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‘Please . . . be our guest!’ Derufin pushed back his chair and stood up. He reached out his hand to clasp that of Anyopâ. ‘Yes, welcome,’ said Zimzi, turning to smile at the newcomer. She reached for an empty mug and poured some ale for him, setting it down at the place next to her.
‘We’ve not ordered yet,’ Zimzi continued as Anyopâ sat down. Derufin held out his pouch of pipeweed. ‘Don’t know if you smoke, but if you need a pipe, there’s an extra in the outside pocket.’
Buttercup came to the table with a fresh pitcher of ale. ‘Cook says she’ll stand you lot to three pitchers for the table and dinner all around for the work you’ve put in.’ She cast a look about the table and its occupants. ‘though I doubt she knows the numbers have somehow swollen.’
Derufin gave her his best smile and pulled her to one side. ‘I’ll square it with Cook if there’s a problem. For now just feed my guests and keep their cups filled.’ Buttercup rolled her eyes at him, then laughed, and went back to the kitchen to fetch supper for the table.
As he sat back down, Derufin saw Zimzi had leaned in close to Anyopâ and was looking at something . . .
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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