[piosenniel]

‘In the kitchen!’ squeaked Buttercup. ‘Making breakfast!’ The tips of her ears were a violent shade of crimson. ‘She nearly burns the Inn down on us, and he calls it making breakfast! Friend, indeed!’ Buttercup stomped off toward the front yard of the Inn, a rather murderous glint in her brown eyes.

‘Best you leave her to me,’ said Ruby, as Regin called after the retreating Buttercup. ‘She never took much to that new girl, Hawthorne – the one you saw in the kitchen. And now this,’ she said, waving a hand dejectedly toward the smoke and dying flames. ‘This will be the straw that breaks the donkey’s back.’

Ruby turned to hurry off after her friend, mouthing thanks to the kind Dwarf. ‘I’ll see you get a flagon or two on the house, Master Regin,’ she called out loudly to him as she ran after Buttercup. ‘That is,’ she muttered, ‘if we have a house . . . or any ale for that matter! By the Gaffer’s britches! I hope someone remembers to save the barrels of ale and bottles of wine in the basement . . .’ Her tired legs were protesting the chase, as she kept Buttercup’s back in view.

‘Hawthorne better thank her lucky stars the lass isn’t armed,’ thought Ruby as she came up on the two.

There was Buttercup, Hawthorne’s arm gripped firmly, allowing no escape. Buttercup’s lips were moving rapidly as she glared at the other Hobbit, all the while shaking her finger within inches of poor Hawthorne’s nose.