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‘Alferad, is it?’ Granny called out, tottering after the retreating hobbit’s back. ‘Of Brandy Hall, too!’ She scooted up to the bar next to him. ‘My stars and garters!’ she chuckled, as she looked up at him. ‘You are a tall drink of water, aren’t you, lad?’
The innkeeper had poured her usual half-pint of dark stout and set it near her. Granny took a hefty swig of the fine brew and set it back on the counter. ‘Now where’s my manners! I wanted to say thank-you for your kind assist. I’m Penstemon Greenhill, by the way, but you can call me Granny Greenhill – most do round here. From down south along the Stock.’
Granny took up her mug and looked up at the young fellow as she took another savoring sip. ‘Now, I know The Perch has got the finest ale in the Eastfarthing . . . but what brings such a fine looking lad from the grand Brandy Hall here to this little place. Must seem kind of back-woodsy and a little, well, slow . . .’
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