[Anguirel]

Artifondo gulped slightly as he sat down. Miz Bunce, as his sister had described, was pretty formidable. Would the piece of sweet-talk he had planned succeed?

"Unfortunately, madam," he started, "my father...ah...was, um, unwilling to yield too many of his glistening fresh produce. I have brought only one, and not, perhaps, ah, the best..."

Now for the piece of theatrical dash. Holding out his left hand, he opened it slowly; but there was nothing in it. With a shy smile, in the face of the Cook's mounting impatience, he extended his right arm. Unlike his model, Beren Erchamion, he could not impress his viewer with a severed stump; but he could reveal the artichoke, its pale tips slightly luminescent in the darker kitchen.

"My father calls this strain of artichokes the Silmarils, madam, after the jewels in the old tales. As the gems are supposed to have coursed whoever ate them in holiness, so these bathe the body with a, ahm, a tremendous restorative quality as the heart is ingested. They will go perfectly beside your famous stews, or simply alone, ah, and, um, dowsed with butter."

Artifondo took a rather ragged breath.

"Sorry...didn't bring more...you know how it is..." He rolled his eyes. "Father...likes to keep them...for himself..."