Chapter One

The November sun had set over Buckland, and one by one, Elbereth called  forth her lights  to shine on the party.  A breeze carried the smell of the Brandywine River to the feast, where it mingled with the odour of woodsmoke and pipeweed.  Hobbits were everywhere—gossiping, laughing, dancing, drinking, eating.  Near the fast-darkening image of Brandy Hall, the children were dancing to the rhythm of a tambourine; in the ale tent that had been pitched in the centre of the merrymaking, gaffers sipped at their tankards and reminisced.  More than one teen was caught trying to sample his first beer, for rumours that the Master had brought forth and tapped one of the Hall’s rare kegs of 1420 were abundant.  Around the tent were trestle tables creaking in delight under the weight of all the food laid upon them—mutton pasties, savoury mushroom-and-onion pies, trifles made with pears and apples dredged in spirits.  Seated round them were hundreds upon hundreds of hobbits, most of them Brandybucks, either filling up the corners or giving up all pretence of being full and having a seventh (or eighth) meal.  And there were bonfires, so bright they blazed across the Brandywine, had there been anyone to see them.  All those who were able were at the feast, and altogether, the celebration was a success.

And alone, on a hillock apart from the bonfires and the feasting and the music, sat a hobbit lass, plaiting the autumn’s last flowers into a garland and gazing east at the emerging stars.  It was a pleasant thing, to sit away from the party and listen to the chatter of the feast blended together behind her in an indistinct buzz, even if the wind was blowing smoke at her back.  She might have thought of that old adage that gammers loved to say: Smoke follows beauty.  But she was busy with her garland, and with trying to remember the names of the constellations.  There’s the Hunter, she thought.  One could always see that in the fall.  And the Plough should be out, too, when it gets darker.  She turned her head around, but the Lonely Star was still obscured by the last traces of the Sun.  Once someone had told her its true name—the old Mayor’s son, she thought—but she could not remember it now.

She was a child, no older than fifteen; and she sat with her legs tucked to the side, hidden under her party dress.  Her rich brown curls were tied back with a green ribbon; and the only thing, apart from the flowers, that lay beside her was a long, stout stick, wide and flat at the top.

Kerry Brandybuck rose from the ale tent: he was bored.  The feast seemed less splendid to him than it had in the days of his early childhood, back when his granddad was the Master.  Perhaps it was all this work his father was making him do—it seemed, he reflected, to be the fate of all heirs to have work foisted on them well before they came of age.  He had finally managed to get away from all of his duties and all of those pesky relations, only to discover that all his friends could talk about was food, ale, smoking, and lasses.  Taking a few breaths of fresh air, he glanced towards the East, where the stars had begun to shine.  To his surprise he found the solitary child.

Very strange, this—a hobbit not revelling in her late bedtime?  Who could it be?  He ran through the names of the children of the Hall.  It was certainly not Merina—he had seen his sister only five minutes ago, and she was far too social a girl to stare off into starlight when there was food to be had.  One of his many cousins, then, but he could not tell which from behind.  Curiosity piqued, he made his way to where the girl was sitting.

“Good evening, miss,” he said.  “Are you enjoying the feast?”

The girl turned and looked up, clearly startled.  “Yes,” she said, “very much.  The food is delicious.”

He studied her features, but did not recognise any of his cousins in them.  A visitor, perhaps?  “Forgive me, but I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.  What is your name?”

“Kira.  Kira Proudfoot.”

“A Proudfoot?  What are you doing all the way over in Buckland?”

“Oh,” said the girl, and she coloured.  “I live on the White Downs—just south of Michel Delving.  But there’s a pest over there, so my Mum sent me here for a couple of weeks.  My aunt married a Brandybuck, so that’s why I can stay here.  Who are you?”

“Kerimac Brandybuck—Kerry for short.  My father’s Master of Buckland.”

Kira looked down at her work, then after a moment’s thought set it aside.  “Does that mean you’re the heir?”

“Yes.”

“So you sounded the horn at sundown, then!”

He nodded.

“You did a wonderful job.”  She fell silent for a moment.  “I must sound something silly for saying this, but it sounded… I don’t know—magnificent.  I think my heart stopped beating a moment.”

