Frodo woke to the sun on his face and the scent of cinnamon and warm apples in his nostrils. He shifted, smiled at the soft caress of the sheet against his belly, loathe to open his eyes. Then a soft waft of air brushed his lips, immediately followed by a full treatment, warm and mouth-watering, of that cinnamon smell directly beneath his twitching nose.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," Merimac's voice sounded in his ear. "Bilbo didn't make these sticky buns all for me, but if you don't get up then I'll surely eat them all."

This had Frodo lurching up into full wakefulness, eyes springing open to see Merimac half-seated on the corner of the bed next to his pillow. Several sticky buns, artfully arranged on a plate that Merimac held right beneath his chin, were the first things Frodo noticed. The second thing—this noted with some chagrin—was that his cousin was fully dressed. The third was that, in his other hand, Merimac held a clean set of clothing for Frodo himself.

"Get dressed, love. I've another tray to bring; a nice pot of tea, honey, jam, the lot. Bilbo's gone to see to the Tithing clean-up and I thought we could have a nice, leisurely breakfast here in your smial."

Contrition niggled at Frodo; he threw the covers from himself and took his clothes from Merimac. "Why didn't you wake me earlier? He must need help down there—"

A wry smile tugged at his cousin's lips. "Peace, my lad. The old hobbit has more help than he really knows what to do with, so he specifically said that you've time to breakfast with me."

There was an earnest entreaty in the words. Frodo glanced at him, then nodded. While Merimac went to get the tea tray, Frodo slid into breeches and shirt, went out to relieve himself. When he came back into the smial, Merimac was settling breakfast on a small table that was normally in the far corner; he had pulled it out beneath the skylight, and set several stools at each end. Frodo stood in the doorway for a moment, rather taken aback at the effort.

"Get washed up, love, and come to board. I know you're starving—your stomach was growling even while you slept."

Frodo smiled and trod over to his washstand. Merimac came up behind him; as Frodo straightened from the washbowl, dripping and blowing at the chill water, he saw the reflection of his older cousin's frown.

"What happened to your shell, lad?"

Wiping his face, Frodo espied Merimac's fingers touching the broken remnants of the seashell found broken only the day before, and a chill settled into him. "I… um…" he started.

"Did you drop it?" Merimac asked softly. "I'm sorry. No worries, I'll find you another one." He turned away and went back to the table. "There are some lovely ones just gathering dust in my cabin, or I can find one especial, if you'd like."

Frodo finished drying his face and hands, reached out and touched the pearlescent shards, then turned to his cousin, frowning. Merimac seemed… well, he seemed different, somehow, this morning. Frodo came gingerly over to the table to sit, then asked quietly, "Have I done something wrong?"

A funny look came over Merimac's face; he reached out and took Frodo's chin in his hand, tilting his face up. "Nay, and I mean that. You've done nothing wrong. I have a lot on my mind this morn, that's all."

Frodo noted the way his cousin's gaze flickered to the window and went a bit faraway before it was brought it back to the smial and breakfast and, most of all, Frodo. "Eat, lad," Merimac gently insisted.

Subdued by the transparent longing in those grey eyes, Frodo took a tentative bite of the sticky bun. He chewed a few times mechanically then, his own eyes widening with pleasure, he smiled and took a bigger bite.

"Mm-hmm," Merimac hummed appreciation about his own mouthful. "Bilbo's bakes were famous when I was growing up. We used to plague the life out of him when he'd visit the Hall, and that was the first time I found that old Granda Broadbelt wasn't just called that because he'd the girth of a small pony!" He grinned lopsidedly at Frodo. "I couldn't sit down for two days, eh?—but I considered it fair trade, because I'd nicked enough of old cousin Bilbo's sticky buns to last me and my mates for those two days!"

Frodo giggled, imagining a younger, rangier Merimac hunched over his own version of dragon's gold—albeit standing while he did so.

"I don't know if my da laughed harder over me having the cheek to do it in the first place under Granda's nose, flat refusing to tell where the stash was, or being foolish enough to go back for more and get myself caught."

The small story eased him a bit—this was more like his cousin, with his light teasing and off-hand mannerisms. Frodo set to with relish—it was an understatement to note that the buns were frightfully good—but also the apples were marvellous, stewed in cinnamon and their own sweet juices, with the milk nigh to cream, only lightly skimmed and wonderfully tasty in the strong, black brew that Bilbo seemed to prefer in his tea-chest.

Breakfast was quiet and warmly companionable, and in good time they were satisfied. Frodo got up, stacking the utensils on the tea tray.

"I know you said that Uncle Bilbo had enough help, but I feel like I should try to help, at least," Frodo said, taking up the tray and starting to head for the door. "I'd better go—are you coming as well?"

There was no answer; he actually got to the door before he felt the weight of the silence. Turning about, Frodo eyed his cousin, who was once again serious, quiet, uncomfortable. Merimac was standing in the bright mote-mist of the skylight, linen-clad arms crossed, his weight shifted to one leg. Brown hair fell across his brow and over his shoulders like brass, one side pushed behind one ear and the copper ring twisted through that lobe glinting in the filtered light. It all but hid his eyes which, as if to belie the nimbus of bright that spilled over him, were dark.

"Put the tray down for now, lad."

Doing so, Frodo came back into the little smial, feeling trepidation trickle down the back of his throat. "Mac?"

"Frodo, I've had a missive from Gillyflower. There's matters I have to see to, ones I no longer can leave to stand. I have to go back to the River."

The feeling that the words gave him was not one Frodo expected, nor one he wanted. He looked down, swallowing hard, trying to decide exactly what it was that he did feel.

"Lad," Merimac repeated, "I have to go."

Emotion swelled in him, imploded into anger. Frodo jerked his chin upward, threw his shoulders back. "Well, I should have expected that!" he spat out.

"Yes," said Merimac softly, "you should have."

Frodo looked away, his face twitching. Merimac's eyes remained upon him, piercing and discomforting.

"You want to leave so badly, then leave!" Frodo said tightly, and when Merimac still didn't move, snarled, "Just go!"

"Do you still want me to take you with me?"

The query took Frodo, quiet and unassuming yet snarling about him as if he'd run headlong and heedless into a rope-snare.

"You said that you wanted me to take you away from here." How could Merimac's voice be so serious-soft, so calm? Did he not know what his words were somehow doing? "Is that still true?"

"Yes," Frodo whispered without thinking, then, "No. I… I mean…" He kept struggling for words, then looked up, cried, "It wasn't supposed to be this way! Not like this!"

