The hand-fasting begins . . .
Ruby and Buttercup had earlier brought out a small table that now stood to the side of the little alcove of elms. A plain little table of common oak they’d found down in the cellar. They’d brought it up and cleaned it and found a pretty white cloth to put over the top. They’d borrowed the inkwell and quill from the Inn and placed it carefully on the white cloth, along with the blotter. Sam had been the one to place the large, thick, green leather-bound journal on the table, opening the pages of it to the first one that wasn’t all filled. He ran his finger over the last entry, smiling at the remembrance of the couple, Hob Proudfoot and Gillyflower Chubb, who’d last put their names here. Sam wrote the month, day, and year on the next line, leaving room for Derufin and Zimzi to sign.
The band was still playing and many of the guests were still engaged in eating and drinking and talking with old friends and new. Sam motioned for the couple to come over to the table. ‘This is the part of the whole thing that really makes it official, so to speak.’ He pointed to the line where they were to put their names. ‘You each sign here. Your name and where you’re from will be fine. I’ve put the date here, you see. Then I’ll sign after you . . . and well, that’s it, really. You’re Mister and Missus.’ Zimzi signed first, writing out her full name, Zimziran, of Lindon. She handed the quill to Derufin, smiling as she did so. Derufin, of Ringlo Vale, he penned in a scrawl, the nib of the pen leaving a small splotch at the end. ‘It’s alright, Mister Derufin,’ Sam assured him. ‘It makes it easy to find if anyone needs to look it up, don’t you think?’ Sam blotted their names, then signed his with a firm hand beneath the two.
Zimzi’s family had come up quietly and crowded in to watch the signing. And now that the couple and Sam had finished and the book was shut, many of the partygoers had drawn near to watch the public part of the ritual. Sam had taken the small coil of twine from his breast pocket and was just beginning to ask the two to hold out their right arms to him, and would Mistress Zimzi put her wrist atop Derufin’s. A quiet, but insistent cough to his left from Cook stopped him.
‘Right,’ he said nodding as he palmed the little coil of twine. ‘The rings . . .’
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