Frodo was prowling Bag End from room to room, restless and morose. He passed the kitchen where Sam was thumping a round of dough rhythmically on the wooden table.

“Little dumplings tonight, Mr. Frodo. With brown gravy and pot roast, and baby carrots –“

Frodo waved languidly and forced a smile. “It sounds delicious, Sam. I can hardly wait.” He continued down the corridor, peering in the guest bedrooms, opening and immediately closing the doors of linen press and spare dish-cupboard. At the door of his boyhood bedroom he paused – this was Sam’s chosen sleeping place, on the rare occasions when Frodo was ill and needed someone near-by, or when he gave a party and Sam stayed over to help any guests who might be unsteady on their feet, to find their bedrooms and their beds. Sam’s best jacket hung neatly on a peg beside the window; he seldom had occasion to wear it anywhere but Bag End.

At the end of the corridor was the master bedroom, Frodo’s now, Bilbo’s until the night of the infamous Birthday Party, five years past. Frodo stepped in and looked round with distaste. It looks shabby, he thought. He hadn’t noticed before how the counterpane had grown faded, the curtains limp with age. He had permitted nothing to be changed in this room since Bilbo left, moving in his own possessions almost guiltily, trying not to disturb anything, and the room retained some indescribable atmosphere of its former occupant. Frodo had been comforted by that, he had resisted Sam’s periodic attempts to spruce things up a bit, but now,

The shutters want painting, he thought, letting his eyes travel around the chamber as though he were a stranger. It all wants a coat of paint and a good sorting, as Sam would say – new bedding, new curtains --

Bilbo wouldn’t have liked to see his old room looking so down at heel. He wouldn’t have thanked Frodo for letting Bag End go to seed. Frodo sighed, pulling the door shut behind him. This winter we’ll turn it out, paint and polish, the whole works. We’ll make it a room Bilbo would be proud of. He started back down the corridor to his study. Best finish his task before Sam called suppertime.

He had spent most of the afternoon attempting to plan a menu for a little dinner party, nothing grand, half a dozen good friends – invitations had gone out the week before, and most of the responses had already come in. But if the truth were known, he was in no mood for company. He'd had his usual birthday party the previous month – that had been fairly large, thirty guests, and it had left him out of sorts. He had toasted Bilbo, as he always did on their joint birthday, and had drawn more than the usual level of comment and protest.

"For pity's sake, Frodo, he's been gone six years! It isn't healthy, you know, this harping on the past. He was good to you, but he's dead and gone. Time you faced up to it, lad."

That had been Daisy Boffin, invited for courtesy's sake because she was his mother’s cousin. Her husband Drino had chimed in - Frodo had always considered Drino a bit of a fool, and his remarks on this occasion had more than justified that opinion – and three or four others had added their own remonstrances. Frodo flattered himself that he had carried it off well, turning their remarks aside with a jest and an encomium on his uncle's legendary good luck, but it still rankled in his mind. He thought it would be a long time before those particular guests were invited back to Bag End.

He flung down the pen he had just taken up, leaving a trail of ink droplets across his half-completed menu, and reached over to jerk open the study window. The afternoon was warm for all its tang of autumn, and he drew in a deep breath as if the air had been new beer, bright and tingling on his tongue. The light slanting across the garden was mellow, a little hazy, and he thought, For two pins I'd take myself off for a fortnight's tramp across the Shire, starting right now.

The upcoming dinner party hadn't been his idea anyway. Samwise had suggested it as an opportunity to show off the garden, exuberant with an unusually fine display of autumn flowers. Frodo had been lukewarm to the idea, but relented at the young gardener’s crestfallen air. It wasn't that Sam sulked, exactly - sullenness was foreign to his nature - but his smile had faded and his brown eyes had grown mournful. Like a spaniel, Frodo thought wryly, and promptly gave in. He would have endured worse than an unwanted dinner party, to keep the sparkle in Sam's eyes.

The chrysanthemums under the study window shone gold as a dragon’s hoard, but the Party Field across the way was cast in shadow, a bank of clouds advancing on the wind. Frodo’s mind jumped to Bilbo’s stories: adventure, a whiff of danger, the Road’s enticing call. A sudden whir of wings brought him back to the present, and a flock of sparrows swept low across the garden and away, silent but for the sound of their flight. Frodo gazed after them with envy, wondering in what strange lands they would come to rest before they returned to the Shire next spring. Perhaps they would even see Bilbo, wherever he was wandering.

