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Cook comes to see what’s going on in the kitchen . . .
‘Oh, my stars and garters,’ murmured Cook. Her eyes had caught the smiling face of Otho Bracegirdle as he puffed himself toward her at a run. The band, she noted, had just struck up another spirited song, and here she stood her arches aching from the last round of dancing with Otho. Toes too, unfortunately. He was a determined dancer, Mr. Bracegirdle was. She snorted at her little jest. Determined to step on my toes . . . every one of them!
The ladies standing with her pursed their lips, a few arching their brows, as they saw Otho, who was now waving wildly at Cook to catch her attention. ‘Give up, Vinca!’ chuckled Miz Elderberry from Frogmorton. ‘I see you looking for a convenient tree to hide behind. But he’s got you in his sights. Give the poor man a smile.’
Otho was oblivious to the fact he had been the object of discussion as he halted in front of Cook, trying to catch his breath. ‘Come quickly, Miz Bunce,’ he implored her. Cook began to demur, protesting that she was just too tired for another dance and perhaps he should ask another. She hooked her arm through Miz Elderberry’s and pulled the surprised Hobbit close up to her. Otho stared from one to the other, his mouth gawping. ‘Begging your pardon, Miz Elderberry, but it’s not about dancing.’ He turned back to Cook. Miz Hawthorne’s sent me for you. There’s a strange Hobbit lady what’s fainted dead away in the stable. Well, we’ve brought her into the kitchen . . . and she’s still seeming rather feeble.’
Cook excused herself from the ladies, who followed along anyway, and hurried back to the Inn’s kitchen. She spied the little tableau clustered about the pale little figure in the wing chair. ‘Miz Hawthorne!’ Cook's voice rang out across the lessening distance between her and the rescuers. ‘What’s this going on in my kitchen?’
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