[piosenniel]

Zimzi

‘Zimziran!’ exclaimed her mother softly as her daughter twirled one last time for her. The older woman clasped her hands in delight, her eyes gleaming. ‘Abar, come see your daughter!’

Adjusting the buttons on his tunic’s sleeves, Abar came in to the little bedroom, hastily turned sewing room. He was swearing a little, his thick fingers fumbling with the smallness of the button and the hole. His words were cut off as he looked up, an expression of wonder and love stealing over his features. ‘Oh, my!’ he said in a husky voice. Taking her hands in his, he turned her about slowly, his eyes taking in the sight of her. ‘Aren’t you just the lovely one today,’ he went on, giving her hand a little squeeze. With his other hand, he reached out for his wife and pulled her close. ‘As pretty as your mother when she pledged herself to me. Sand and water! How the circle comes round.’ He gave his wife a tight squeeze about the waist and Zimzi a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Now do a last thing for your old Da,’ he said to Zimzi, holding his undone cuffs to her. ‘Your mother and all her fine sewing has made it impossible to get these done up!’

Her brows arching, Zamin reached for her husband’s sleeves and did them quickly up herself. ‘I swear Zimzi, you marry a man and take care of the boy the rest of your life!’ Abar gave her a quick kiss before she could go on, as Zimzi laughed at this familiar scene.

‘Best get dressed myself, now,’ said Zamin, letting down her long dark hair flecked with silver, and rummaging through the wardrobe in her room for her own dress. ‘Abar, if you’re done dressing, go down and find the boys will you? Make sure they’re “behaving” themselves. And see to it that Azar has remembered to polish his boots.’ Her voice trailed off as she went into her own room to get ready.

‘I’ll see you down there, then, Zimzi,’ her father said, eager to get down the party. He’d seen the tables of food and the kegs with their foaming offerings through his window. He intended to make a thorough investigation of the Shire provender.

Zimzi stood in the now empty room, hearing the merry sounds of the guests in the yard below. She smoothed the bodice of her ivory gown and twirled the skirt a bit. It would be good for dancing, she thought hearing the music playing below. Taking one last look in the little mirror above the dressing table, she approved her hair, turning her head this way and that to see the mother-of-pearl clasp that held it back from her face, and the long cascade of her dark locks as they slid down her back. Her shoes were a fine, ivoried leather. Supple and plain. Picking up the light blue shawl her mother had woven, she arranged it casually over her shoulders, then thinking it would be too warm, draped it over one arm, intending to leave it somewhere handy should the evening prove cool.

With quick, light steps she headed down the stairs and through the Common Room, to the Inn’s front doors, which now stood open for easier flow. Buttercup was just passing through, a pretty little lass with her. ‘You look lovely, Mistress Zimzi!’ Buttercup called out, stopping to admire the woman and the dress. ‘Oh, and this is Miss Marigold,’ she went on, introducing the wide-eyed girl. ‘I’ll see you both at the party, yes,’ Zimzi said, nodding at the lass.

With the assurances of their attendance, Zimzi went on out to the porch. Shading her eyes with her hand she looked about for Derufin but could not see him . . .