Tell him hello for me, he commanded silently. Tell the old rascal that Frodo misses him.

In spite of his bravado at the birthday dinner, he fretted about his uncle. He had dreamed of him several times recently, vaguely unsettling dreams that hung like cobwebs in his mind after he awoke. Bilbo climbing a mountain, all alone, looking rather grim and determined. Bilbo on a narrow forest path, dark and overhung with vines, and once again, alone.

I should have gone with him, Frodo thought for the hundredth time, forgetting that he had offered to go and been kindly but firmly refused.

If the dreams had not been enough to unsettle him, he'd had a run-in with Lotho Sackville-Baggins that had done nothing to improve his mood. He usually managed to avoid his obnoxious cousin, but Lotho had come up behind him at the bar in the Green Dragon, blocking his escape unless Frodo wanted to shove him bodily out of the way.

"Well, Mister Frodo Baggins, hobnobbing with the common hobbits, are we? A little lonely up at Bag End, with no one to talk to but that half-wit gardener?"

"Sam's got more wits in his little finger than you'll have if you live to be a hundred and five, Lotho. And I'm not hurting for company, so you can go on back to your friends."

Lotho had dropped a hand on Frodo's shoulder, squeezing painfully and watching for his reaction. Frodo clenched his fist, out of sight down by his side, and kept his face impassive. After a moment Lotho let go, chuckling unpleasantly.

"Right, little cousin. Very lordly we are, now we're Master of Bag End. We'll just see who laughs last, you or me."

There hadn't been much to the encounter, just a reminder of the ill-feeling the Sackville-Bagginses had always harbored toward Bilbo and Frodo, but the memory lingered like a nasty taste in his mouth.

It would be a pleasure to get away for a few weeks.

What if he went the day after the dinner party? Walk Merry Brandybuck back to Buckland, maybe even take little Pippin Took along – Pip was sixteen now, old enough to keep up with them, young enough to consider it an adventure, traipsing over the Shire with the "big fellows". Folco Boffin, too – he'd be company on the way back to Hobbiton. Not Fatty Bolger, useless to expect Fatty to walk anywhere!

Frodo felt more cheerful just thinking about it. Two or three weeks in the open air, before winter closed in – take Pip out to Michel Delving, perhaps, show him Bilbo's mail shirt that he brought home from his travels with the Dwarves. That would please Pippin – especially if the elderly hobbit who kept the Mathom House would let him try it on!

They might even meet up with an Elf, if they went by way of Woody End. Spring and fall, you did sometimes find Elves in the woods there, but Frodo doubted if his cousins had ever seen one of the Fair Folk. He had met them, of course, tramping round the Shire with his uncle.

Bilbo had revered the Elves, and he'd been assiduous in teaching his ward their language and history. I don't think I've cracked an Elvish book since last spring, Frodo thought guiltily. I wonder how much I've forgotten. Best put in some study time during the remaining days before the party. If there was a chance he'd be introducing his young friends to the Elves, he'd better remember how to say hello properly!

The notion of a trek across the Shire had taken firm hold on him by now, and he sent word by Quick Post that very afternoon, inviting Merry and Pippin to accompany him. In the evening he dropped in at the Ivy Bush, sure of finding Folco at the bar, but there he met his first check.

"Wish I could, Frodo, old fellow. Nothing I'd rather do, but it's not possible. My mother's birthday is ten days off, you know, and my life won't be worth a salted herring if I'm not here to wish her well! Ask me again next spring and I'll go all round the Four Farthings with you."

"Right you are, Folco. I'll hold you to that, mind!"

So he'd be coming back from Great Smials alone, after he dropped Pippin off. That didn't worry him; it was only a day's walk. In fact, after a couple of weeks in Pippin's company, he might be ready for a day when the only sound was the wind whispering in the trees! Pippin was a delightful little cousin, but he did rather wear one out.

Word came from Brandy Hall and Great Smials the following day. Merry would come, with pleasure. Pippin's reply was such a snarl of capital letters, underlinings and exclamation points as to be barely legible – Frodo surmised that he was coming, once he could be pulled down from the ceiling! He chuckled – Pippin would drive the doldrums away, no doubt about that.

He met his second roadblock with Sam.

"You didn’t ought to be coming back alone, Mr. Frodo. Not this time o' year, the weather's too unchancy. You might even get a bit of snow, coming on November."