“No, no.  My heart stops every time I hear it, even though I’ve heard it all my life, and have gotten to blow it these past few years.  But,” Kerry added, seating himself next to her, “it is rather interesting that you should call it magnificent.  Old Merry the Magnificent—my great-grandfather—was the first to blow it in the Shire, and that is the exact reason we celebrate today.  If I remember aright, it was one hundred twenty years ago, to the day.  You know, of course, that Big People tried to take control of the Shire once?”

Kira nodded.  “Sometimes on a fall’s evening my friends and I go into the storage tunnels in town, and pretend that they’re the Lockholes.”

Kerry smiled, remembering his own midnight excursions to the stone posts still standing at the Brandywine Bridge where the gates had stood, and to Crickhollow, where he had warned the countryside of Black Riders.  “Well, when Merry had been off Outside adventuring with his friends, he had gotten a horn from the Kingdom of Rohan because he had helped them in battle; and the lady who had given it him said it would set joy into the hearts of his friends and that they would come to his aid.  When Merry returned, he must have been very grateful, for he was able to use the horn to rouse all the Shire, and send the ruffians packing.”

“Really?  I’d never heard that one before.”

“Would you like to see the horn?”

“Do you have it with you?”

“I’m supposed to carry it with me all night.  Here.”  Kerry removed the horn from the green baldric (Kira had originally supposed it a sash) he wore and handed it to the girl.  “Be careful with it—it’s very old.”

Kira set the horn in her lap.  It felt warm, from being near the bonfires.  She ran her fingers along the galloping horses and riders that had been engraved on the burnished silver, then the strange marks that had been set upon it.  “What are those?”

“Runes.”

“Runes?”

“Letters, but for engraving.  I don’t know what they say—probably something in Rohirric.  I’m sure it’s recorded somewhere.”

Kira fell silent as she gazed at the relic: it was an awesome sight, and the feeling she got reminded her of the Lockholes, though she was not frightened.  She handed the horn back to Kerry, who replaced it on the baldric.  “It’s beautiful.”  After a while she added.  “Funny how something so great could come out of a few odd adventures Outside.  Though I suppose you’d have to get something from there or no one’d believe half the tales you came back with.”

Kerry frowned.  “If it’s something great, it could hardly have come from ‘a few odd adventures.’  Merry did great things Outside to earn that reward.”

“If you go by the Travellers’ Tales, I suppose.  But I’m too old for those.”

“Are you?”

Kira laughed at this, and glanced at Kerry dubiously.

“Tell me, what do you remember of the Travellers?”

“Oh, hardly much at all.  Old Sam Gardner, of course, and Peregrin Took, and then Merry.  And another left, too—I can’t quite remember his name.  He didn’t do much, I suppose.”

“Kira, do you know why Merry and Pippin left the Shire?”

Kira thought this over a moment.  “No; it never occurred to me.  I suppose I had always guessed that they were bored with life here.”

“Not quite.  They wanted to help their cousin, Frodo Baggins.”

“Ah—that’s the name!”  Kira paused to digest the other information Kerry had told her.  “Wait, they left for him?  You’re pulling the hair from my toes!”

“No, I’m not,” said Kerry.  “Frodo was the reason Merry and Pippin—and especially Sam—left the Shire.  And believe it or not, he did the greatest deeds of all of them.  Men celebrate his birthday abroad, I’ve heard, and accord him the highest praise.”  He looked back towards the feast.  His stomach rumbled a little, but he hated to leave the child alone, so ignorant!  “Didn’t you ever hear the stories the Mayor used to tell?  The old Mayor, I mean.”

“No.  I was only eight when he left, and I never went to town at all till I was seven.  One of his sons stayed around for a year or two, but no one really got to know him.  Why?”

“I was just curious.”  Kerry sighed.  Most folk believe those stories are rubbish anyway, he thought, and you know it.  You can’t do anything to change the stubborn necks of hobbits, so stop fretting yourself like a Fairbairn about it!  Best to leave the girl alone, he decided.  “Why don’t you go find some of the children your age?” he said.  “My father will be wondering where I am.”

“Yes, I suppose I ought to.”  But Kira showed no sign of moving.  “How do you know the Travellers’ Tales so well—or so differently, I should say?  And at your age?  No one ever said anything about Frodo Baggins or celebrating birthdays back home.

