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‘My goodness!’ Miribelle’s face was a study in dismay and distaste as she edged herself around the commotion and over to her friend’s table. ‘What’s going on this morning, Master Tavaro?’ she inquired, taking the seat he offered. ‘I did hear something as I entered about Cook gone missing.’ She leaned over and scooted her carpetbag well beneath the chair. ‘Here I’ve only been gone the night and had hoped for a bite of second breakfast and a hot mug of tea . . . and oh my, what do I find!’ The inn in a commotion, the Shiriff asking questions, and that scoundrel Mungo laid low by dear old Penstemon Greenhill!!’
She sniffed a little as she watched him being escorted toward the Shiriff. ‘A pity, that Mungo! Shame of the Brandybucks. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been outlawed from these parts.’ She turned back toward the Elf. ‘What’s he done now?’ She frowned as a sudden thought assailed her. ‘Oh, no! Don’t tell me he’s the one who’s got something to do with Miz Cela’s disappearance!?’
As Miribelle waited for the Elf’s answer her eyes darted about the room looking for one of the servers. There were none in sight. ‘Ah well, looks like there’s no hope of that tea and breakfast now,’ she thought to herself seeing the table piled with near empty skillets and teapots scattered here and there in disarray.
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