Merimac started to rock forward; Frodo gave him a wild look and Merimac stopped mid-gesture, ran a hand through his hair and down to his nape, clutching there. "It wasn't supposed to be like what?"

Frodo stood silent, shaking, fists clenched and body taut and mind twirling in ever-decreasing circles. Merimac watched him for long moments, then finally spoke, very softly.

"I see. You mean like this. That it would matter when I left." He sighed, walked slowly over until he was standing right before him, but still he didn't reach out, didn't make any gesture that might be rebuffed. "Frodo, did you really think that it would be so simple? Did you think that we would just take our pleasure, share a hard tumble or two, and naught else would pass between us?"

Nothing. Frodo couldn't answer. It was as if any power of speech had been choked by that same rope snare than had tripped him into this.

"Did you really want me to just service you like some pony stallion put to a mare, then just return to my own place and never give you another thought?"

Shoulders hunching, Frodo wrapped his arms about himself, looking down, turning away.

"Is that what you really expected from me? That I would just leave you and never look back? That you'd find it easy to see the back of me?"

"I…"

"Is it what you hoped for?"

"You're leaving me anyway," Frodo muttered. "Hope has nothing to do with—"

"I tell you, you can come with me, if it's what you want. I'll never leave you on your own, not again, not unless you want it that way. If you need me, I'm here."

"You won't be here! And I don't… need…" he gritted out, "anyone."

"Don’t you?" Suddenly warm breath was in his hair, warm hands were on his hips, running upward along his ribcage. Heat lightning shot up his spine, and anger twisted itself almost painfully in his breast, and Frodo sucked in a huge, shuddering breath as Merimac curled along his back, nuzzled into his neck. "Don't you need? Don't you feel?"

Yes, Frodo wanted to say, yes, it's the only way I can stay here, don't you understand, and what happens when you leave, when I can't… can't…

And with that inner voice, with Merimac's next words, Frodo realised that somehow this had become entirely too necessary and too invasive. It was too close, and getting closer all the time. "Frodo," Merimac whispered, "did you really believe, given what we've shared, that you wouldn't feel something? That I wouldn't care? Oh, love, it doesn't work that way. And if it does, it's wrong."

Frodo shook his head, tightening, trying to pull away.

"Why do you do this?" Merimac asked softly. "Frodo, what are you afraid of?"

Flashes behind his eyes, and voices muttering just outside normal hearing, and the well opening beneath his feet, and the knowledge that Merimac didn't see it, and that he didn't want him to see it, and that perhaps this was for the best, that Merimac went before he did see it…

It took every bit of will he had, but he twisted and turned on his cousin. "I don't need you. I don't!"

"All right, then." Merimac released him so suddenly that he almost fell. "You don't need me. You just want to fuck me."

Frodo jerked, the words impacting harshly as any slap.

"And at your age, that's probably all either of us should have expected. In which case," the grey eyes were steel upon him, cold and sharp, "why are you expecting more from me, eh?"

The tables turned so thoroughly and suddenly, Frodo didn't know how to respond. "I… I'm…"

"If I didn't stay land-bound for Paladin, who loved me, do you really think I'll give up the River for you? Particularly when all you do is keep pushing me away?"

The River. Frodo's voice suddenly loosed itself, hoarse and uncertain. "I," he quavered, "am not the one pushing now. I am not the one who is leaving."

Merimac hesitated, took in a deep breath. Frodo didn’t want to see the sorrow, the tenderness in that face. It would be easier, somehow, to not know that his cousin was in distress as well. "I love you, lad. Never doubt that. But yes, I have to leave. And you have to abide by my choice, just as you have to abide by your own."

"I have no choice!"

"You do," Merimac came over, took his face in both hands. "You do, and you've already made it, else you'd not be claiming that I'm leaving you."

And all Frodo could do to answer that was lurch into those hands, and that chest, and hold on.

* * * * * *

Bilbo was, for several moments, seriously beleaguered by too many conflicting emotions to name as he saw the slender silhouette coming down the Hill, alone and carrying several large items. A longer look showed that Merimac was still by the gate, waiting beside his pony, and it was not hard to imagine that Frodo had, after all, decided to go with him. The heart could never be predicted, not in any way or form, and there was a little voice in the back of his ear making sure he was aware that offering the stimulating but sterile comfort of book and quill was no contest when compared to a riverboat romp with a wild and randy cousin.

So Bilbo was totally unprepared for the solid lump that worked itself up into his throat when the misshapen silhouette became, not Frodo with his bags all packed, but Frodo with several baskets and carry-alls draped about him, dressed in worn clothes and ready to help with the Tithing clean-up.

As Frodo reached the meadow, Tom Cotton was the first to greet him cheerfully enough, and he and Daisy and young Samwise were quick to relieve Frodo of his burdens. His hands thus emptied, Frodo blinked in surprise, then cut a strangely-shy glance over towards Bilbo. Bilbo smiled and came over to him.

"I'm glad you're here, lad." He took quick notice of the boy's eyes, which were a bit suspiciously swollen, realised that he himself was a bit choky—and that for no good reason—so smiled even brighter. A smile tugged at Frodo's lips—shy, and small, but definitely there. "Are you ready to help out?"

"Yes, sir." It was subdued, as well.

"You're one of the few about here who can write in a very clear hand, and I need someone to mark the Tithes into the records for me."

The sound of hoofbeats came drifting down from the Hilltop. Frodo averted his face and turned away, nevertheless Bilbo saw him turn toward the road, witnessed the bare quiver of the boy's profile and the set of his shoulders as he watched after the departing pony and rider. Bilbo said nothing, paid no attention, and Frodo kept an eye upon the East Road until Merimac disappeared.

* * * * * *

There were quite a few ledgers—new and old, large and small, and all had been kept well and dry in a locked cabinet at one end of the grange's small, dusty office. Bilbo grimaced and blew a layer of dust from the wide table, motioning for Frodo to seat himself at it, then unlocked the ledger cabinet and took several large volumes down, all the while explaining to him the necessity of keeping the tithes marked down. Since much of the grain was stored communally, here in the spacious lofts and granaries of the mill, close tally had to be kept of everyone's allotment. The Tithe book—a large, grey tome—kept track of the gifted amounts of grain.

"I’m assuming that some simple sums would not be beyond you, lad?" Bilbo asked as he opened the registers to their proper pages.

"I can do it." Frodo was frankly glad to have something to focus his mind upon besides that figure riding away towards the Brandywine. Physical work or mental concentration, it didn't matter, it was something to do. While not as quick with numbers as—for instance—Merry, Frodo was good enough to enter ledger figures. Several years back Esmeralda had set him to learning his sums by doing just this; he told Bilbo so.

