[piosenniel]

Cook ambled into the kitchen, smiling as she entered from the common room. The rest of the Inn was the province of Miz Aman, and to be quite honest could at time be a little quirkily chaotic. But, the kitchen was her domain and the neatness and orderliness that was its hallmark was once again in place. Second breakfast was being seen to by the servers – buns, muffins, and scones served up with pots of hot tea and good, sweet Shire honey. Lunch was laid out on the cupboard, waiting like obedient troops under her command to match off to do war against hunger. It was sandwiches today to be washed down with cold cider or ale and plenty of cookies to fill in the empty corners. Hobbits and others who ate at the Dragon had only themselves to blame if they went away hungry.

To her left was the big kettle, bubbling away on the hob with chicken and herbs. Soup, thick with meat and vegetables from the garden would be for supper tonight. That and thick slices of crusty bread with sweet cream butter. She stepped to the pot and gave the heady smelling broth a stir or two. She was just eyeing the basket of winesap apples the stableboy had brought in from the three old gnarled trees that grew west of the stable, considering if baked apples might do to round out the supper, when she heard the hammering begin down the stairs, in the kitchen cellar.

‘Vinca Bunce!’ she chided herself. ‘You’ve gone and left that poor boy down there for several hours. And here you promised him a little something as the morning wore on.’ Setting the stirring spoon on the lid of the soup kettle, Cook went down the stairs carefully, craning her head down to see where Ferdy had got off to. She was just on the next to the last step, looking round the post to her right, when her eyes caught the row of neat little bins, six of them in fact, all lined up together against the cellar wall. They each had lids that pulled up on hinges, and there was Ferdy at the very last one, hammering in the last nail that secured it to the wall. So intent was he on his business that he did not hear Cook come up near him, and lifting up one of the well fitting lids, exclaim. ‘My goodness, Ferdy! These are more than I had hoped for! You’re a genius, lad!’ He gave a gasp at the sudden intrusion and promptly dropped his hammer on his toes.

Ferdy hobbled up the stairs to the kitchen with the aid of Cook. She deposited him in a chair and got a piece of ice from the cooler to wrap in a clean towel and place on his toes. He protested that he was fine, really. But she fussed over him anyway, bringing him a cool mug of cider and a plate of warm scones with jam and whipped butter to make him feel better. Cook sat watching him eat the scones and poured him another cup of cider when the first was empty.

‘Feeling a little better?’ she asked, peering at his toes beneath the ice – they were purpling up from the bruising. Ferdy sat back and rubbed his stomach with a satisfied sigh, his foot all but forgotten. ‘Fine, thank you, Miz Bunce,’ he told her. ‘Give me a few moments, and I’ll be right enough to fix that cupboard door you talked about earlier.’

Cook sat down in a chair near the lad and poured him another bit of cider. ‘Oh leave the door for now, my dear,’ she said, causing him to frown a little. ‘There’s something else I’m wanting to speak to you about. Something else that’s needing mending.’ ‘Well, I’m all ears, Miz Bunce,’ he said a little hesitantly, wondering what project she had in mind for him next.

~*~

Ferdy’s mug of cider sat unnoticed on the table. Cook, without a great deal of preamble, had launched into a ‘serious’ talk with the young man. She’d talked with his Da, she told him and he’ll be wanting to talk to you, too, Ferdy, she said, when we’re done here. Quite confused by this time, Ferdy merely sat and nodded dumbly as Cook folded her hands on the table in front of her, and proceeded to tell him that a lass had come to her saying she was interested, quite interested in him and could Cook see her way to seeing if there were any way Ferdy might want to return her affections.

His eyes going wide at this revelation, Ferdy would have bolted for the door, save for two things. First, his Da had said he was to listen to Miz Bunce and take her counsel, and second, his foot was now throbbing where the hammer had mashed against his toes and he knew he could not outpace Miz Bunce owing to the pain. ‘A lass?’ he asked in a strangled voice. Oh my, how was he going to tell Cook he was interested in one girl only.

‘Yes,’ said Cook, ‘there’s a lass who’s got her eye on you but has had no indication from you might feel the same way.’

‘Her eye?’ Again the thought of those eyes he looked forward to seeing every week loomed up in his mind, and he shook his head emphatically at Cook. ‘I can’t be thinking about some lass and what she thinks of me,’ he said quite fervently. ‘I’ve got my own girl to be thinking about, Miz Bunce. I’ve no want to be thinking about someone else.’

Cook drew back, surprised at the vehemence with which he expressed himself. ‘I see,’ she said, leaning back in her chair. ‘Poor lass! She’ll be mighty disappointed. Ah well, what’s done can’t be undone, I suppose.’

‘Let her down easy, but be firm, if you will,’ said Ferdy. ‘I’ve had my eye on my own girl for a long, long time. I don’t think I’ll be changing my mind at all.’

‘Well, well,’ murmured Cook, looking with interest at Ferdy. ‘I’ll be as gentle as I can. But, tell me – who is this lucky lass you’ve kept hidden so long from us – your Da included.’

Ferdy colored a bit and whispered a name. ‘Sorry but you’ll have to speak up,’ Cook said. ‘These old ears can’t hear as well as they used to.’ She leaned forward, looking at him expectantly . . .