[piosenniel]

Buttercup

‘Who is that Hobbit over there?’ said Buttercup, pointing with the soup ladle to where a young Hobbit stood, a group of lads his own age and older gathered round him. They all had their pipes in hand, all taking a break from the work on the Inn.

‘That is Carl Brandybuck of Whitwell,’ returned Ruby, as she scraped her platter of diced potatoes and carrots into the soup.

The smell of pipeweed drifted over from the group, and Buttercup sniffed it appreciatively. She couldn’t quite place the enticing aroma – not Southlinch from Bree or Southern Star, she thought. She sniffed again – and not Old Toby, either. This was a new smell . . . and very pleasant . . .

‘Where are you going?’ Ruby cried after her, as Buttercup gathered up her skirts and started off toward the group of lads.

Buttercup picked up a tray, and putting a number of mugs on it, filled them all with foaming ale. ‘I’m going over to meet this Mr. Carl Brandybuck,’ she said, flashing a smile to Ruby. ‘And if I’m lucky, you and I can share a little of that glorious pipeweed for our evening smoke.’ Tray held aloft, Buttercup sauntered over to where the smoke was thickest.

‘Anyone care for a pint?’ she called out . . .