Bilbo's smile was gratifying, as well as the quick handclasp to Frodo's shoulder. "Capital! It's quite simple, really—"

"Mister Bilbo?" One of the Widow Rumble's lads came in, scraping his cap from his curly brown head with a respectful hunch to his shoulders. To Frodo's surprise, he also dipped his head briefly to Frodo. "Mister Cotton is in fair need of you, if you can, sir."

"Certainly." Bilbo waved a hand. "Just a moment, if you will, Jeb… See, Frodo, every duty and tithe you wrote down yesterday has to be entered into the permanent roll, either for myself—here—or for the Mayor—here. And then it has to also be deducted, if applicable, from the Tallies register."  He motioned to a huge brown register beside the Tithe book.  "Keeping a Tally makes it possible for all of the Hobbiton folk who keep their grain here to keep track of it, to draw from their allotments and have it ground, usually, by the miller."

"Is it like in Buckland, where the miller takes payment for grinding?" Frodo asked quietly, his eyes flickering over the pristine Tithe sheet awaiting his penmanship. Columns had already been ruled out, straight and spare, delineating spaces to be filled.

"Sometimes. Sometimes Sandyman takes a share of the grinding."

"More than his share, usually," muttered Jeb, then flushed as Bilbo turned to him sternly.

"We have no proof of that, lad, and until—good day, master Sandyman!" Bilbo switched gears so quickly it made Frodo blink. A thickset, grey-haired hobbit came into the grange office, looking a bit concerned. "I've just set my lad here to seeing to the registers for me—"

"I can do them for ye, Squire," the miller said, shooting a reproachful and rather suspicious look towards Frodo. Frodo flushed and looked down, set himself to pulling his penknife from his pocket then sharpening his quill with short flicks of the blade.

Abruptly, he remembered that he hadn't given Merimac the gold-hued tinker knife. Frodo straightened and quickly started to rise, consumed by the wish to run up the Hill and somehow go after his cousin with the gift, then halted as Bilbo's voice penetrated the need of the moment.

"Now, good fellow, it's just plain fact that this lad has a neater hand than you, and you know I sometimes have trouble following your ledger entries." There was an edge to Bilbo's voice that brooked no nonsense, and there was something else there as well—something hinting at distrust.

"But mister Bilbo—"

Another hobbit came bursting into the grange—an older tween, bearing a striking resemblance in carriage and looks to the miller. Frodo meekly settled back into the chair, remembering the tween from the party—Ted, the miller's son. The lad shot Frodo a strange look, then turned to his father. "Da, I told you that mister Bilbo had someone to do the accountings."

"I was just going to set up the books for him," the older man said. "Get it all laid out and proper! Young Laird or no, the lad's barely grown his belly fur and who's to say he won't foul my books? This is my office, so it is!"

"And mine, Miller Sandyman," Bilbo said, still with that stern edge to his voice. "Let me assure you that my nephew might be young, but he's sharp as any Baggins thrice his age. If we leave him to his work in peace, that is. So, come along, master Sandyman, and—Frodo?" he turned slightly and queried, eyebrows raised. "If you need anything, call for me."

"Yes, sir—" Frodo watched in amazement as Bilbo, with very little seeming effort, shooed everyone from the small office and closed the door behind him. "—I will," Frodo said to the shut door.

The registers were fairly straightforward. The Tally merely continued an already-begun row of figures—however, the Tithe book had a fresh, unmarked page and Frodo was unsure if it was meant to be written down in the same way as the Tallies. The front half of the book was banded tightly shut—no doubt to keep previous years from mixing with the present. However, he needed a guide.

He could still hear the miller's voice, protesting just outside the door. Frodo wondered what he could possibly still be upset about—probably because That Brandybuck was alone in his office, Frodo decided with a grimace. Bilbo's voice was firm in answer, however Frodo couldn't make out what they were saying anyway, so he decided to just shut them out and attend to what Bilbo had asked of him.

…sharp as any Baggins thrice his age. Frodo smiled, felt his cheeks heat with pleasure, and bent to his task.

Unbanding the front, Frodo went back several pages, flipping through the previous years. It was tempting to read each one; the things gifted were varied and mostly useful but some he felt sure would turn into mathoms on a shelf somewhere. Ah!—here it was. The extra rows were to differentiate between Bilbo's tithes and the Mayor's. He cocked the book upward onto its spine, peering at the rows; the large book wobbled in his hands and tipped sideways. With a small yelp Frodo grabbed to catch it; it slipped over and fell, split-spined, on the floor.

Calling himself every name he could imagine, Frodo bent down, glad that he hadn't uncapped the inkwell to boot—fine way to prove Bilbo's trust in him! He picked up the register, resettled it on the desk, noticed that some pages towards the front had been bent. With a frown, he turned to them and began to straighten them. Odd—they were a lighter weight than the remainder of the pages…

Once he got the first one straightened out, he noticed that they were not at all the same weight—that, in fact, they were the very cheapest of parchments, see-through and rough, even the ink had bled nearly through them. There were only several sheets, added by a thick and faulty line of glue—not bookmakers glue, which would not have stained the pages as this had done—and set in crooked, unlike the remainder of the well-bound pages. Smaller, they were, not noticeable unless the book was opened to them. And, Frodo realised, with the Tithe book banded to the fresh page as it was, there would be very little chance to see those first pages. Upon them, in a clumsy, scrawling hand, were set down small increments of measures and portions, each with a name beside them. All the names were ones he had heard yesterday—the party guests, inhabitants of Hobbiton, Overhill and Bywater.

Why would anyone do something like this? Frodo ran the feathered tip of the quill across his lips, thinking. And he remembered what Jeb had said, not moments previous, and the odd edge to Bilbo's voice when he'd spoken to the miller…

He could still hear the voices outside the door. Frodo got up and went to the door, opened it slightly. Bilbo, who had been standing with his back to it, lurched forward and turned curiously.

"Lad?"

"Uncle Bilbo." Frodo met the blue-gold eyes earnestly. "I need to speak with you, please. Alone."

* * * * * *

Bilbo had given the register a sweeping glance, then a narrow one, then had turned to Frodo with a strange exultance in his face. To Frodo's utter amazement, Bilbo had barely constrained a triumphant whoop, instead clapping his hands together, proclaiming that Frodo had discovered something that they'd been trying months to find—proof that Sandyman was indeed cheating when he did the grindings. A little here, a tiny portion there; hardly worth measuring, but all adding up in the long run to a wealthy take at the expense of his neighbors.