"Sam, it's only a day's walk! You don't give me much credit, do you, if you think I can't take myself from the Smials to Bag End without a keeper."

Frodo regarded his gardener with mingled affection and exasperation. Sam was a treasure – faithful and honest and utterly devoted to him. He was enormously fond of Samwise. But Sam's devotion could be as wearing as Pippin's exuberance, and a lot harder to deal with. He could tell Pippin to "Be quiet for ten minutes, little cousin!" and Pippin would comply with good humor and no hurt feelings. What could he say to Sam?

You're killing me with kindness, Sam. Don't worry about me so much. Back off a bit and give me room to breathe.

He couldn't say any of it. Sam would answer never a word, but his eyes would register the hurt, his shoulders would sag, and Frodo would hate himself for days. He had no idea why Sam was so attached to him, but plainly he was, and Frodo dreaded hurting him.

"It's not just a day's walk, begging your pardon, sir." Sam was still on about him coming home alone. "You'll be coming all the way from Buckland with nobody but little Master Pippin – he'd be no help to you, if you ran into trouble. And Master Pippin is a corker, sir, as well you know. You'd better take me along as well. I can do the cooking and that, and help you keep young Pippin in hand."

Frodo was tempted. Any camp that Sam had charge of would be a haven of warmth and comfort, and he was a campfire cook beyond compare. He had a way with youngsters, too; no question but Pip would be easier to contain if Sam were present.

"You didn't ought to go without your Sam, Mr. Frodo."

No, really, he had to put a stop to this, or Sam would be moving into Bag End lock, stock, and barrel, and he'd never draw free breath again. Wasn't there something that needed doing here at home, to give him an excuse?

"The apples, Sam," he said desperately. "We're not done with harvest, and we're right in the middle of cider making. You can't go running over the Shire with me in the midst of apple harvest."

"I'll put some lads on it, Mr. Frodo."

"No, Sam. I need you here to make sure it's done properly. We can't have them bruised, you know, or they won't keep, and there's not a hobbit in the West Farthing who makes cider with as good a flavor. That stuff they press at Overhill is flat as barley water. I'm afraid you'll have to stay, lad, and oversee the harvest."

Sam's face was a study, and Frodo bit his lip to keep from laughing. He could watch the thoughts chasing each other across Sam's countenance – his desire to go with his Master vying with his love for the orchard and his reputation as a cider-maker. Frodo hammered home his advantage.

"You know how I like to have a barrel of russets to dip into when I'm reading of a winter’s evening, Sam. I wouldn't trust anyone else to get them in safe, and I want you to put up some applejack this winter as well. I'm sorry, old lad. You can come next time."

Next time wouldn't be till spring, and perhaps it would be all right then, since he was establishing his independence with this trip. He clapped Sam on the shoulder.

"Pack up some provisions for me, will you, when the time comes? A few changes of clothes and what not. You'll do a neater job of packing than I ever would."

Sam glowed at the praise, and Frodo fled to his study to wrestle with Elvish verbs till teatime.

2. Kissing Cousins

The dinner party went off better than it had any right to, considering the host’s lack of enthusiasm. That was Sam’s doing, of course: Sam’s expert management, with his sister and a couple of her friends helping in the kitchen and Nibs Cotton keeping the fires fed. Sam’s glorious flowers filling the dining room with color and fragrance, Sam’s prized chrysanthemums overflowing the garden. It was Sam’s party, though he did his best, decked out in his good coat, to play the proper servitor, hovering in the background save when he and the giggling lasses carried in one savory dish after another.

Frodo had planned a simple meal, three courses only, but “Not less than five courses, Mr. Frodo! Mr. Bilbo’s memory would be shamed, us being mingy with the food, like. And then the brandy, o’course.” Frodo had smiled ruefully and given in. He was standing firm on not bringing Sam along on his autumn excursion; he could afford to yield on the party menu.

And it turned into a wonderful evening, jolly with good friends and good food, ending with a fine singing-contest in the garden, the masses of chrysanthemums still glowing dimly in the light of party lanterns scattered along the paths and dangling from the branches of the plum trees bordering the south side of the hill.

Pippin Took was the youngest hobbit present, but he carried off the prize for singing. He had a lilting, angelic voice, but his song was naughty in the extreme, and Frodo stared at his little cousin in consternation while the other guests howled with mirth.

