[Envinyatar]

‘Now, who’s written this do you suppose?’ Buttercup held up the folded letter that Halfred had just delivered. An errand rider on a sweat lathered horse had brought it in, directing him to deliver it at once to Mistress Buttercup. ‘The one who sends it has paid well for it,’ the rider had said, clinking a few silver coins into the hands of the surprised Hobbit. With a tap of his heels against his mount’s flanks he was away, down the East Road, heading for Breeland. Halfred had run to fetch Dumpling, and with a wave of his hand to his dear wife, had driven the pony as fast as he would go to the Green Dragon.

‘A man,’ wheezed Halfred, his exertions in getting to the Inn overtaking him, ‘the rider said it was a man who handed him the letter.’ Dumpling snorted and nudged the Shiriff/Postmaster in the back. His lip curled up as if to comment on the fact that if anyone should be wheezing it should be him, who had borne the stout Hobbit to the Inn at such a fast clip.

Buttercup turned the letter over. It was sealed with a plain white wax and it looked as if someone had just pressed his finger into it to secure the seal. ‘Well, open it, you ninny,’ said Ruby. She had come up at the sight of Halfred's delivery and now stood peering down at the letter, her hands twitching, wanting to rip the missive open herself. Buttercup ran her forefinger beneath the folded over flap and shook the one page open. Her eyes went wide as she scanned the bottom of the letter for the signature.

‘It’s from Derufin!’ She read the hastily penned letter in a low voice as Ruby huddled near.

^*^*^*^*^

This is quickly written, so you will have to forgive the splotches of ink. There was no time to blot it as I barely caught the messenger as he passed through.

Cook, as you can probably guess was quite distressed by your letter. So much so, that we have thrown all our belongings helter-skelter into the back of the wagon and are heading back to the Inn as quickly as the poor horses can pull us. Zimzi and I are with her. Thank the one for the calming influence of my dear one on the flustered Hobbit! I swear to you that Miz Bunce would have clamped her hat tightly on her head the very moment she finished your letter and hied herself to the Shire on her own if Zimzi had not persuaded her that she could not leave us behind.

It was hard to understand from Cook’s strangled gasps as she read your letter what exactly had happened, was happening there. The words ‘Hawthorne’ and ‘insufferable’ were barely intelligible through her clenched jaws. I can tell you she placed her hand on her chest when she squeaked out the words ‘my kitchen!’. I was unable to read what you had written as she clenched it tightly in her fist and threw it directly into the fireplace, muttering a few very unladylike imprecations.

At any rate, we will be there in less than a fortnight. Cook’s mood has not grown any lighter as we near the Westmarch, though Zimzi gives her a little tincture of valerian root at night with her tea.

I am pleading with you – if something drastic has indeed happened there, it needs to be put in order by the time we arrive. The stormclouds are gathering and I fear for any their wrath rains down on . . .

- D –
Derufin, his mark

^*^*^*^*^

‘Oh dear,’ whispered Ruby to Buttercup. The late afternoon seemed to suddenly grow chill and her skin prickled with growing anxiety. Both Hobbits peered down the path to the Inn, expecting any moment to see a wagon drawn by half-dead horses come flying round the bend – the ghastly form of Vinca Bunce, Cook, standing by the driver, curls flying, her finger pointing at the Inn and fire in her eyes. ‘We’d best tell Miz Aman about this.’

Buttercup grabbed her friend by the arm and pulled her along pell-mell, knocking over chairs and bumping into workers without so much as a ‘sorry’ or ‘excuse me’ as they hurried by . .