A broad smile spread across Kerry’s features.  “My grandfather told me everything, and his father told him.  But I have read all the stories myself in the library we have started at Brandy Hall.”

“You can read?”

“I’d be a horrid heir to the Hall if I couldn’t.  You really shouldn’t be alone like this.  Where are all the other children?”

Kira shrugged.  “Dancing.”

“Why aren’t you dancing with them, then?”

Kira drew back the hem of her party dress, revealing her woolly feet.  The right one was shrivelled, and bent at an odd angle.  She gathered her garland and, leaning on the stick she had set beside her, arose.  “It doesn’t hurt that much,” she said.  “And I can walk and run well enough.  But I can’t dance.”

Kerry offered a steadying hand in case she should fall, but the lass did not so much as totter.  “I’m sorry; I didn’t know about your infirmity.  Do you need my help?”

“Thank you, but I’m quite all right on my own.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve had this foot as long as I’ve lived, and Mum started me on my crutch before I was a faunt.  I do know how to walk.”

“I didn’t mean to offend.”

“I know,” said Kira.  “It’s just that you don’t know me.  No one does here.”

“Well, I should like to know you better, Miss Proudfoot, if you’ll permit me and your time here allows it.  But I really must get going.  Thank you for talking with me.”  Kerimac walked away to the bonfires as the party continued through the night, thinking about the poor girl.

*  *  *

Kira took one last look at the stars overhead, pondering that strange hobbit and the stranger interest he had taken in her, then saw the circle of children dancing and made her way towards it.  She wondered how late it was—probably too late.  Aunt Penny would likely have a few harsh words for her.

But halfway there, she had to stop and rest by one of the bonfires.  She could run well enough—that much was true, even if it was an ungainly, hopping kind of running—but she tired so easily.  And her foot had started hurting again tonight, more than usual.  It meant, she had learned, a major change in the weather: winter was coming; and, by the feel of it, a rough one again.  And, she thought ruefully, with winter came hours upon hours stuck inside, with naught but a little handiwork and a hurting foot to keep her company.  Maybe, just maybe, she thought, if the pest didn’t die out before the first snows, a winter in Buckland would be better than one back home.  Almost immediately she chided herself for the thought.  For that would mean spending far more time away from home and away from Mother than she had ever wanted, and among those sick were her friends back home—Daffodil, Roly, and Tom.  She did not want them to stay ill.

She had started to miss them sorely, even though she had been in Buckland for only a few days—sometimes Daffodil would come to her while she was stuck inside for the winter.  The hobbits over here, with their queer obsession with water and their funny accents—well, she didn’t know how to make friends, did she?  And they already knew one another so well; what would she have to do with them?  It was just like the parties back home, when she and her friends would get a chance to converse with the children who lived in town.  But now her friends were not with her, and she was alone, and only one Brandybuck (aside from her relations) had so much as talked with her.

Kira began to walk again.  Her thoughts had taken her back to Kerry.  Very odd, this—why would a stranger talk to her?  Ah, she remembered, but he was the Master’s heir.  Of course he would want to make sure all of his guests were well.  He had to be in his late tweens, if not already thirty.  And yet, she realised, he believed in the Travellers’ Tales, and thought it odd that she knew they were myth.  Could he really believe them?  Silly Brandybuck, she thought.  They really were strange outside the Shire.

And he could read, as well.

Kira hastened on to where the children were dancing.  The instant she saw her aunt, hands planted on hips, she groaned.

“Kira Proudfoot!  What are you doing, coming back here so late?”

Kira winced.  “I was bored, Aunt Penny,” she said.  “I wanted some time alone, away from all the heat and noise.  I lost track of time.”

“Kira, I told you to say here!  Your mother wanted you to be in no later than an hour after sundown, and you know I can’t keep an eye on you and my own at the same time!”

“But it’s a party night, Aunt Penny!”

“There are no ‘buts’ about it, Kira.  Your mother is very concerned about your health, and if you don’t do as she says—and as I say—you might catch cold and get a fever.  Winter is just around the bend, and the nights are getting colder.”

Kira bit her lip, knowing her aunt was right.  But she could not help but ask the fated question: “Then why do all my cousins get to stay out so late?”

