of longing Frodo didn’t manage to mask.

*******

6th October, second year of the Fourth Age by the King’s Reckoning

To our esteemed Mistress Esmeralda Took Brandybuck, Mistress of Brandy Hall:

          I send you greetings from the White City of Gondor and the household of my husband, who serves the lands of Gondor and Arnor as King. 

          I have heard far more of you than but your name. Mistress, for all of the Hobbits currently of my acquaintance, from Master Bilbo to young Peregrin Took, have spoken highly of you, of your integrity, and your love and caring expressed toward the younglings entrusted to you since you came to maturity.  Certainly our so well beloved Frodo Baggins has fond and joyous memories of his time as your ward when he was a child and youth, although there is no question that in the end it was best he came under the care of Master Bilbo when and as he did.

          Unfortunately I cannot tell you all that you wish to know, for it has been requested of us by Frodo we not share all there is to know of him with others.  We have found him to be an exceedingly private individual, and particularly concerning matters that he feels may disturb those he loves or that he fears will not be fully understood and appreciated by others.

          Merry and Pippin have both informed us that they have sought to tell your family and that of the Tooks the nature of the quest--that it was learned the gold Ring found by Master Bilbo during his own adventure was in fact the One Ring wrought and lost so long ago by the Dark Lord himself, filled with his evil nature and purpose; and that it was necessary to send It to Its destruction in the heart of the Enemy’s own land.

          The changes you see in your son and in the other three are the results of the journey made, the sacrifices offered, the benefits received.  Each has, in his own way, faced the evil of Mordor and its dread Master and has prevailed, but not without cost.  Each came at least within sight of the Gates of Death and was called back to this life by the power and authority granted to the King, and each has grown mightily in wisdom, compassion, and purpose as a result of his experience.  But know this--that none of them came through his ordeal unscathed.  Each bears his own scars on body and soul; but not all scars truly heal.

          You ask what you can do for Frodo.  You can do no more than you did before--to love him both in the cherishing and in the letting go.

          Know this--at my birth a Gift was offered me, one I might accept at any time.  However, in accepting my own Hope to me, I have sacrificed the promise of that Gift for my own benefit; but I begged to be allowed to offer it on to Frodo for his fulfillment.  He has been advised the Gift is now offered him, and if he wishes he may seek and receive it.  There is, however, a cost to be borne in the acceptance of it, and he still contemplates that cost and weighs it in his heart.  However, it has long been said among my people that a sacrifice truly offered is never lost or consumed or destroyed, but fulfilled; and so we know hope that in time our beloved Frodo will find again his capacity for joy renewed.

          It has also been said that in the case of those who have been given much, much is expected of them in return; and the more they have been given the more responsibility they will know.  In the end, however, they will find each sacrifice made, no matter how great, no matter how small and insignificant, will be found to be worth it.  So we pray it will prove with Frodo and Samwise even as my beloved husband now knows.

          Convey my deep respect to each of our four, and may you come to fully appreciate how full worthy of honor each has proven himself.

Yours under the Valar,

Arwen daughter of Elrond and Celebrían,

now Queen of Arnor and Gondor

*******

          “I still don’t understand why you decided to celebrate your birthday in July--you were born in June!”

          Merry sat over her bed, holding her hand.  “But I was so sick that whole week of my birthday, and Pippin had to call off the party.  So we’re going to celebrate it next week instead, and even Frodo has agreed to come.”

          Esme found herself coughing mightily, finally managing to clear out a great wad of phlegm.  Once she was able to speak she asked, “Are you certain it’s wise, dearling?  He looked so ill when we saw him at the Free Fair.”

          “Sam says he has apparently rallied fully and insists he will come.”

          Sara, sitting opposite his son, blew his nose.  “Well, you make certain that you don’t bring Frodo anywhere near here while this summer cold it making the rounds of the Hall.  But will he sleep happily there in Crickhollow?  Seems to me he was refusing to stay there before.”

          “We’ve changed bedrooms--he won’t be in one they entered before.  And it has a blanket for the bed woven by the Elves that arrived a few days ago--he ought to find that helps counter any lingering effect from the Black Riders.  I certainly find the one they sent for me comforting.  And we’ll certainly be watching how much he eats and drinks.”

          Esme lifted her handkerchief to block a sneeze.  “Well, it sounds as if you’ve done all you can do.”

          “Other than the fact he won’t be able to make over little Elanor for several days, he ought to be perfectly content and taken care of.”

*******

          As the coach drew up in front of the Hall, Esme looked on the inviting front door with pleasure and relief.  “We’re home, Mantha,” she said to her companion.

          “Never again,” Adamanta vowed as she gathered her things, “will I agree to travel to the Southfarthing in summer on such short notice, particularly when I’m just recovering from a cold.  It’s been a most miserable trip, Esme.”