Frodo received a relentless hug, a kiss on the cheek and a whirl about the small office. Then Bilbo had calmed himself and secreted the pages in his inner pocket of his waistcoat. Laying a finger along the side of his nose, he winked one eye.

"Nothing, lad. You're to say nothing, understand me?"

A quick nod, and Frodo was left alone again, facing the re-banded ledger as Bilbo closed the door behind him. He heard voices raised, heard Bilbo say words to the effect that Frodo had needed help with a small entry problem, then the voices had been led off.

Silence. The door opened again, slowly, and Sandyman's tween son, Ted, gave him a piercing look. Frodo swallowed hard, did his best to appear normal. "Yes?" he said, as lightly and as noncommittally as he could manage.

Ted's eyebrows drew together and he dipped his head. "Nothing. Carry on."

Frodo's hand shook for several moments after the door was shut.

* * * * * *

Later, cramped and stiff, he was glad to make his last entry and escape into the waning sunlight, where there was plenty of work still to be done: equipment to move, boxes to restore to their proper places, litter to be gathered up, wheel ruts to tamp down. The latter was easy, given the soft, wet ground, and Frodo laughed to see the younger hobbits making a game of it akin to skipping stones.

There were, other than himself and Bilbo, no Baggins relations remaining—wanted or unwanted—mostly just the farming folk and the ones beholden to the Hill. The only discomfort within the day was the first time he looked at Sam, and remembered what had passed the evening before. Uncertain of what he truly thought about any of it, Frodo had managed to push away his unease into a tiny, airtight place in the back of his mind. There, it ceased to exist. In result, things were quite relaxed and easy.  Bilbo insured that it was so; in fact he had earlier headed off any possible conflicts with the millers by scooping up all the registers and having young Samwise take them up to Bag End "to be finished that evening". It was plain Sandyman wasn't very happy about it, but it was also plain that such had been done before, so the old miller seemed loathe to make too much protest.

Many of the tithes were carted away, behind a sturdy team of draught ponies, to the Mayor's home. The remainder was taken to the Bag End cellars, Gaffer Gamgee seeing to its proper disposal and storage. Bilbo flitted back and forth, overseeing everything with his usual charm. The entire effort reminded Frodo of his own brightest times at Brandy Hall—during the harvests, when commoner and gentry alike worked together, each to their own skill parceled out necessary and good work. Once he found himself working between Tom Cotton and Samwise, no outsider in that moment, all sense of place or imagined propriety subdued beneath the honest sweat of side-by-side effort. It was the entirety of meaning, of here, and now—the reminder of strength given to the one, and by the simple act of another holding fast beside that one.

Bilbo's approval washed over him like clear water, and the folks he worked amongst were friendly and helpful, as well as unfailingly respectful. For a few precious hours, Frodo felt somehow more alive, more real, as if the acceptance of the others cradled him down against the earth--not trapped, but bestowed with a sense of who and what he truly could be. It felt as if he could belong. Even moreso, that he did belong.

The feeling continued, humming through him with a pleasant weight that met and matched the weight of Bilbo's arm across his shoulders as they climbed the Hill and stopped at the front of Bag End.

"Ready for dinner, lad?"

"Yes, sir." Bilbo gave him a friendly squeeze, then stopped mid-reach for the door.

"You've done something quite important today, Frodo. I am very grateful."

Pleasure flushing his cheeks, Frodo ducked his head. "It was only—"

"Yes, by uncommon chance. But you had the wit to think upon what it could mean. We shall be able to curb Sandyman because of this, and watch him carefully from now on, and he'll know it, even more. You've done us all a good service."

Frodo smiled broadly, this time.

"It's been a long, warm day. Go hose yourself off under the rainspout, lad; not fancy as the Hall showers, but workable nonetheless. Get yourself all squeaky-clean while I cook us a fine dinner." He opened the green door. "Off you go, then."

Frodo, still smiling, ducked into the smial and made to obey.

* * * * * *

Perhaps not as fancy as the Hall showers, true, but the spout was cunningly worked. A huge rainwater hogshead was built into a little abutment of earth off the back door of the smial. It was just above one's head, and gutters ran from the edges of the roof and into the barrel, and from the front of the barrel there was a spigot with a chain attached. One pull would bring a pipe's-length of water. There was a flooring of large, smooth stones, angled to drain down the Hill, and ivy threaded itself from the roof and over a small framework, making a pergola of green and sunlight, partially shielding the little alcove. Frodo wondered, not for the first time, who had designed all these remarkable devices with such care and attention. Bilbo? One of his elvish or dwarvish friends?

Maybe, if the elves did come to visit, Frodo could find out more about the ones who had helped him in the Old Forest—Elladan, and Lirandilë, and Lirasilo.

He frowned, realising the consequences of that. Perhaps not.

There were hooks to hang clothes on, well away from water spray, and one closer that would be ideal for a towel. He made quick use of them, stripping down to nothing but the thong about his neck; grabbing the round of soap he'd taken from his washstand, Frodo stepped beneath the spout and braced himself, reaching for the chain.

The water was not as cold as he'd thought it would be—obviously the sun warmed it in its roof position—but it still prickled chill on his bare skin. Nice and cooling, yes, but like the showers at the Hall, not comfortable enough to be enjoyed at long leisure on a fall day with the sun going down.

But that sun, slatting through the vines and fully shining about the edge of the small ivy pergola, was nicely warm on his skin; he stretched into it like a cat, feeling bones pop and muscles twinge. Then, still angling his neck from side to side, he applied soap. It had a pleasant, green-sharp smell to it and he wondered if this, too, was one of the Widow's productions. It was also quite slippery, he found out as it went squirting through his fingers to tumble down the gravel walk. With a snort at himself, Frodo went after it; it had slid nearly beneath a very bushy rhododendron. He crouched, reached for it. The small round was muddy on one side; the Bag End gardens hadn't yet dried from the torrents of the previous night. The mud clung to his fingers, chill; the wet hair on his soapy nape pricked suddenly, and the rhododendron shivered as if in a small breeze.

He frowned. There was no breeze—the slight wind that had accompanied the day had stilled itself with the sinking of the sun. Then, what, had he felt? Frodo rose slowly, looking about. The privy, down the hill and to his right, the path leading to it, the Hill wet and untrammeled below with the gravel walk leading past him and then disappearing about that same, huge rhododendron, leading to the main path. There was no one in sight, not even the odd passer-by.

