[piosenniel]

Max padded on silent paws behind Pio as she made her way down one of the winding, dark tunnels that led off the main chamber. Keeping an ear open for ghoulish chanting and eerie green lights, she poked into the trunks and old chests stashed about in the nooks and crannies. Old mouldering clothes, a few games and puzzles with pieces missing, a dog-eared thesaurus and some half finished poems.

One small trove of treasure was a crate of tawny port, bearing the insignia of The Bird and Baby. In a locked wooden box hidden behind the crate were a small number of very fine looking cigars. Loading the box atop the crate, Pio aborted her search of that tunnel and returned to the main room.

Hilde and Eala were curled up against a wall. One of them snoring. And there, curled up against her owner’s knees was Codijune. Max gave a puggish whine, hoping the dog would wake up. But both she and Eala simply sighed a bit and snuggled down more deeply into dreams. Nor was there any hope for Max that Firefoot’s three dogs would be waking soon. They were all deep in slumber tucked comfortably into a big chair.

Littlemanpoet looked comfortable, sitting in another big chair . . . alternating sips of stout with what looked like phrases savoured even as they fell from his lips. There was a pleasant look on his face as he did both activities.

Pio found a chair to perch in and gave a wave to lmp as she sat down. She held up a bottle of port and held up a cigar. ‘Let me know if you want one or the other or both,’ she mouthed to him.

Now where was Cami? Pio gazed about the room looking for the curly mop of graying curls. Little warps in Middl-earth time like this were the only way they could catch up on the progress of their various children . . . especially those of the fictional sort.

A young woman dressed in regency costume swept by with a garbage pail in hand. Pio raised her brows at the efficient, red-haired tidier as she picked up an empty wine bottle and a stray paper plate streaked with green jello. ‘Don’t clean too much, if you please,’ Pio asked THE Ka. ‘I feel quite at home amid the clutter.’ A thin spire of smoke from her newly lit cigar trailed up into the dark reaches of the barrow ceiling . . .