          Esme nodded as she stowed the woolwork she’d been doing as they traveled back in her bag.  “I must agree.  I wonder if Sara’s back from Bree as yet.”

          The door was opening, but it wasn’t Sara who came out but instead Merimac, hurrying to the coach, calling greetings to his son on the box as he came, then was opening the door and pulling out the stool that served as a step for those who rode inside.  Mantha exited first, accepting her husband’s embrace and hearty kiss of welcome, then turned to accept the hampers Esme was passing out.  “So,” Mac asked, “how are Phlox and her new son?”

          “Doing very well indeed.  And it’s another child born golden-haired, if you’ll believe it.  She is so relieved and happy to have a child born alive this time!  As for Resco--you’d think he’d carried that child instead of her!  And he’s constantly counting its fingers and toes as if making certain none have gone missing in the past ten minutes or so.”

          They all laughed.  “And the two of you haven’t been further sick?”

          “No--other than the discomfort of riding in the coach when it’s been so deucedly warm, we’ve been well enough.  I’m glad that the worst of the heat was over before we left the Hall, though.  Any news here?”

          “Well, other than the fact Frodo turned up in a trap he rented from the Green Dragon a few days back----”  Mac had no chance to finish.

          “Frodo?  Back here in Buckland again, and so soon?  But the last I heard was that he was all but prostrated from the ride from Crickhollow to Budgeford.”

          “So he admits.  But he says he had business that came up suddenly that he must see to, and he spent much of yesterday conferring with Brendi.”

          “How does he look, Mac?”

          Mac sighed.  “It’s  hard to tell.  Thin as ever, but he has that stubborn Baggins expression to him.”

          “I see.”  She stood still for a moment, then asked, “Where is he now?”

          “In his room, I believe.”

          She thanked him and went on the Master’s quarters and saw her luggage put away, then into the Heir’s apartments and peered into Frodo’s room there, and found he was sitting as he’d often sat as a young Hobbit, looking rather obliquely out at the world, his face sad.  “Frodo?”

          He turned, obviously startled.  “Aunt Esme?  I thought you weren’t to be home until tomorrow.”

          She smiled.  “We traveled more quickly than we’d planned, and didn’t stay in Stock.  What brought you back to Buckland so soon?”

          “Business,” he answered.  “Unfortunately, I must leave today.”

          “You weren’t planning on staying to see us?”

          “I’m sorry,” he said, looking away.  “I’d thought to go straight back, but decided to--to revisit some of my old haunts.  It’s so long since I saw so many of them.  I wish I’d come earlier in the summer.  There used to be a dingle, not far from Haygate Farm, that was full of woods violets each May.”

          “Yes, I remember it, also.  I found one of your drawing sticks that Bilbo gave you there once.  I found the dingle, and thought how you would have loved the place, then saw the stick on the ground and knew you’d seen it already.”

          He was looking at her, smiling gently.  “The youngest daughter, there on the farm, she used to love it, too.  I’d find her there, sometimes, and she’d tell me about the stories she made up about how the fairies loved the place, and once she was pretending I was the prince of the fairies, and wove me a crown of violets to wear.  She was a very sweet lass, I remember--she must have been about eleven the last time I saw her there.  I remember seeing her here again after Bilbo left, at one of the spring festivals.  I don’t think she remembered me at all--she only had eyes for Berilac.”

          They shared a soft laugh, and his expression as he looked back out the window was less sad.  He became pensive.  “For all the grief I’ve known here at times, there was so much joy here, too, and I found so much beauty to rejoice in.”

          “I was thinking of going down to the river to wade out in the water the way I used to do.  Would you come with me?”

          “That’s right--one way you never truly became a Bucklander--you’ve never been at home in the water as one born by the river.”

          She shrugged slightly, smiling ruefully.  “You’re right there--even Pippin is more at ease than I am in it.  But you didn’t answer me.”

          He shook his head.  “No, I’m not up to swimming right now.”

          “Beldir and Markos both used to swear it was among the best exercises for you, Frodo--that and walking.”

          The last vestiges of a smile fled, and his face was sad again.  “I used to love to swim.”

          “And you used to love to dance as well.  You inherited so much of the Baggins grace at dancing, and in movement altogether.  Bilbo was always more of a Took than you in looks and the ability of his mind to slide from subject to subject; but he inherited the dancing, too.  Between him and Drogo it was only to be expected, I suppose, that you were among the most celebrated of dancers ever.”

          “Until I couldn’t see the lasses any more.”  His tone was now regretful.

