[Lasbelinion]

Look how they move together, and apart. Each following the other’s steps.

Lithmîrë set his mug on the table. He leaned forward a little, pressing against the edge of the table as he watched the dancers and the musicians. Sometimes, in his travels, he had heard the notes of some distant piper through the trees. But he never thought to pause and listen to the whole of the tune; instead, he’d scurried away to put further distance between himself and the chance meeting with another. And dancing . . . he could not recall it; though, he knew that in his early days there must have been music and dancing.

Some unclear song hovered on the edges of his memory . . . but no images came to flesh it out.

He looked closely at the odd assortment of players. Halfling, Elf, Man. None seemed bent on being one up on the other. Sometimes one led, sometimes another. There was a certain grace to the way they bowed to one another, inviting each to take a turn. They were as much dancers with their instruments as were those who moved about on the floor in front of their little stage.

It was comforting, this music and movements that they made. He found it put him at ease, in a way. Mistress Bunce was enjoying it, he thought. Her foot was tapping lightly on the floor to the rhythms and she had a smile on her face as she watched the dancers.

‘You don’t have to stay here with me,’ he said in a low voice to her. ‘I’ll be happy to mind the teapot and the plate of tarts . . . if you want to dance, that is.’