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Snaveling watched in dismay as Aman retreated into herself. He knew well what it was like to live behind a mask, and could see the contours of the one that she was trying to wear, as well as the shape of her true feelings beneath it. He knew the ache of an unrequited affection, and was not unaware of the bitter irony of their situation. Her words came back to him: it is only Aman the Innkeeper who you came for. The truth of those words stung him deeply with shame and regret. He should not have returned to disturb the Innkeeper in her life, but the purpose of his quest gripped him so that he could not do other than come here. Here is where he had met Roa, here is where he had the best chance of finding her again.
Despite his wish to respect Aman’s privacy he was anxious for news of the Ranger, and it was only with the greatest effort of will that he was able to prevent himself from joining Aman at her meal and asking for more news. He did not wish to cause her any more grief, but he could tell that for the time being there was not way he could speak with her without making the situation worse. He cast about for another option, and his eyes landed upon one of the hobbit lasses working as a serving maid as she emerged from the kitchen, her tray laden with food. She was new to him but she seemed to know what she was about. It occurred to Snaveling that if Roa had come through the Inn recently, this hobbit lass would be sure to know about it. The fact that she was new also appealed to him, for perhaps she was not yet aware of his history at the Inn…
The room was growing warm so he removed his cloak and cast it upon an empty chair at a small table. Seating himself, he called out politely for the lass. She looked at him pertly and came to the table. “Would you like some supper, Sir?” she asked. A lifetime spent as a vagabond is hard to shake loose, and Snaveling was immediately wary of her tone, for in it he sensed some slight reluctance toward him. Was the lass aware that he was the cause of Aman’s distress?
He smiled at her. “As a matter of fact, yes, I would like some supper. But might I trouble you with a question first?” As he spoke he nudged a chair toward her with his foot by way of invitation. The lass did not sit down, but looked at him, her eyes slowly growing more serious.
“What would you like to know, sir?” was all she said.
“Well, for the first, your name if you don’t mind giving it to me. I am Snaveling.”
The lass’s eyes betrayed nothing at the mention of his name. She replied simply, “I’m called Ginger”
“Thank you, Ginger. I am looking for a friend of mine,” he began as carefully as he could. “A woman named Roa. She is a Ranger, quite young with red hair and green eyes,” his heart caught at the memory, “she was once a regular at the Inn, and may have been through here some months ago. Have you seen her?”
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