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Jinniver had been offered a comfortable seat straight away by a woman who appeared to be the innkeeper. “Can I get you anything, Miss…..?” she asked, smiling. Jinniver recognised the business like smile of the trader, but something in this woman’s eyes was a little more honest, as though she was used to welcoming strangers. As though she enjoyed meeting strangers. Jinniver relaxed a little. It was always difficult to enter an inn alone, no matter how hungry and tired she was.
“Miss Cornthrift. Jinniver. You may call me Jinniver”, she extended her arm to shake the hand of the innkeeper and gave a warm, broad smile. Jinniver did not notice the dirt in her fingernails, and the innkeeper pretended not to see it, out of politeness.
“Am I late for supper? If you would be so kind enough, I could eat just about anything. And an ale, perhaps?” Jinniver was particularly looking forward to the ale she had heard so much about. Was it done for a woman to order ale in The Shire? She didn’t want to upset anyone. “Oh, and would there be room in your stable for a hungry cart horse? He’s a very placid animal,” she asked, thinking of her most faithful companion, Nutkin. She did not ask about the bed for herself, for she thought she had already asked for far too much at once.
Almost forgetting herself, she sniffed at the bunches of flowers, as if to emphasise how lovely they were. She hoped that it had been subtle, and she did not appear like any common trader. It was a trick she used often in Bree, and it seemed to work. She looked at the innkeeper, smiling.
“And what might your name be?”
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