[piosenniel]

Cook and Lithmîrë


‘Well, there you are! My stars! I had forgotten how quiet you folk can be.’ Cook trundled into the shady little bower and put her basket on one of the chairs set by the little table in the center of the grass. The bright mid-afternoon sun filtered through the leaves if the trees, dappling the area.

She swept the few leaves that had fallen on the table top off and directed Lithmîrë to get out the little tablecloth and put it on the table. Once done, the cups and little plates were put on along with some fireweed honey and the tray of tarts she had packed in the basket. Indicating that he should go ahead and be seated, she poured them both a cup of lemon thyme with ginger tea and passed him the honey.

Nice lady, Mistress Zimzi is,’ she said in a light, conversational tone as she passed the tarts to him. ‘Wedded our stablemaster, Derufin, just a bit ago. And now they’ve settled down in the groundskeeper’s cottage there. She’s from Lindon, that one. An artist . . . with clay. Master Derufin’s our all around handy man. Fine man. Happy now and I’m glad of it.’ She shook her head gently as a sad thought crept in. ‘Fought in the war there in the east. Had a wife and two little babies back then. Found they were killed by Orcs when he was away.’ She shivered a little and took a deep breath. ‘Goodness, I didn’t mean to be so gloomy. We’ve all got our problems don’t we. And luckily most can find a way to the other side of them.’ She took a generous dollop of honey and stirred it into her steaming tea.

‘Enough of that, anyway.’ She settled back comfortably in her chair and munched on a tart. ‘Tell me about the places you gardened. What sorts of plants did you grow there? And how did you find the soil?’