“Where did you learn that – revolting – song, Peregrin Took?” he demanded when he could be heard. Sternly he repressed his own laughter; he was the elder here, he thought, he was responsible for this little cousin. “Merry? Did you -?”

“I?” Merry was all righteous indignation. “I’m away off in Buckland, Frodo, running my fuzzy feet off for the Master of the Hall! You’d best look a little closer for Pip’s music teacher – Great Smials has enough jolly young blades to tutor him. In any event, it’s no worse than I’ve heard any number of times at The Dragon. Maybe your gardener taught it to him.”

“He did not.” Pippin all but gurgled with mischief. “If you must know, my cousin Glori taught me, down in the riverhouse this summer – and she taught me to kiss, too!”

“Pippin!” Frodo wasn’t pretending now; he was genuinely shocked. “Your cousin!”

“Third cousin,” Merry said drily. “Gloriosa Hornblower, and she’s a baggage, sure enough. Come on down from the rafters, Frodo, it isn’t incest. They’re “kissing cousins”. Quite literally, it would seem.”

“And you’re not a hermit yourself, are you?” Fatty Bolger was reclining comfortably on an overstuffed garden chaise, his hands folded contentedly across his stomach. “I hear a few things now and then, you know. That nice little redhead, now – what’s her name again? Pansy?”

“Oh really! Not Pansy, I don’t think – let me see, I know I’ve heard the name, now you mention it –“

“Never mind, Folco!” Frodo said hastily. “If you know her name, have the kindness to forget it, will you? She’s a nice little lass, and it would be an ill turn to bandy her name about.”

“Oh-ho, Cousin Frodo! Better not be scolding me, had you? Glori taught me kissing and that’s as far as it went – what have you been up to, eh, to make you so edgy about the lass’s name?”

Pippin flung himself at Frodo, knocking him off-balance so he nearly went sprawling. With difficulty he kept on his feet and tried to catch Pip’s flailing hands. “No tickling! Peregrine Took, behave yourself, you son of a sea-cook!”

“Son of – what?” Merry caught Frodo from behind, holding him. “Go on, Pip, give it to him good! He picked up that expression from Bilbo, where else? and I’m quite sure it isn’t decent. So much for our arbiter of proper behavior here – you’re exposed now, Master Baggins, for a wicked hypocrite!” Frodo turned suddenly in Merry’s grip, an elbow in his cousin’s middle, and Merry gave a surprised “Ooof!” and let go.

“Come on, Folco, Fatty, give us a hand here! He’s slippery as an eel, next thing you know he’ll vanish in thin air like his illustrious uncle – “

Frodo was nearly helpless with laughter; he hadn’t even thought of using the Ring to escape. Should he -? No, that wouldn’t be fair, it would spoil the fun - He stretched out both arms and grabbed the nearest two hobbits to his chest, then threw himself backwards into the grass, dragging them down. They thrashed back and forth, a struggling knot of tousled heads and hairy feet, and someone else landed on top of them with a shout – there was a sharp, astringent odor in Frodo’s nostrils –

“Mr. Frodo!” Light shone suddenly from above, and Sam’s voice was sharp with concern, or was it outrage? “Mr. Frodo? What’s going on here? You’re in the flowerbeds, Mr. Frodo; you’re squashing them flat, all them mums, begging your pardon, sir –“

The hobbits on the ground disentangled themselves and got up – it was Pippin and Folco he had taken down, Frodo noticed; Merry was off to one side, pouring himself another brandy. Fatty was sitting up in his chaise, sniffing appreciatively at his own refilled glass.

“Sorry, Samwise. Just a bit of tomfoolery that got out of hand. Did we do very much damage?”

Sam had set his lantern down on the ground and was bent over his trampled flowerbed, propping up the flattened chrysanthemums, snapping off broken stems. “Didn’t do them no good, sir, but they’ll be all right. Next year, anyhow; won’t look like much the rest of the season, this bed won’t. Just so long as you’re all right, Mr. Frodo. Gave me a turn, all that commotion out here in the dark.”

And it was dark, Frodo realized for the first time. Most of the lanterns had burned out, and there was only a sliver of moon. It must be well past midnight.

“Getting late,” Fatty confirmed his thought. “You throw a good party, Frodo – good food, good brandy, exciting entertainment – think it’s time you let your company go to bed now, what? I’m ready for a bit of shut-eye, speaking for myself.”