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Buttercup and Marigold
Buttercup had just taken a large basket of flaky mushroom pasties out to the food table to refill the trays there. Ruby had come along with her with several platters of jam tarts for the dessert table that the ladies from New Row had brought over and left in the kitchen to be put out at need. Gooseberry jam, strawberry, blackberry, and currant all winked out invitingly from their crisp little shells. Buttercup stood for a moment at the table, surveying the swelling ranks of the party goers. Then, turning back to the table piled high with lovely offerings, decided it was time to change for the party. Others had come in to help, she concluded . . . so let them! Ruby, too had the same idea, and once the tarts were displayed to her satisfaction she made for the Inn and her party clothes.
Passing the jam tarts, Buttercup paused. It had been a long time since breakfast and so busy had she been that she could not recall having eaten since. Her stomach growled at the thought and she picked up four little tarts, popping one of them immediately into her mouth.
She broke into a smile as she passed where the musicians stood, and waved. She was looking forward very much to an evening of dancing and fun. An older Hobbit, she noted had joined them, a tin whistle held in one hand, and a half pint in the other. ‘Oh, and what’s this?’ she said to herself, catching sight of little Marigold, her golden mop still in tangles. She knelt down by the girl and offered her a plump tart.
‘Go ahead . . . they’re quite good! Just ate one myself,’ she confided. Wide-eyed at the choices, Marigold took one and began nibbling at it, Buttercup could just hear the muffled ‘thank-you’ come round the mouthful. ‘My stars, little one,’ she said as the girl stood up. ‘We have to get you into some party clothes.’ Buttercup flipped her food stained skirt a bit and tugged then at Marigold’s own mudstained one. ‘These simply won’t do . . . we’re guests now, and guest should be pretty.’
A distressed look appeared on the girl’s face, and she looked down a bit shamefaced. Buttercup tipped up her chin, saying there was no reason to fret. ‘There’s a great, large storage closet near my room, Miss Marigold. With many a chest filled with skirts and dresses of all sorts and sizes. Many left by guests who were in too much a hurry to check for things left behind.’ She fingered Marigold’s curls saying they’d get those in order, too. And would she like to bind it back a bit with one of Buttercup’s ribbons?
‘Let’s go then,’ she said, extending her hand to the little Hobbit. ‘You can choose a dress or a skirt and blouse, or whatever you like. Then we’ll hurry back and enjoy the rest of the day. How does that sound?’
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