[Primrose Bolger]

An odd sound assaulted Ginger’s ears as she stood at the kitchen’s sink. The door swung open from the Common Room and in came Miz Bunce, humming to herself in a decidedly off key manner. Cook nodded at her as she bustled to the hearth and gave a stir to the stew bubbling lazily in the big kettle. ‘Only a few more days,’ Cook said looking over at Ginger. ‘And I must say you have been quite a treasure – what with all your helping with the desserts and taking a hand in the garden.’ Resting the long wooden spoon on the pot lid, she ambled over to where Ginger was just putting the last of the flowers into the small stoneware vase. ‘Oh, now, what’s this?’ she asked, her eye taking in the riot of color and form.

‘They’re for you!’ Ginger said smiling and holding the vase out to her. When Cook began to thank her she shook her head, saying how it was Gwenneth who’d fixed the bouquet for her. Cook buried her nose in the blossoms and took a whiff of their sweet scent. ‘You thank her for me, won’t you?’ Ginger went on to say what a great help Gwenneth had been with the flower garden at the front of the Inn. And how she was wondering if there might be anything else she could turn a hand to.

Cook had just begun saying how they could use another server for supper, when a raucous sound assailed their ears. Ginger ran to the door and peeked into the common room, her eyes searching for the source. ‘It’s a cat, Miz Bunce. And he appears to sitting square in the middle of the bar, meowing.’

Ginger was sent out to see to the cat. He’d stopped his loud yowl watching her closely as she approached him. His manner was not like those farmyard tabbies she was familiar with and so she avoided calling out, ‘Here kitty, kitty!’ to him. He seemed . . . well, a bit lordly-like, she thought. And eyeing her in a thoughtful manner, too; as if sizing her up. Instead, she stopped a few paces from him and bobbed a small curtsy.

‘I’m Ginger,’ she said in a courteous tone, introducing herself. She could feel the stares of those patrons nearby at her back. It was a bit odd speaking to a cat, but he seemed to follow her words as she invited him into the kitchen for a small bowl of minced meats and perhaps a saucer of milk. ‘Or would that be a saucer of ale, Master Puss?’ she amended, wondering if that were a whiskery sneer she was seeing on his face.

She held the door open for the self possessed feline, waving him into the kitchen. ‘Mind you,’ she whispered as he drew near the door. ‘Don’t track any dirt on Cook’s floor. She’ll have your hide for it!’ Ginger stifled a giggle as the cat looked up at her. ‘Begging your pardon! Didn’t mean to offend!’ the Hobbit offered. ‘Oh! And don’t bother the old tabby that sleeps on the hearth. She’s the Inn’s ‘retired’ mouser. And Cook’s little pet.’

Ginger eyed the cat as he walked past her and into the kitchen. ‘Cook!’ she called out, pointing to the furry guest. ‘Here’s the source of the noise. Come in for a bite to eat, I think.’ She grinned at Cook as the cat made his way to the center of the room. ‘Think we might make a place for him?’ she asked. ‘There’s more work than old Tabby can handle, don’t you think?’ The old cat on the hearth raised her head for a brief moment, yawned, and went back to sleep. ‘Perhaps he can keep the mice in line down in the cellar and in the pantry.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And didn’t Mister Derufin say the mice were getting into the horse’s oats in the stable?’

Cook nodded as the lass spoke; her hands were busy setting down a generous bowl of chopped chicken from the stew pot, moistened with a bit of gravy. A small saucer of milk was set near it, as well as a small bowl of water. The two Hobbits stepped back, then, waiting for the cat’s verdict on the offered meal.