[Lasbelinion]

Lithmîrë’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement at what had just occurred. His hand still rested on the handle of the pump in the Inn’s back yard, a few driblets of its precious water splashing down onto the rocky bed below. He looked down, noting a few of the bees from the gardens had landed on the rounded rocks and were busy drinking. Precious water . . . he thought, watching a fat drop splatter on a rock and roll down, lost between the cracks where the stones butted up one against another. Where he had worked the fields, the water had flowed down narrow ditches to the thirsty plants. No drop wasted.

His gaze followed the track to the door through which the Hobbit had disappeared. He felt disarmed, in a way, by her conversation. He was not sure how she had done it. He ran their conversation back through his mind; not just the words exchanged, but the gestures and tones, the subtleties. Disarmed. And she without a lash or cudgel, and seemingly without design.

A strange, low sound surprised him. He felt it rumble through his chest, shaking his belly, until his throat gave voice to it. It was an odd sound, long unused by him. With a will of its own, the rusty laughter fell from his curved lips, following the track, too.

He found himself looking forward to the tea she had promised. It was a hesitant hope. And he hid it away quickly lest it disappear as the water had done among the hard stones of the drain field.

His head turned round to where she said she would meet him. His feet moved in the direction of the bower near the cottage at the edge of the yard.