          “Well, let’s not remain here, dearling--come with me, down to the parlor for a proper chat.  I’m just glad you didn’t catch that horrid cold I was suffering from when you came for Merry’s party.  And it’s good you didn’t see him on his real birthday--it was all he could do not to say ‘Thag you bery much’ as we brought him some cake, and no one wished him to blow out the candles himself.”

          He smiled again softly as he rose and let her take his hand and draw him out of his childhood room.

*******

September 18

Whitfurrow

Dearling, we stopped here last night as we drove eastward toward Buckland, and I’ve found I can’t truly sleep.  Oh, Frodo, how much I love you, and how I fear to lose you once more.  But I recognize you need so much more than I can give you--than it appears the entire Shire can give you.  I almost wish that you’d chosen to remain in the King’s city that you might have remained by your Aragorn’s side and known his caring and his skill as a healer.  It is obvious from the letters we’ve had from him and from his lady wife that they care most deeply for you and grieve at how far from them you must be.

          Just remember, my so beloved oldest lad, no matter what happens or where you must wander in spirit or body, we will never cease loving you.  You will always be our little Frodo--the one who greeted us in joy, who used to send those looking for Sara and me off in different directions so we might have a few more minutes of privacy to be certain of our love for one another, who carried the flowers for our wedding, who made us proud as you swam and ran, who could light up a room simply by smiling.  You were the one who saw to it our Merry was properly greeted into this world and that he became a proper Bucklander, feeling as free and confident in the water as you yourself.  You’ve always brought out the best in all who came near you and opened themselves to your warmth and the sheer Light of you.

          We are so very proud of you, Frodo Baggins--so very, very proud of you, no matter what you might think of yourself.  And we thank you for telling us what Merry’s not been able to say, for it will help us as we prepare to learn the rest he can and must tell us that he can more fully heal.

          I love you so much, my sweet one, and how much I feel that your mum and dad love you, too, and are shining with pride at your accomplishments.  Just remember, dearling, we will always be here for you, and our love will always be there for you to touch, even when we must be far apart.

          The Queen has told me that she had begged a gift for you, one that had once been hers to claim but that she turned from as she accepted her own Hope, or so she put it.  If it can help you find your joy again, Frodo, I beg you to accept it.  We almost let you fade before.  Don’t allow yourself to fade now, stubbornly forcing yourself to be the Baggins of Bag End when first you must be your own Frodo.

          And if, as I suspect, it’s Bilbo you’ll see on your birthday, give the old dear a kiss from me, please, and tell him how very glad I am he overrode Mother Gilda so long ago.

My love always,

your second Mum

           Frodo read the letter he’d received that morning once more, and a tear rolled down his pale cheek as he folded it carefully.  Almost he packed it in his saddlebags, but at the last moment he changed his mind, and stowed it in his waistcoat pocket, the one in which he used to carry a small gold Ring.  This he would keep by him as he went aboard the grey ship prepared for his own renewal.

Epilogue

            After eating a light luncheon, Esmeralda Brandybuck, Dowager Mistress of Brandy Hall, sat in her favorite chair in the Master’s parlor, taking her granddaughter Melody onto her lap.  “And what would you wish right now?” she asked the faunt.  “A story?  A poem?  A song?”

            At that moment the door opened and Melody’s older brother Periadoc led his mother into the room.  “Gramma,” he said, “may we look in this box and will you tell us about it?  Mummy looked inside and says she’s certain it has things about Uncle Frodo in it.”  He was pointing at the small chest, carefully mended long ago, that Estella carried rather tenderly in her arms.

            Melody looked at it with interest.  Uncle Frodo was but a name to her, but a name spoken ever in reverence and with signs of grief.  That he’d been real enough to leave behind things needing to be kept in a box--that was exciting.  Esme looked down into her face and noted how pink her cheeks had become, and thought how that trait so brought to mind the one to whom this chest had belonged.  She looked up to meet Estella’s eyes, and realized that the thought of examining reminders of Frodo both disturbed and excited her, too.  Her brother Freddy had been so close to Frodo for a long time himself, after all, and she’d often been part of visits and games and parties over the years.  But Esme was experienced enough to know that some such memories needed a bit of prodding to open them briefly that the hurt might escape and the good memories remain, so she decided to chance it.  “All right,” she said.  “I’ll have your mummy open it and hand me one thing at a time, and we’ll look at it and talk about it some.  Then we’ll set it aside and look at the next thing.  Is that all right?”

            Perry looked up questioningly at Melody in Gramma’s lap, then nodded.  “Yes, let’s.”

