[piosenniel]

Buttercup watched as the man cocked his head to one side. ‘Why he looks a bit like my Uncle Willem’s pet crow,’ she thought to herself. ‘It’s his eyes. Yes, that’s it. He’s got us in his sight like some interesting bauble, and he’s keeping his eye on us.’ She shivered just a bit, and looked away. That crow had always made her a little uncomfortable, as if it were sizing her up and had found her wanting.

Her pursuit of these thoughts was cut short as Ruby stepped nearer the man, and curtsied, a smile of welcome on her face. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but we’re just serving second breakfasts and noticed you’ld come in.’ She grabbed Buttercup by the elbow and pulled her forward. ‘This is Buttercup. And I’m Ruby. And if there’s anything you’re needing in the way of a meal to fill an empty belly, or a drink to soothe a dry throat, or a room to rest in . . . well, then, please . . . let us know. We’d be happy to accommodate.’

She pinched the silent Buttercup on the back of the arm. The young Hobbit’s cheeks crimsoned and she curtsied, too, raising her eyes to meet the man’s grey ones. ‘Well, perhaps I’ve got it wrong,’ she reasoned, seeing the hint of a smile on his face. ‘Or not ,’ she continued, seeing the brief smile fade. She squirmed a little under his steady scrutiny.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she spoke up. ‘Cook’s made a grand breakfast, sir,’ she said, gathering confidence as she rattled off the offerings. There were eggs, scrambled with herbs from the Inn’s garden; thick slices of ham from Hobbiton; whole grained bread made that morning, toasted to a just right crispness; sweet cream butter, and Cook’s own jams, thick with the bright memories of summer – sweet-tart gooseberry and honeyed plum. ‘And honeyed buns, sir,’ she went on, ‘with currants and nuts all through them.’

Ruby chimed in with the offering of drinks – ale, and wine, and sweet-spice tea. And milk, too, if that was what he wanted.

Breathless after their recitation of the menu, the two Hobbits stood with expectant expressions on their faces, waiting to see if something had struck his fancy. Buttercup’s gaze dropped down to where his hands might have been, had they not been nearly hidden in the depths of his shirt cuffs. ‘What’s he hiding,’ she wondered to herself.

A moment of boldness assailed her, and she looked back up at his face. ‘We can’t keep calling you ‘Sir’,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit awkward, and, well . . . unfriendly like. You’ve got our names now, haven’t you? So, now, what should we call you?’