[piosenniel]

Zimzi walked in the shadows, avoiding the paths and road to the Inn as often as she could. She did not care to have news of her ‘escape’ get back to Cook or to Amaranthas, with whom she was to spend the next few days until her family arrived.

They had talked flowers and the meanings of flowers all day long as Amaranthas had walked her through her gardens. The flowers for the bouquet had been discussed and agreed upon and they’d begun to sketch out the little pots of flowers that would grace the tables for the party at the Inn. Mistress Aman, directed Amaranthas, the elderly gardener, must have a special corsage for her generous offer of the Inn for the handfasting. As must Cook. And all the young lasses who’d come to offer their services for the week should have lovely wreaths to show off as they danced at the party.

It had been a long, long day tramping about the wildly blooming rockeries and numerous little plantings at the old Hobbit’s home just east of Bag End. Some of Samwise’s children, the girls to be exact, had come over to see what was going on. They followed the two women like little hummingbirds, quick and light upon their feet as they darted in and out to touch the soft petals of the flowers and drink in the sweet scents with their noses. Amaranthas’ had tsk’d at them, but the fond glimmer in her eyes as she watched them told her true feelings. And there had been cookies and fresh milk from the little nanny goat at the end of the garden walk-through as they knew there would.

Now night had fallen and all on the hill it seemed were settling in for the night. She waited patiently until the dear old Hobbit had gone to sleep. Only a little while longer and she would be at the Inn. Just a small walk, a few stolen moments with Derufin, she reminded herself, a touching on how each other’s day had been. It was a little habit they had formed to clear away the frustrations that life naturally threw in one’s way. From a distance she noted a horse galloping full out down the Great East Road, the rider bent low over his steed's neck. She could not see who it might be, but she drew further into the shadows nonetheless to avoid being seen.

Avoiding the Inn itself, she circled round it, making her way to the old cottage at the edge of the grounds. From what she could see in the dim light of the new moon the work was coming along nicely. And what’s this, she said aloud, coming to the neglected garden plots that had stood at the front of the cottage and round the great tree that stood in the yard. Someone had been poking about in them it seemed . . . some animal perhaps foraging for greens she concluded. With a smile she knelt down near the one beneath the tree – in her imagination she looked on the half-done cottage and grounds with an artist’s eye, imagining how it would look all done and the flowers that would be there some day, all in bloom. She picked up a handful of soil and held it to her nose. It was rich and sweet, full of the promise of new growth.

From there she made her way to the stable. There at the rear, were the windows that looked in on Derufin’s quarters. They were dark, and there was no sight or sound of him as she drew near and entered through the small door to his rooms. Not daring more time or the chance of being seen should she look for him elsewhere, she retraced her steps to the door and was about to exit when she recalled the small posy she had brought to show him how her day was spent. On the small table by his cot, near his lamp, she placed the flowers in the mug he kept there for water. A small wealth of yellow violets for happiness, and here and there, sprigs of fragrant rosemary, for remembrance.

As an after thought, she unclipped the small mother-of-pearl brooch she wore on her cloak and nestled it among the violets, then took her leave, making her way in haste back to Amaranthas’ house before she would be missed.