            “First, the chest itself,” Esme began.  “Uncle Frodo’s dad made that years ago for Frodo’s mum to put the family silver in.  It used to hold two crystal steins from Erebor, the Dwarf kingdom under the Lonely Mountain, with silver tops.  Cousin Bilbo, who went to Erebor twice, once on his own adventure and once to visit afterwards, said they weren’t much compared to things he’d seen the Dwarves there make for themselves, and were designed merely as trade goods.  But Cousin Drogo loved them and treasured them.  However, they were stolen some time after he and Cousin Primula died, before we went to bring most of their things back here to keep for Frodo.  We kept the chest, and Frodo used to keep it in his room to store important papers and letters in until after his things were moved to Crickhollow and the Black Riders broke in the door, when we found that chest cut apart.  Your dad says it was cleaved with a heavy sword; and the papers were all torn and scattered throughout the room.”

            “With a sword like Dad’s sword there?” asked Perry, pointing at where Merry’s sword hung above the mantel.  “Or like the Sword in his office?”

            “Like neither,” his father answered from where he had paused in the doorway to listen.  “It was cleaved by a great blade at least as long as that carried by the King, if not as ancient or shining or blessed.  The Nazgul were Big Folk, after all.”  He entered the room, closing the door behind him, and settled himself on the hearthrug, lifting Perry into his lap.  “So, you’ve kept that over the years, did you?  I’d wondered where it got to.”

            “Sara had it repaired for Frodo, but Frodo wouldn’t have it back, not with the further reminder of that visit by the Black Riders.”

            Merry nodded.  “Neither of us responded well to such reminders for years,” he said softly.

            “Why did they cleave it?” asked Perry.

            “I suppose frustration because he wasn’t there and they wanted to take out their anger on someone or something--so the poor box was cleaved instead of someone’s head.”

            At Esme’s nod Estella opened the box, and carefully extracting a folded throw she handed it to her mother-in-love.  “Frodo’s mum Primula made this for him when he was a babe in arms, and he’d sleep with it when he was little.  See the dragonfly on it?  He took the dragonfly as his own signature sign for his art work when he was older.  And that silver cup there--that was the bairn cup Bilbo had his Dwarf friends make for him to give as a birthing gift.  There’s Frodo’s name in several scripts, in the runes used by the Dwarves and in Tengwar script used by the Elves and in Westron.”

            “In Tengwar it says Iorhael, which is his name in Sindarin,” Merry explained as he accepted the cup and presented it to his son to examine.

            Perry smiled as he nodded, running his finger along the inscriptions.

            Slowly each item was removed--a spinning top and a fetch back and a jack-on-a-stick carved by Frodo’s father; a Ranger on a horse that Merry, examining it now, was certain was patterned after the Ranger chieftain Strider who was now King.  There was a Naming-day garment; a golden waistcoat with a red handprint on it.

            “That was Bilbo’s--he wore it when Frodo was two or three.  Frodo used to be fascinated with Bilbo’s ink, and one day he was able to get his bottle of red ink and pour it out onto the floor and paddle on it....”  She told the story of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her ruined dress, and both Merry and Estella found themselves howling with laughter.  “I took the waistcoat and had promised to try to clean it, but decided to keep it instead and had a new one made for Bilbo to replace this one.”  There was a fine pair of shirt studs.  “The King had those made for him, and he wore them proudly.  But he didn’t take them with him the last time he visited here.”  There was a small booklet with a picture Frodo had drawn of Minas Tirith, and another of Caras Galadhon in Lothlorien, and a portrait of the King and his wife, and one----

            “That’s you and Gramdad,” Perry said.

            “Yes, as Frodo knew us then.  And that’s your great-grandmother Menegilda and great-grandfather Rorimac when he was Master.  And that’s Bilbo himself.”

            Perry stopped, awed by this look at the famous Hobbit adventurer.

            There were a couple letters and a poem, a number of other items, a silver pendant of a flower set with a sapphire--“Frodo brought that back to me from Gondor as a gift.  When she’s old enough it will be Melody’s.”  A couple pen knives.  “He won those in a wager, the year before he went to Bilbo--he danced the Husbandman’s Dance all seven times through and didn’t make a single mistake, or so he told me afterwards.”

            Merry smiled.  “I remember--he wagered seven silver pennies.  He won those from Isumbard and Lotho Sackville-Baggins.”

            A box with a pair of pearl ear drops.  “He’d planned those as a promise gift for Pearl, only she threw him over first.”  A crystal box containing a carefully preserved narcissus blossom.  “I don’t know when he did this, but I suspect it was around the time of the Party, when he first realized how he was beginning to react to Narcissa Boffin.”  Another small crystal box with an odd shell made of tiny green glass beads.  “His water worms made that one, and I begged it from Sam.  It was always my favorite one.”  A small wooden box with a dried cocoon in it.  “The moth or butterfly never broke free of this one--I remember him grieving over it.”  A small nesting box made from a gourd.  A wool-work ball.  “He and your dad when he was small would roll and throw that back and forth for hours at a time.”  Jewelry that had belonged to Primula and Drogo that had been given her and Saradoc as remembrances. 