A squirrel leapt from the pergola and scampered towards the relative safety of the privy. Frodo took a quick, startled breath then smiled.

The soap was drying on him, drawing his skin into itchy patches. Frodo turned on one heel and went back to the hogshead. Reaching upward for the chain, he kept pulling several times to get the soap rinsed fully away. Then, still eyeing the massive rhododendron, Frodo soaped and rinsed his hair until it squeaked.

"Frodo?" Bilbo's voice sounded from deep inside the smial.

He started to turn and answer, but another sudden rustle in the bush halted him. Eyes narrowing, Frodo peered past the ivy once more. Perhaps the squirrel had come back. Water spread over his shoulders, threading to small trickles. One ran down his spine, separating at the arched small of his back and trailing down his haunches; he shivered.

"Frodo?" Bilbo's voice was closer

"Sir?" Frodo piped up, shaking off the strange sense of discomfort and pulling the trap's chain once more, sluicing the remainder of soap from him.

"Aren't you finished yet?" His cousin rounded the back door stoop with a spatula in hand, apron about his waist. The sight was homey, and strangely endearing, as was the concerned expression on Bilbo's face as he reached out, nabbed the towel from its hook and handed it to Frodo. "Dinner's on the table, lad. Nothing fancy, mind, but you should dry off quickly and get dressed; come in before the sausages I've heated have the chance to get cold."

Frodo slicked the hair back from his forehead, took the towel. "Right away, Uncle."

The old hobbit grinned and turned back into the smial, leaving the door open.

Unable to resist giving another, curious look towards where the noises had come, Frodo quickly dried off, got into his breeches and shirt, then retreated into Bag End.

He didn’t need to, in the mild weather, but he shut the door behind him as he went.

* * * * * *

Dinner had been pleasant and filling. Nothing fancy, as Bilbo had said, but lots of it: warmed-over sausages mixed well with chopped up potatoes and plenty of pepper, fresh raw beans and carrots and kale, with the Widow's peppermint sweetmeats for afters. Frodo had finished his third plateful and his fourth glass of milk with a happy sigh, and offered to do the dishes so that Bilbo could spread out the Tithing book on the parlour table and tend to that business.

Up to his elbows in kettle-warmed, soapy water, Frodo watched as Bilbo settled down in the next room, pulling the cheap parchments from his waistcoat and flattening them next to the Tithing register. Hooking a thin pair of reading spectacles over his ears, the old hobbit took up a quill, a spare sheet, and began to pore over the evidence.

The water was soothing on his work-sore hands; Frodo took his time with the small amount of dishes, pouring more hot water in as it cooled, setting them to dry. An occasional breeze wafted in through the open kitchen window, teasing with the scent of ginger lilies and juniper and sending a delicious shiver up his still-damp nape.

Dark settled over Bag End, and Bilbo stayed glued to his work, stopping only to mutter a quick "Thank you, lad, how thoughtful," when Frodo began to light lamps and candles and placed one beside Bilbo. Such lack of notice didn't bother Frodo in the least; he understood it quite well and gave his guardian a wide and thoughtful berth, smiling at the occasional grunts and satisfied mutters that came from the bent, silver head.

Mindful of that concentration, Frodo set himself to doing what he'd seen Bilbo do to close up Bag End for the night; a cheerful hum was upon his lips as he set to the small, needful tasks. Nothing could take the surge of contentment from him—not the utter tiredness of the post-Tithing work, not even the odd feeling of being watched that he'd had while bathing earlier.

Until he went into his bedsmial, and saw the empty bed.

He was thoroughly unprepared for the loneliness swamped him, the pure misery and dejection that dissolved his cheerfulness as thoroughly as a handful of fine sugar poured into warm water.

Merimac was gone, and they likely wouldn't see each other again for some time, and how could he have so easily let loose of the horrid dejection of this morning, gone to feeling such satisfaction and content? What kind of person was he? How could he have forgotten?

And he realised that was the underlying fear to all of it. I don't want to forget you, too.

Frodo took a few running steps forward and fell into the bed, burrowed there with a soft groan. It still smelled of Merimac—salt and sun, spiced uisge and a whiff of pipeweed. Maybe he should have gone with him. Maybe he'd made a mistake, staying here. Maybe if he just closed his eyes, he could drift in a haze of tired lassitude and smell and touch, feel warm-soft comfort and hard, fierce caresses. For moments he would have given anything—even the loveliness of the day and the consolation of this room that was so quickly becoming his—to feel those brown, broad arms about him once more, to hear the deep hum of his cousin's voice.

Maybe Merimac was as tired of people leaving him as Frodo himself was…

That made it worse, that he might have somehow hurt Merimac as much as himself, and the tears started then, a hot flood against the cool pillows. He lay there for a long time, quivering and mute, miserable and aching, then a flicker of light flitted into his consciousness, and a hesitant voice resounded into the painful solitude.

"Frodo?"

For moments Frodo didn't answer, conflicted. He felt that he should show at least some happiness for Bilbo—surely Bilbo had dealt with enough strangeness from his guest in the past week—but it felt like a betrayal of Merimac, also. Impasse thumped in his chest, beating in time with his heart, rising up into his throat and strangling him all but mute.

Silence. A barely-heard pad of feet against the floor, the lamp flickering closer, and Frodo tensed.

"You're going to miss him. That's only understandable." Bilbo's voice was soft; the lamp was set on the head on the bed. Frodo couldn't believe what was being said, couldn't react for bare moments as Bilbo continued, "But I'm glad you're staying here. I've… become quite used to you, if you must know."

He knew his face was tear-stained and swollen; the fact didn't halt Frodo from turning to Bilbo in pure astonishment.

Bilbo's glasses were still on his nose; he looked over them at Frodo. His arms were crossed over his chest, the index finger of his right hand smudged and ink-stained as it tapped at one rolled-up sleeve. "I do hope," he said, somewhat haltingly, "that you aren't regretting your decision to stay."

Frodo kept staring at him, still mute.

"I really think that you belong here more than you belong on the River. For now, anyway," was the quick clarification. "I don't mean to presume… you might change your mind in another season's time, I know."

Finally, vocal cords let loose their throttle hold over Frodo's throat. "I'm… not sorry. That I stayed."

Bilbo's smile was rather small, but it warmed Frodo and made his throat, perversely, close up once again. He looked down, and there was another short silence before Bilbo ventured, again slowly, "I wasn't sure that you would stay. I mean… I believed… Well."

