[Envinyatar]

‘Let me get you a glass of cold cider.’ Derufin looked with alarm at Zimzi, with her face all flushed, her long hair all gone astray, and the little coronet of ivy leaves and berries from the children all askew. ‘Here sit down, my dear,’ said Cook, pushing a nearby chair behind the young woman.

Zimzi welcomed the mug of cold liquid. She took a few sips, then held its cool sides to her cheeks. ‘No,’ I’m not ill,’ she said in response to a chorused question from both of them. ‘I’ve just escaped being quite thoroughly appraised by that group of ladies over there,’ she said pointing toward where her mother and the Hobbits had once again resumed their conversation. ‘All of them, including my mother.’ She reached up to pat Derufin’s hand that lay assuringly on her shoulder. ‘I do have to tell you that you came off quite well. A friendly, helpful, overgrown Hobbit!’

Cook grinned as Zimzi spoke. ‘Well, one day you’ll be doing the same for your daughter,’ she said laughing at the look on Zimzi’s face. ‘For now, let’s get you pulled back to together. Then I’ll go get the cake and bring it out. Sam’ll know what to do after that.’ Derufin brought her another cool drink as Cook brushed back Zimzi’s hair with her quick, nimble fingers. ‘There you go,’ Cook said approvingly, placing the leafy wreath back on Zimzi’s head. ‘Now you two get over there, by those elms just the other side of the dancing area. The mayor will be over shortly.’

Derufin gave Zimzi his hand and pulled her to her feet. ‘Just what do mothers discuss?’ he asked. ‘Or is it some secret that’s kept from the men . . . like that punch the Grannies guard so well?’

Zimzi leaned in close to him and whispered in his ear. Derufin’s eyes went wide for a moment then he laughed. ‘Oh my! I should have remembered the talks my own mother and her friends would have when they gathered at one of the houses to card wool. They would have skinned me alive had they known I was listening in!’ He looked over to the group of ladies; the old Gammer was nodding at something Zimzi’s mother had said.

‘Let them talk of sheep and hips and grandbabies. It makes them happy.’ He twirled her about and kissed her lightly on her still pinked cheek. ‘Today’s our day, my dear Zimziran, Beloved Jewel.’ He pulled her along quickly, her slender hand grasped tight by his. ‘There’s the elm bower . . . and look! Cook is bringing out the cake.’