            And at the bottom, a small wooden box over a framed picture of Frodo Merry remembered having been given her by the King’s sculptor.  Perry smiled at the picture as he looked at it.  “So--that’s what Uncle Frodo looks like.”  Then he looked up, obviously putting pieces together.  “The statue at the Free Fair--that’s Uncle Frodo, too?”

            Merry smiled.  “Yes, but don’t tell anyone, for Frodo wouldn’t want most of them to know.  He was a wonderful one for such jokes, you realize.  One day we’ll go out and see the other statues to his memory, especially the one in the King’s own city itself.”

            Perry smiled.  “All right, Dad--I promise I won’t tell most folks unless they ask directly.”

            “That’s a good plan, dearling.  And the one little statue I have in my room and the picture in my office--those are of him also, also done by the King’s sculptor.”

            Perry’s smile widened as he turned his attention back to the picture he held.

            Inside the small box was a carefully rolled letter tied with a silver ribbon, and the remains of what appeared to be a dried crown of violets.  Merry looked at it in confusion.  “This appears ancient indeed,” he commented.  “Why did you keep this?”

            “I found it carefully set over the boundary stone for the Hall lands one time as I was returning from Crickhollow, just before he left to go to Bilbo and Bag End.  The violets were gathered in a dingle----”

            He interrupted, “The dingle near Haygate Farm?”  At her nod he indicated his understanding.  “The earliest butterflies, very simple white ones, would gather there, I remember.  Frodo showed it to me first when I was about eleven, I think.  He loved it.  He said the youngest lass from the farm would make up stories about fairies who loved the dingle.”

            “Yes, he told me that, too.  I overheard old Ellis Maggot speaking with two Big Folk about having seen him there crowned with violets two days before I visited it.  Apparently the lass had woven it for him, declaring him the prince of the fairies.”

            “But he took it off before he came home?”

            “Apparently.  He would have been tormented by Gomez had he worn it to the Hall.”

            Gently Merry touched it with one finger, not lifting the fragile thing out of the box.  Melody asked him, “You miss Unca Fwodo, Daddy?”

            He nodded, his eyes filled with memory.  “You can’t begin to know how much, dearling.  He was like my own brother, and none could have been dearer to me, not even your Uncle Pippin or the King himself.”

            “Why did he go away?”

            Merry shrugged.  “He had to.  He was dying by inches, and needed healing.”

            “He come back?”

            Merry’s eyes were solemn as he looked back into hers.  “No, he can’t come back, although you may dream of him now and then.  But he’s never left my heart--never.”  Gently he shifted his son onto the floor and rose to his knees.

            “Nor mine, dearling,” his mother said quietly, her eyes misty as she gazed at him.

            Merry reached out and took her hand, and together they remembered.  “He loved you as much as I do, although he never would agree to call you Mummy as I did.”

            “I never wanted him to--he remembered his own mummy rather too much.”

            He lifted her hand to his cheek, then kissed it.  Together they shared a look that spoke of so many memories cherished.  Then he set the box on the table by her, stood, and turning to his daughter lifted her up.  “Now, my fair beauty,” he said in a mock growl, “it’s time to see you returned to your nurse so that you might get your nap, and you, young Hobbit,” he said, looking down at Perry, “have lessons to do.  Off with you now.”

            He leaned down and gave a kiss to the top of the lad’s head as he scampered toward the door and the lesson’s room, then smiled at his mother.  “I’ll return in a moment, Mum,” he promised.

            She smiled, and watched him go.  Then she looked at the carefully rolled letter with its silver ribbon and lifted it out, looking at it thoughtfully, and gave the tug that would release the bow.  She carefully unrolled it, and after unfolding the sheet inside once more, ran her fingers over the remarkably graceful lettering, smiling as she read it one last time.  Then she leaned her head back against her chair, remembering when she’d received that letter from the King’s city, and let herself drift away, not realizing a single tear was slipping unnoticed down her cheek in spite of the smile on her lips.  As she drifted away the heaviness in her chest twinged, and then....

            “Mum?” Merry began as he reentered the room.  He saw the single tear beginning to dry, and then he saw something else, and grew frightened.

            “She just drifted off to sleep,” Estella began, but her husband was shaking his head, his face white.

            He leaned over her, setting his hand to the pulse point on her throat.  He straightened.  “She’s more than drifted away, dearling.  She’s gone to join Dad at the Feast, I think.”