“They’re older than you are.  And as for the children your own age…”  Penny sighed.  “I’m sorry, love.  I know it’s hard for you, but you’re different from everyone else.  You take ill more easily, and there’s your foot, too.  I promised your mum I’d take good care of you.  If something happened to you… well, I don’t know what she’d do without you.  Come on, now, let’s go inside—there’s a good lass.”

Kira sighed, knowing she was defeated.  If only the rules could be different, now that she was away from home.  Casting one wistful look back at the children, she submitted to her aunt’s nudges, took her crutch, and hobbled towards the darkened form of Brandy Hall and to bed.

*  *  *

Kira’s foot had been right—winter was approaching.  Only a few nights after the bonfire party snowy winds swept in over Buckland and the land was blanketed in snow.  There was no return home now.

On the other hand, there was no venturing outside, either.  Even once the snow had settled enough for the other children to play outdoors, Kira’s aunt would not permit her so much as a whiff of the outdoor air.

A few times, when she was feeling audacious, Kira climbed atop her bed, gripped the headboard, and peered outside through the cracks in the shutters that covered the window above her.  Her face always got a little cold, then, but she could see some of the children building snowhobbits or re-enacting the Battle of Bywater with one another.  Then, when Aunt Penny came in with some soup or something, she never failed to comment on how red Kira’s face was, and asked if her foot hurt more than usual.  And Kira had to reply that yes, it did, for her foot never did like it when it was cold out, nor if she used it in any way during the winter months.  But Kira thought that the sights were worth it.

And at mealtimes, if she was quiet, she could sometimes hear the excited chatter of the children of Brandy Hall as they went indoors, where their mothers made sure they washed their hands and their fathers wrapped their feet in warm rags.  And in the evening she could hear them get hustled to their separate beds in various parts of the Hall.  She wished she could be a part of them, but it was impossible.

In truth, Kira initially had more companionship at Brandy Hall than she had ever had during the winters back home.  Every few days her aunt assigned one of her three cousins to sit with her for a few hours and talk.  Fanny, who was closest in age, was rather nice, although she talked to Kira as if she were nine.  She usually came in with a basin of hot water for Kira’s foot to soak in, and she would receive a temporary respite from her pain.  Andric, the eldest, was rather amusing to watch—clearly dragged into his task by force, he would do nothing but sit at her bedside and glare.  Sometimes Kira poked him just to see him react.

But Kira dreaded the days that Delphie came in to sit with her.  She had just turned twenty-one, and twittered with the pride of one newly called to the duty of tweenhood.  All she ever did was talk about some lad she half-fancied (not that she could do anything about it for another six years), or what dresses looked good on her, or which lasses her best friend had coerced her into being friends with.  When Delphie abruptly stopped visiting Kira (though Kira suspected her aunt knew nothing about it), she was very grateful.  Andric’s visits stopped soon after.

Once only Fanny was left to visit, Kira’s chief companion was her mind, and that tired as the days wore on.  Unlike home, when Daffodil had visited her almost daily and her mother had always had a few skirts in need of hemming, Kira suddenly had nothing to do but think.  All too often, she mused, nobody thought of her.

*  *  *

Eventually someone must have thought of Kira, however; about three weeks into winter she had a visitor knocking who was not Fanny.  It was Kerimac, who apparently had learned in his spare time that the little cripple from the White Downs was still at Brandy Hall.

“Good day, Miss Proudfoot,” he said as he entered.  Kira motioned for him to sit on the stool beside the bed where Aunt Penny or Fanny usually sat.  “I heard Andric rejoicing the other day that he had found out a way to make his mother think he was still minding his cousin, and when I realised that you were the cousin in question I thought it’d only be fair to pay you a visit.  Has the pest back home not died out yet?”

“I’m not sure,” said Kira, smiling at the thought of Andric happy to get out of the onerous task of seeing her.  “I believe it has—it wasn’t very severe—but the snows came down, and Mother and Aunt Penny both are afraid I’ll catch cold if I’m outside.  So I’m stuck in bed till the thaw.”

“Why?  Can’t you get up and move about, even if you can’t leave the Hall?”

