[Lalwendë]

Jinniver felt relieved and sighed lightly. Aman, as she now knew the innkeeper to be named, had asked her about whther she wouldlike to take a room for the night. The sensation of falling into a soft featherbed and sleep briefly passed through her mind, and she said that yes, she would like to stay at the inn.

“Aman, you have been most kind. I must give you a little something.” she said, reaching into the bucket of flowers. She pulled out a bunch of bright red poppies, allowing the drips of water to fall onto her own lap, to avoid making a mess of the table. Aman made to refuse the gift politely, but Jinniver spoke before she could say any more.

“I have had a difficult day. Another inn I passed along the way was not able to give me lodging. I fear I might have been a little too….rustic for them. So you must have these in token of thanks. They are grown from seed brought all the way from the Rohan,” she said, her smile fading a little as she remembered the man who had given her the seeds from which she now grew these delicate nodding flowers. “They are unlike ordinary poppies, they will brighten your parlour for some days, if you wish to place them there.”

She grew these flowers now not just for their beauty, but also to remember the life she had lived years before. It gave her joy to see them nodding in the grassy meadow she kept for their nursery, and others also loved to see them in full flower. Many of the Breelanders came asking for bunches of them. Once a handsome dark-haired elf on his travels had stopped to paint a picture of the poppy field. He had allowed her to stand by and watch as he worked. She did not know what was more wonderful, the poppies, the smooth hands of the elf or the painting he made.

As she was handing the flowers to Aman, Jinniver noticed that the stems of the poppies were a little straggly, and drew her dagger from the pouch on her belt, to trim them, so they would be perfect. She swiftly nicked the uneven inch or so from the bottom and then passed the flowers to Aman, who thanked her kindly for the gift.

Jinniver relaxed back into her seat, and removed her old brown cloak. Much as she disliked the cloak, she carefully folded it as it was the only one she had at the moment. She looked around at the interesting crowd of people. She saw finely dressed elves, a stern man, and a hooded figure sitting furtively in one corner. Two women sat with a hobbit. One of the women wore a cloak that seemed much worse than her own and she told herself sternly that she was very fortunate and shouldn’t dream so much of fine things.

She still felt as though people may be staring at her, wondering what could have brought a rustic like her into this inn, so she pushed her chin out a little more firmly and tried to look as though she belonged there. But if anyone had been looking at her, it might have been the dagger which she had carelessly left lying on the table that caught their eyes. Its handle was wrapped up in webbing - which Jinniver had wound around it as it was finely carved, and she did not want to spoil it - but the blade was made of an unusual shining black metal which glimmered like a dancing black spark in the firelight.