            He saw the letter falling free of her hand, took it before it could drift to the floor, and after examining it for a moment paused, his mouth working.  “It’s from the Lady Arwen--about Frodo.”   He read it quietly, finally reading aloud, “You ask what you can do for Frodo.  You can do no more than you did before--to love him both in the cherishing and in the letting go.”  He went on quietly, “She loved him as much as she did me, although it was quite a different love.  So, she let him go--twice--to find healing.”

 *******

            She found herself looking down at the room, surprised to see Merry and Estella leaning over that poor figure sitting in the chair there.  She realized both were upset and grieving, and then Merry was taking the letter from the figure’s slack hand.  He was reading it, read aloud what the Queen had written about needing to let Frodo go free.  Then he paused, and for a moment she realized he saw her.  She felt the joy of that recognition fill her.  “It’s all right, lad,” she tried to tell him.  “Oh, it’s more than all right!  I can hear your father, and your grandparents.  You stay for now--Estella and the bairns--they need you so.  I’ll take them your love.”

            And she turned away, seeking them, and saw the way ahead of her, heard Sara’s voice laughing in joy.  “Oh, my dearling--how we’ve waited for you to join us!  And our Merry and Estella--they’re both happy?  Grandchildren?”

            She was speeding toward him, filled with the joy of it, and his hand was reaching for hers--and then she paused, and both looked down.

            Frodo was below them, surrounded by children.  Oh, not Hobbit children, but what appeared to be the children of Elves, all of them shining brightly as they gathered about him.  She realized he was teaching them to dance, and they were laughing, and he was laughing, too--laughing and shining most brightly of all as he looked up at one lad and sought to correct him--then froze as he caught a glimpse of her and Sara reaching for one another’s hands, and she caught the perfect delight that flared through him as he smiled up at the two of them.

            “Aunt!  Uncle!  How wonderful to catch a sight of you!  I wish you Joy!”

            “And you, our first lad--we wish you the same and more!”

            And then her hand touched that of Sara, and the vision was past--past, but not lost.

******* 

            All the items had been restored to the chest save the small box, and somehow Estella wasn’t surprised to see it in her husband’s left hand as he stood over his mother’s grave, set between that of Saradoc Brandybuck and the one that held the double coffin that held the remains of Drogo and Primula Baggins.  He leaned on the Sword with his right hand on its pommel as he spoke her eulogy, then when at last each had flung in his or her handful of dirt and flowers, once the older sons of Sam Gamgee helped to fill in the grave and set the headstone in place, he gave the Sword over to the keeping of Berilac, prised open the small box one more time, and removed the dried wreath of violets. 

            He looked at his mother’s grave for quite a time.  “For you, Mummy,” he whispered before he turned to drape the dried but still fragrant wreath over the stone that marked the resting place for Primula and Drogo.  “From his second Mum,” he murmured as he bowed toward the grave.  Then he closed the box with its rolled missive restored to it, and turned away, setting his hand on Pippin’s shoulder, Sam walking on his right as they returned together to Brandy Hall.

Author’s Notes

            What can I say--another smaller nuzgul with ears on this alleged plot bunny turned out to be. 

            This is my Mother’s Day tribute to the many mothers and second mothers in my acquaintance, particularly to the memory of my own mother Lynn, Eleanor Fine who was as my second mother, and to that of my friend Michelle’s mother who was always amazed and sometimes appalled at me, and also to Marti Newell who taught me to be a second mum in my own right, having served as that to the one who in time became my daughter, and the three mothers-in-love my husband bequeathed to me--Bea, Nina, and Lucille.  (Long story.)

            As a very young child I went through a harrowing experience that left me with a phobia toward doctors and needles, one that has stayed with me for the past fifty-four years.  When I was age ten my older brother and younger sister and I were comparing notes on the number of children we wished to have one day.  Big Bro wanted at least two (which he got, by the way), and my Sis wanted thirty-six--she even had it worked out how many twins and triplets she’d have to give birth to in order to meet this remarkable number before she went through menopause.  (She was only seven at the time, you must remember; that she understood what menopause was itself was remarkable, I suppose.  She was granted three and at least one lost.)

            I announced that I wouldn’t have any of my own--that I’d care for other people’s children instead.  And so it worked out, although I’ll tell you that learning God had apparently taken the words of a ten-year-old seriously was a humbling experience as I found I truly wanted a child of my own and learned I’d lost the first and only one I conceived before it had gone from mass to foetus even.  So I became the perennial second mum--to a stepson, to an adopted daughter, to a foster child we were supposed to have adopted but who was given back to his natural mother by an indifferent state, to numerous nieces, nephews, and now to grandchildren and grand nephews and nieces, not to mention the many students I’ve come to love over the years.

