[Tam Lin]

‘Been too long here among the Little Folk!’

Tavaro laughed quietly to himself at the thought. The enticing scent of that hillock of biscuits drew his attention away from the poem he’d been writing. Warm, inviting, mixed with the promise of blackberry jam. And wasn’t that the fireweed honey he’d tried earlier that morning? He remembered that scent, redolent of a grassy clearing in the forest just to the west where the plants had sprung up in the Spring just after sweeping fire.

‘You’re getting rather Hobbitish, indeed,’ he went on, putting his quill down carefully and snapping the lid tight on his little inkwell. His stomach grumbled in anticipation of a plate of biscuits and a mug of steaming tea. Leaving the bit of parchment he’d been writing on to air dry, Tavaro stood up and made his way to where Rowan stood pouring tea.

‘One of those large mugs, if you please, Mistress Rowan,’ he said with a smile. His eyes twinkled as he surveyed the table. Picking up a small plate, he placed one of the larger biscuits upon it, split the flaky delight open quickly, and slathered it with butter. Both halves, of course. And atop the glistening cover he spooned out a generous portion of jam on one half and an unsparing puddle of honey on the other. Taking his mug of tea from the table, he turned, intending to head back to his table. His Elven grace did not sustain him; eyes on his tasty prize, he bumped against someone, spilling a bit of his drink.

‘Oh, please, excuse me!’ he said. ‘I haven’t got hot tea on you, have I?’ he went on, his grey eyes growing wide with alarm.