Frodo's eyes stung, and more tears leaked down onto the linens. I don't know what I believed. I don't know what I want… where I should stay… where it is safe…

"I'm really tired, Uncle Bilbo." His voice was shakingly small, no matter he tried to make it strong and firm. "I think I'll just go to bed."

A pause, then a soft warmth of understanding in Bilbo's reply. "All right, lad. Sleep well. I've business with the miller come the morning—as you well know—but perhaps tomorrow eve we can finally keep our appointment at the pub?"

"I'd like that," Frodo said, and meant it.

* * * * * *

"Aye, and didn't all chaos break loose, then?"

"'Twas bound to happen… Sandyman's been running a cheap game, so he has, and them just waiting to collar him."

Breakfast dishes were clinking, the smell of sausages, eggs, and fresh bread hanging heavily pleasant. The Green Dragon was purely a-buzz, and had been since the previous afternoon when young Frodo Baggins had been looking through the Tithing roll and found that clumsily-scrawled and -added page of facts and figures.

The fox, as Gaffer Gamgee put it mildly, was in the chickens from then on. Hobbiton had been hopping with tales and speculations ever since.

"Don't you know it chafed miz Sackville-Bagginses' knickers to know that she had that young nephew of Bilbo's to thank for giving her the last piece of proof?" Old Daddy Twofoot put considerable pleasure into his observation. "She hates that lad and no surprise, given she covets the Hill so."

On the other side of the tall, carved partition bordering the old farmers, 'miz Sackville-Bagginses' only son sat up, eyes narrowing. The alcove he occupied was not normally his favourite spot, but when he'd arrived was one of the few available. He'd stayed last night with Reginard and a few other friends, walking to their smial in Bywater the previous evening by way of Bag End. Today they'd decided to have a second breakfast here at the Dragon—sustenance for Reg's journey back to the Tooklands as well as the other three lads, who had ridden away with him for a stay at Great Smials. Lotho had declined their invitation to continue with them as far as his own smial; he was loathe to go home yet and his parents were so wrapped up with the business about Sandyman that they'd not notice his late arrival anyway.

He had his own business to attend to.

So he sat, feet kicked up on the table and one large hand cradled about a diminutive book, his mug filled with bitter from a keg not five feet away from him. He was quite alone—even the pretty serving wench who had come round when all five lads had been at the table had assumed Lotho gone as well, which suited him to bone. Not only could he peruse his reading material more closely than he'd yet gotten a chance, but he could listen to what was being said—which had, truthfully, been boring until just now.

"I'm thinking that she and marster Otho's the ones as started that wager, sure as me pony's shoes 're iron," Twofoot continued.

"Wager?" This from one of the pub's regular old-timers, Harlan Bunce.

"Aye, there's wagers bein' laid all over Hobbiton, like, about how long it'll take the Squire to tame that wild Brandybuck cousin of his. Or if he even will."

A predatory smile lifted one side of Lotho's mouth. Taming.. oh yes, that particular idea appealed to him mightily.

"Be that as it may," the Gaffer suddenly inserted, rather obviously changing the subject, "it's also plain truth that miz Lobelia's been trying to persuade the Squire for months that Sandyman's been shorting the grinding. Who'd've thought he'd be keeping his ill-gotten gains logged in the Tithing rolls, of all places?"

"Wa-aal, old Sandy's not the brightest tool in the shed."

"He's a sight more smart than he should be if it makes him a copper extra," retorted the Gaffer. "Some hobbits can't see proper doings as hits 'em, not when they stand to gain from it."

Lotho rolled his eyes at the gardener's moralising. As if there was something wrong with proper gain?—did the old codger work for free? Lotho took another pull from his mug, found it empty and scowled. He had already had quite a few more than was normally his wont in the morning—due to the timbre and tone of the conversation so far—but he quietly snuck over to the keg and got himself another, for it didn’t look as if the talk would get any more pleasant soon, even if informative. The smoke wafting over the partition signified that the old busy-bodies had finished their breakfast and settled in for a good long stay; Lotho also settled back into place, sipping at the strong Southern bitter and listening as he flipped through well-thumbed pages. The book's leather cover had started to fray; dampness loosening the binding just inside the front cover. Idly, he picked at it.

"Aye, that's the truth," Twofoot concurred sourly. "Sandy's a scraper, no denying that—an' his son's not much better. Allus trying to 'improve' things at that mill—remember two years ago, that young sprout wanting to put some log jam across the Water, make the mill run faster?"

"Aye, and make folks as us lack the water we were needing for the irrigation!" another old timer inserted angrily—he sounded like Gim Tunnelly, one of the farmers from down-Water. Lotho remembered Ted Sandyman's idea, and still wondered why those ignorant, hardscrabble bottom-landers would object to an idea that would curb the regular flooding of their lands. His mother and father, on the other hand, had thought Ted quite mad and had gone on for over a week about such a move's effect on land fertile with bottom silt, and other things Lotho hadn't quite comprehended. Usually his parents were for progress and willing to count the cost; in this case Lotho had kept his opinions to himself.

"New-fangled notions!" Twofoot hawked and spat; from the ring that followed he'd hit his target, a brass pot left out specifically for that purpose. "Marster, he set 'im straight over that, he did, and the Sackville-Bagginses sided with the Squire for a change."

Lotho ran his fingers over the book in his hands, still listening.

"Well, they stood to lose from it, just like they stood to lose from this. The best of this, now? That jumped-up tinker of a miller can't squirm out from under, not this time." Tolman Cotton had just recently joined the small group of do-gooders. The father of the Cotton brood had a voice that was oft best used across a forty acre field, but he held it constrained so that it did not, as was its wont, carry throughout the room. "And mister Bilbo is tending to Sandyman, he and the Mayor."

And Mother and Father, Lotho added silently, sullenly.

"He's down there now, then?" the Gaffer said curiously. "Mister Bilbo asked me to be there, to bear witness."

"He's not there yet, no. You've time to finish your drink, Gaffer," Cotton reassured. "The Squire was still speaking to Hi at the crossing, waiting for Otho and his missus before he went downHill."

"I thought you was to join 'em too, Tom," Bunce put in. "Represent the farmers."

"Th' Squire can do that, right enough. Truth to tell, Harley, I'm so mad at that Sandyman I can't even look at him without wanting to smash his gob in. Better the Squire tend to him now, and I say about time."

"Past time, true," Tunnelly put in dourly. "But all they had was miz Lobelia's word, and that female'd find it easy to bear false if it meant a few more coppers in her own till."

Lotho snarled silently, his fingers picking at the book with growing ire and impatience.