            As a result, I’ve often found myself identifying with Esmeralda Took Brandybuck, who probably served as foster mother to Frodo Baggins after his parents’ tragic double drowning.  Certainly that is how I myself tend to write her.  How she must have come to love and care for him, and how she must have grieved to see him go to Bilbo.  Then, when Frodo disappeared into the Old Forest with her son, her nephew, and Sam Gamgee, what thoughts might have gone through her head!

            I decided to write using loosely connected vignettes showing illustrative experiences at each stage of Frodo’s growth and maturation, from the happy child, the bereft but biddable orphan, the rebellious teen intent on proving his ability to read and manipulate others, the repentant tween who quietly carried out his own form of reparations in spite of his family’s fear for his health, the blooming ward to Bilbo, and the increasingly responsible Master of Bag End and the Hill and head to the Baggins family.  We then examine the growing concerns for why Frodo might be reacting in an unusual manner towards others--and especially toward attractive Hobbitesses, the terror of the Time of Troubles, the joy of the return and time of renewal, and the realization that Frodo himself was not healing as were the others.  Letting go of him that second time must have been almost more than Esmeralda could bear--but it was necessary for him to find that final healing.  Knowing that Esme sanctioned whatever choice he made, even if it meant she lost him again, must have helped Frodo feel better about accepting the Queen’s gift to him.

 *

            As I was writing The Choice of Healing I found myself wanting to add in a moment in which Frodo met someone who examined his palm and read his fortune from it.  I toyed with the idea of him meeting a Middle Earth version of a gypsy at the Bridge Market as a teen or tween, him meeting a mysterious Elf woman within the Shire, and so on; but as I came to write the scene it became Frodo, having twisted his ankle running from Maggot’s dogs, cowering in a stall in a byre and finding himself freed from his self-imposed prison by a mysterious fellow in brown who sent the one anxious dog who’d followed Frodo off Bamfurlong’s acreage back home, sought to comfort the terrified young Hobbit, and then saw him home with the advice he stop thieving and that he surround himself with those who love him.  But before they leave the byre he examines Frodo’s palm, warning him he will be asked to sacrifice much, perhaps all, but that surrounded by those who love him he will not be lost no matter what happens.  And so I first placed Radagast in the Shire at an important time in Frodo’s life.  So, I now extended Radagast’s stay in Eriador to three years in which he works to restore much of the damage wrought there in the past before he returns back over the mountains to Rhosgobel in the valley of the Anduin.

            Yes, I know that in LOTR when the Brown Wizard approaches Gandalf he professes he was told by Saruman to seek him out in the place with the uncouth name of the Shire; but figured he might not have cared enough to know by what name this land was known at the time he visited it earlier, or that he might possibly be teasing his grey fellow, or have some other reason not to apparently recognize the name of the country in which he was instructed to seek Gandalf out.  As I refuse to see Radagast as a failed Wizard, the idea that he doesn’t care so much about the name by which a land currently goes as he does its condition pleases me, and that’s the way I’ll write my stories, thank you very much.

            In LOTR we are told that Farmer Maggot is known and esteemed by Tom Bombadil.  Certainly when he finds Frodo, Pippin, and Sam trespassing on his land as they emerge from the woods through which they’d traveled to escape the Black Riders he treats them with great courtesy and hospitality.  Obviously he and his dogs aren’t the terrifying monsters imagined by Frodo from a long-ago encounter over purloined mushrooms, particularly as Pippin, who’s obviously met the farmer while in the company of Merry, makes little of Frodo’s confessed fears.  That Maggot might put on a show of bluster to try to cow raiding young Hobbits into not stealing his precious mushrooms seemed likely, and that he’d administer three whaps with his stick and send Frodo off pursued by dogs well trained to chase but not really harm.  Yet in LOTR he admits recognizing Frodo as the Rascal of Buckland--so I write him as carrying some fond memories of the lad he remembers as well as respect for Frodo’s originality and perseverance.  So, that’s the Maggot I’ve written; and I thought I’d like for Esme to realize that Frodo’s already come to the attention of some unusual individuals who generally have little interest in the mundane life of the Shire and its inhabitants.

            The glimpses at Esme’s prescient dreams I give first are perfectly in keeping with the nature of my own.  I don’t know as many now that I am into my middle years, but I certainly knew them as a child, an adolescent, and a young adult.  I have loved other stories I’ve read in which the alleged faerie blood carried by the Tooks led to some experiences of ESP by Esmeralda, and so decided to write that idea into mine as well, although I’ve patterned her earlier experiences on my own and then given her later, more detailed ones during the time the four Travelers are gone.

            I’ve tried to stay true to the proper seasons for various flowers and nuts and such to have properly bloomed, fruited, or come to ripeness; and I’ve tried to give small laughs along the way.

