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Iris
‘May I help you?’ the lass said, stowing her pile of dirty dishes on the counter. ‘I’m Rowan,’ she went on, ‘Rowan Muddifoot. One of the servers here at the Perch. Is there something I can do or get for you?’
Iris gave Rowan a measuring look. Was there a general air of tiredness about the younger Hobbit? Where were the rest of the servers and maids and kitchen help and the cook, herself, she wondered.
‘Maybe I can help you,’ Iris replied, looking again about the kitchen. ‘My niece and I will be staying in the area for a bit, I think. And . . . well, I don’t mean to be forward, or anything, but it looks as if you could stand a little help in the kitchen.’ She nodded toward the door to the outside. ‘And, my stars, that poor garden out there is in need of some weeding and spading and de-slugging!’
‘Is your cook about, Mistress Rowan? Could I have a word with her?’
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