It was no surprise when the Gaffer interceded. He liked his gossip, but there was a definite line he drew at—usually when his employers were involved. "Now, Harley, time has proven that miz Lobelia's witness on this was true enough. Her and mister Otho's relatives down the Southfarthing were involved—they've been sending their grist and grind up here since their mill-wheel went over in that storm—and a lot of good plain folk here in Hobbiton besides. Now there's proof Sandyman was out and out cheating, and not just making the odd mistake here 'r there, we can see to him. Mister Bilbo, he's as fair a hobbit as ever walked, and he wanted to catch the miller with his hand in the till before he'd make any accusation."

Maybe now Sandyman would finally let Ted take over—he was a lot more likely, nearly of age, and willing to do a good deal for his friends, of which Lotho was one.

"Too soft-hearted, the Squire is," Twofoot groused. "Lookit now, him taking that orphan Brandybuck in. Plenty of heart but no sense. If that lad's too wild for river-folk, then he' en't gonter set to in Hobbiton."

"And the lad carrying on with that older cousin of his, right out in the open," hmphed the Gaffer. "No sense of propriety, I say. I mean, lads will be lads, and better letting off that sort of steam with their own than ploughing some lass' field and coming up with fruit they can't rightfully provide for as of yet." A pause, no doubt for a pull of ale. "But not proper a-tall, so brazen-like, and with that cousin old enough to be siring his own lads rather than tupping them."

Lotho's fingers clenched on the little book. It snapped shut and leather gave with a small squeak, lost in the normal clatter, buzz and hum of the pub. Well, he knew for a fact that bloody riverhobbit was gone—and good riddance!

"Now, I've heard 'tis common practice on the river for elder to take younger in hand, teach 'em up proper," said Bunce. "Not a bad thing, that. Diff'rent ways in different farthings. Even in the Tooklands 'tis so, and if we show the rough of our tongue to Tookish custom, then we en't respecting our Thain as we ought."

"Thain's a proper gentlehobbit," agreed the Gaffer. "Mister Paladin got over his wild ways and grew up respectable."

"Even for a Took," chuckled Cotton. "Eh, lads are lads. If that young Frodo's carrying on with his cousin, he's at least taking out his tween randiness with someone as can temper it, and not hearkening off into other mischief. And staying out of our sons' knickers!" he added slyly.

Lotho sneered, sipped his drink. Not if Cotton's son had his way… he'd seen the way that uppity young snot had eyed Frodo during supper. That wasn't to his liking, not at all. Frodo had changed somewhat since he'd come from Buckland—no doubt he'd learned entirely too much from that old river-rat—but he'd heard plenty of talk over the past few days, and there were just as many hobbits who weren't prey to that big-eyed changeling's charms. More important, how many of them would really stand behind him if it came to cases?

The Gaffer snorted. "Well, all my sons're either too old or too young for that sort of foolishness, thank the Mother. Not that they'd step up to the likes of that Brandybuck lad, 'tennyrate."

"Your Daisy was willing to step up to him in the dancing," Cotton joshed. "And May."

"And your Rosie," Bunce poked slyly at Cotton, "with her only thirteen! Tom seems a bit taken as well."

"Taken? My lad has been too taken, truth be told, with the pull of his bollocks," Cotton chuckled agreement. "But Rosie, aye, my girl's too curious and cheeky for her own good. Her mum gave her what-for about being interested in things beyond her, but it's what comes of living in a house full of lads, I'm afraid. Gaffer here's got the same problem but all opposite, like, with his young lad in a house full of maids!"

"Pshaw, young'uns are drawn to anything new—bairn or tween, that never changes!" the Gaffer snorted. "It'll wear off. Particularly with the Brandybuck being so odd-looking. May's just old enough to think she is old enough, but she en't, and she'll mind. Daisy's nigh to sensibility and I've no worries—she knows her place. She did what was proper and expected, nothing more. He was given the neck, after all."

"That Brandybuck's too young to be serious with any gel, 'tennyrate," Bunce inserted, "and as for the Ploughing? He's likely enough for that, odd or no. Barely ripe's best in a lad—like your boy this last turning, Tom—th' young laird should be old enough to be able for the need, but young enough to not get tight-bound into it."

"Such as what happened in the Tooklands," Twofoot grunted unhappily. "I recall that as if 'twas yesterday. With the Thain and his wife?"

Lotho sighed, once again becoming bored with the trend of conversation.

"A blessing in disguise, that was," Cotton censured lightly. "The young laird took his maid to wife and the Tooklands have prospered greatly."

"They didn't prosper that harvest year, not then," Twofoot insisted. "Marster Paladin was too old as was proper for the honour. He and miz Eglantine made a bairn instead of the barley, and it was a lean year because. Just like the harvest that Sackville-Baggins boy made—miz Laurelinda Chubb has a pretty maid-child that I'm sure she's glad marster Lotho can't lay claim to, but the harvest suffered."

No longer bored, Lotho gritted his teeth. He'd thought himself long past irritation at that stupid cousin of Reginard's kindling a babe when they'd both been asked to make the Ploughing—surely she could have prevented such a thing if she'd been bright enough! But with Reginard constantly needling him about it, and now these old coots bringing up things long done… and Frodo bloody Baggins being led, like some young stallion to his first service, toward next spring's blessing time…

"Old Dad, now you know there's no shame in a festival-gotten bairn," Bunce chided. "Sometimes the making is that powerful."

"Aye, p'rhaps, but it still en't proper, for a lad to claim what the land made," Twofoot insisted. "At least young marster Lotho never tried to, unlike marster Paladin with the bairn that came of his making… and he's gotten his due for claiming what wasn't his. I hear that lass Pearl's rank as they come."

"Old Dad," Cotton said sternly, but the old hobbit was obviously on a tear. He spat and continued.

"It's just the truth that the couple needs to do their duty and leave it only at that. Bad things happen when they don't heed the honour. It's wrong to forget your place and take what's not your'n. Harley's right—younger's best for the harvest laird—no one lad should think himself able to claim what comes of the making, bairn or barley. Indecent, that's what it is."

"Old Dad," Bunce tried to intercept as well.

"And I say it's not proper a-tall, what's happened this year. Giving the honour to some young troublemaker of a riverhobbit that likely won't even be here come next harvest. Widow should've not accepted the choice or given the neck to that Brandybuck, he's not one of our'n--"

"The Widow knows best," Cotton interrupted, the censure in his voice quite firm and carrying. "Leave female ways to their own, Old Dad! Don't be poking in where you shouldn't go."