            The odd matter of having a series of “stuffings” I describe actually was done during the Middle Ages.  I have my doubts as to how good it might turn out tasting, finding the boar has been stuffed with a goose and the goose stuffed with something smaller and so on, but this was tried as a form of culinary one-upmanship by some chefs trying to outdo one another and to come up with truly memorable dishes for formal feasts.  I found I had to try mention of it at least once.

            Esme’s experience as she leaves her life behind is patterned on reports of near-death experiences I’ve read collected by the likes of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and Raymond Moody and told me by my mother and grandmother and others.  Many fail to recognize their abandoned bodies as those they’ve just quitted, and it is common to feel as if they are looking down on the actions of those they care about from above before they are drawn away from this plane.

            There are some nods to my favorite authors here and there--E. Pargeter, C.S. Lewis, A. Merritt, and a few others, mostly in the names given to some characters.  I hope you don’t mind and that they give you a chuckle.

            Those of us who have served as second mothers often have a thankless task, but I assure you that those of us who are devoted to our calling love our children as truly as do those who bore them, and in some cases more--certainly all too often more appropriately, considering some of the experiences my stepson, daughter, and foster child knew with their birth parents.

            Throughout this story you will find threads from other stories I’ve written, and occasionally allusions to the writings of others, particularly Lindelea, Dreamflower, Ariel, Anglachel Jodancingtree, Lily, Baylor, and a few others.  Dora’s writing style is directly influenced by Dreamflower’s Miss Dora Baggins’ Book of Manners; Pippin and Gandalf playing at farms came originally from one of Baylor’s stories; the name of Merimac’s wife and Berilac’s mother is from Lily’s stories, Frodo’s heart murmur came from Lindelea’s A Small and Passing Thing and the idea of the Feast from her other works, much of Radagast’s nature is from Jodancingtree’s Brown Wizard stories, Menegilda as healer and midwife was sparked by Anglachel, the inclusion of linden trees is from Ariel’s work, the silver fountain Lobelia wished to see came from Primsong’s Nothing of Note, and the idea that Gollum might have had a hand in the accident leading to the deaths of Primula and Drogo was inspired by a story read on this site a year or two ago that I’ve been unable to find again so as to give proper attribution.  If you find other tributes hidden here and there and recognize them, be assured I most cheerfully accept all blame for admiring someone’s work sufficiently to offer my small references, and I truly hope none take offense.

            As I explained in a response to a review by Elanor Winterflower, this may serve as a prequel of sorts to several of my stories, including the AU work Go Out in Joy and the more canon works of Filled with Light as with Water, The Choice of Healing, and Reunion.  The Sword given Bucca of the Marish is totally my own invention and first appeared in Merry’s Wedding, although I offer it freely to others to use in their own stories if they choose, as are the use of younger children and animals serving as diversions in order to more easily raid the fields, gardens, and so on within the Marish--and the worn hoe that Frodo then takes up as he seeks to make reparation to those from whom he stole during his wild years.  Again, I offer these devices and the nature of Frodo’s job as deputy Mayor to others who might desire to add to various times in Frodo’s life.

            We know from FOTR that Frodo danced and sang on a table in the Prancing Pony, and I’ve always loved the one glimpse in PJ’s movie we get of Frodo dancing at the Party while two admiring lasses look on at the caper he cuts; Frodo as a dancer grew out of that.  That Frodo would be trained by Bilbo to copy, illustrate, and bind books followed naturally from Bilbo’s own interest in studying the histories of the world he knew; and this is the primary profession I’ve given the two of them as their role within the Shire.

            I was the first I’m aware of to write stories actually depicting Frodo’s time as deputy Mayor, and so much of the nature of the Council Hole, the archives kept of documents countersigned and registered by the Mayor, the use of Took lawyers to help in the clearing out of documents and sorting through them, the construction of a proper Hobbit prison in place of the thrown-together prison using the existing storage tunnels, and so on is again of my own imagination.  More expansion of Frodo’s time as deputy Mayor can be found in The Choice of Healing, The Ties of Family, The Acceptable Sacrifice, and Trials and Tribulation and Stricken from the Book (usually found in the collection Moments in Time).

            The idea Ferdibrand Took might have been blinded by Lotho’s Big Men came again originally from some of Lindelea’s works, but where she has his blindness resolving itself I made it permanent due to injuries suffered by the visual cortex.  Hey--I teach blind individuals--you gotta expect blind characters from time to time.

            Anyway, I’ve tried to make the Shire a real place with its own speech patterns varying from region to region and class to class, its own unique economic system and legal traditions, and so on; and I hope that it adds to the appreciation others have for this wonderful land so many of us would love to visit.

            Thanks for reading my stories, and I hope that all mothers and second mothers accept the tribute I offer to all of you.