Kira flushed.  “My foot doesn’t like winter very much.  It gets all stiff and achy, so I’m bedridden every winter.  I was hoping this year would be different, but Aunt Penny makes sure I stay in here as much as Mother does back home.”

“I’m very sorry—I was hoping that if you had to stay around longer you could get to know some of the lads and lasses your age.  I could pester my sister into visiting you, if you wanted.”

“Oh, no,” said Kira.  “That’s quite all right; I’m used to staying in bed.  I don’t need that much company.”

Kerry saw how reluctant she was on the topic and decided to drop it.  “So, you’re Andric’s cousin, then?”

“First cousin.”

“I was wondering who you were related to.  Let’s see—he’s my third cousin, once removed.  Though that doesn’t necessarily make us related.”

“No—Aunt Penny’s my mother’s sister, and she married into the Hall.  Mum said I have some Bucklander blood in me, though, on my dad’s side.  My father’s mother, before she married, was a Brandybuck.”

“Really?  What was her name?”

 “Let me see…” murmured Kira.  “What was her name?  Hallie, I think—yes, Haleth Proudfoot.  She died two years ago.”

“That was her name?  She was Merry the Magnificent’s youngest daughter!  And that would make us second cousins!”

Kira sat up in bed.  “Are you sure?  Mother never told me anything like that!”

“I’m positive.  Merry named her after a woman in the Histories.”

“There wasn’t anyone else named that at the same time?”

“I’ve studied the genealogies; I should know.  It can’t be anything else—you’re a Traveller’s descendant.”

 “My, that’s odd,” said Kira.  “I wonder why nobody told me.”  She rubbed her head a moment, then laughed.  “Probably thought I’d get the harebrained notion of travelling myself—as if I’d ever want to!  Or as if, even if I wanted to, I could!  And we’re second cousins?  That means I’m more closely related to you than my cousins are, and they’re Brandybucks by name!  How strange!”

“Very strange.  But that makes me wonder why I’ve never seen you before now, if we’re related.”

“I don’t know,” said Kira.  “I’ve never spent much time with my father’s relatives, though.  We usually just see them for a few minutes at parties, or sometimes at a birthday or a wedding.”

“I ought to visit you again then, and make amends for that.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re much too busy for that sort of thing, especially with your position and all.  You don’t need to visit me.”

“Actually, I’m not that busy.  Father likes to do everything by himself these days.  And I’m sure when everyone gets tired of all the snow they’d love to come and visit you.  We could hold a Yule party in here for you, when the time comes.”

Kira shook her head, curls bouncing off the headboard.  “No, please don’t do that—if they talk to me at all, they’ll just ask me why I’m stuck in bed.  And what could I give them for gifts?  No, Mother tried that one year with all the children in Michel Delving, and nobody spoke a word to me but Daffodil anyway.”

“Well, it was an idea.  But may I still come to see you?  I assure you, I can’t talk to anyone else if we’re the only two people in the room.  And, to tell the truth, I get bored rather easily myself during the winter.  I could tell you more of the things I told you at the party, if you’d like—or even read to you. Will you let me?”

“You’re sure you want to?  You won’t be that busy?”

“Yes, I’m sure; and no, I won’t be.”

Kira’s eyes lit up.  “Could you, then?”

“I’d be more than glad to.”

“And you’d be able to read to me?”

“Only if you wanted me to.”

Kira was silent for a moment.  “Tell me, Kerry—is reading a good way to pass time?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean—Mother always had some sewing or something for me to do over the winter, when I was alone, but Aunt Penny seems to have forgotten, and I don’t want to trouble her.  Four or five months of nothing to do is a dreadfully long time, and I wouldn’t be half surprised if this winter lasted that long.  And back when the old Mayor’s son still lived in town, I used to see him reading for hours upon hours outdoors, and I thought at the time that it would be an awful waste of the day, but you see, the winters were a lot milder then, and…”  She broke off, suddenly conscious that she was rambling.

“Kira,” said Kerry, “reading is one of the best uses of time I’ve ever found.  And time does pass more quickly when you’ve got a book.  Why did you want to know?”

“Well, since I’ve been getting so bored lately, I was wondering what it would be like, and now you’ve just said you’d like to visit me again…”

She leaned over and whispered in his ear.

“Do you think you could teach me to read?”