A short silence. Even Lotho, out of sorts as he was with the Widow's blessing choice, was startled by Twofoot's bald criticism of it.

"Eh, old Dad, no worries," the Gaffer said quietly. "Those riverhobbits en't about to let him tarry too far outside his own like, so young master Frodo won't be able to claim what comes of any of it."

"Well, I think it speaks well of the Brandybuck," Bunce said. "He took the honour with a fair grace, if you ask me, and then dancing with the common-folk as well as his own at the Tithing. He's a bit queer, to be sure, but he's polite and well-spoken to his elders. I sure've seen nothing to convince me Frodo Baggins is all that wild."

You haven't seen him like I have. Lotho's fingers turned caressing on the book, thinking of rainwater, and dark curls twisted wet, pale skin gleaming, and a graceful arch of neck thrown skyward, quivering. He shifted in his chair.

"I hope you're right, Harley, because he en't got that cousin about to ride herd on him any longer," said Twofoot. There was a surprised mutter which Lotho sneered at—he'd known—and Twofoot said, "Aye, didn't you see the riverhobbit ride away yesterday? I heard he's back off to his boat. Brr… boats! En't natural, that. Riding the water? One day that RiverMarster cousin of Bilbo's will end up just like marster Drogo and his Brandybuck wife, you mark my words."

If only that river-rat would drown, curse him. Taking what was not his. Kindling fire in the rainy night, engendering gasps and groans through parted lips all stung with need and kisses, making fingers clutch fiercely about wood, knees clench about thrusting hips… making those lips beg for…

Lotho lurched upward, barely saved his chair from falling over and announcing his presence. Fury and thwarted need stiffened him from nape to knees; he marched over to the bitters keg and pulled himself another, downed it, poured again.

"Well, queer or no, water or no, playmate cousin or no, Harley's got it right," Cotton slowly ventured. "The lad was sure at the clean-up yesterday, which none of those other fancy-breeks of mister Bilbo's family would even put their hands to, you must say."

Assuming we should? Lotho's finger clenched against the damp pottery as he filled it one more time and came back to the table, putting his mug beside the book he'd been focused with. You dirt-grubbing fool—landowner or no, you're nothing but common stock, through and through!

"Master Frodo's done us all a good turn, finding those notes and figures of Sandyman's. And when he didn’t have his nose stuck in the registers, he was working his arse off," Cotton continued. "He might be scrawny and too inclined to books and foolishness, but he tucked in alongside my lads nonetheless."

"Mm. Then he's more like to old Bilbo than most, and while the Squire might not be no proper hobbit, he does properly by all us hobbits here, and no mistake!" Bunce said with a thump of his fist on the table. Dishes clinked. "Book-learnin' or no, anyone who'll throttle that no-good Sackville-Baggins snot has earned his spurs."

Slow heat flamed Lotho's cheeks; lurching forward, he made a grab for his mug. Ale sloshed onto the book; he swiped at it irritably, halted as the cover, wrested from its place by the injudicious movement, unfolded itself at the top.

A round of murmured acknowledgment came from the group of hobbits on the other side of the partition.

"Aye," admitted Twofoot, "that showed spunk. And him half the size of miz Lobelia's boy."

"En't the size of the dog in th' fight, but the size of the fight in the dog," the Gaffer also agreed. "But that can be to the good or the bad."

Enough was enough. It was tempting to just burst in on their little party, let them know that he'd heard them talking so; a bunch of common nobodies rattling their jaws about his business. Lotho opened the book cover, intending merely to shove the thing back together somehow so he could fit it back into his pocket. Instead the inside of the cover peeled away, halting him mid-gesture. There was a pocket there, one that had been hidden by the leather binding, glued over. He peered at it, stuck inquiring fingers into the small pocket. Several thin edges of… something… met his probe; eagerly he dug them out, the pocket ripping slightly at his haste. Several well-flattened parchments slid out, one skittering through his grasp to fall down between his feet.

"That Lotho's a mean 'un. Got his own people fooled, but I know better," Twofoot spat again, ringing the brass soundly.

Slowly Lotho set the book aside, bent down to pick up the parchment from near his toes, placed the others carefully on the table. What could this possibly mean? Why would the things be hidden away so?

"And wasn't he watching the Brandybuck lad at the Tithing, eh?" Tunnelly said about a mouthful of something. "Like he wanted to eat him alive."

Bunce grunted. "No surprise there. Between that boy getting Lotho booted from the Hall and all the stories about young Frodo likely being mister Bilbo's—"

A small, angry reaction flittered toward the edge of Lotho's consciousness, responding to the words being spoken on the other side of the partition. But the rest of his awareness was intent on the book and its sudden surprise, rapt as a preying hawk just before the dive.

"Now that's stuff and nonsense!" spluttered the Gaffer.

"Well, there was talk. And between the likelihood of the lad being sired by some elf-prince or Bilbo Baggins, I'll take the latter, thank'ee kindly. Lad's too normal-sized to be naught but hobbit-bred, anyway."

One after the other, Lotho opened and scanned the parchments. He didn't fully decipher the words—he was not a strong reader and there were three of them, covered in a fine, learned script. But he didn't have to. The meaning was clear enough.

"Eh," Cotton inserted after a drink, "you've raised enough stock, Harlan, you know that it's just as likely for the boy to take after his dam's side even if he was sired by something larger than is proper."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Tom, you surely don't believe that!" the Gaffer expostulated. "You sound like my boy, full of all that elf foolishness—but Samwise is just a bairn yet—you should know better!"

"I'm just saying it en't impossible. The boy is… unlikely looking, and that's the truth."

Lotho was all but oblivious, his cheeks heating and his breath accelerating as he read, carefully, the parchment script.

"The boy," Bunce said flatly, "looks like Bilbo's ever-so-great grandmother, Dora Took-Baggins, and that's the truth, because I'm old enough to remember her."

The Gaffer snorted. "Well, you old picks can sit here and banter that moonshine all you want. I'd best get to the Hill."

There was a small chorus of parting comments, which died to a quiet as the Gaffer left.

"And wouldn't that just stick in that old Otho's craw, eh?" A snicker from Twofoot. "The Brandybuck lad, Bilbo's own son?"

I… don't… think so. Lotho's hands were shaking as he folded the papers back into neat, time-flattened rectangles. With inordinate care, he tucked the papers into his breast pocket, the book into his coat. Drink and satisfaction mingled pleasurably within him, made his lips twist into a soft smile.

Silently as a mousing cat, he slid out the smoky back of the Dragon and into the light of day.