[Arry]

‘Well, that’s the last of them!’ Tomlin put the cover on the last wooden crate, banging it on securely with a small hammer he’d found in a nearby box of tools. He sat down with a weary sigh and rubbed his temples. The effects of yesterday’s party were not quite gone, and he could feel the irritating thump of a headache, just waiting to flare up. ‘I suppose we’d best go up and see if Herself has anything more she wants us to do . . . or better yet, let’s hit her up for a second breakfast.’ There was no answer. Only the scraping and shoving of something heavy being moved. ‘Gil?’ he called out. ‘You there?’

The feeble slant of sunlight through one of the grimy cellar windows was hard put to push into the corners of the cellar. Tomlin stood up, narrowing his eyes as he tried to peer into the shadows.’

‘Oy! Tomlin! Over here!’ came Gil’s voice, though it was muffled. ‘Look what I’ve found!’

Tomlin followed the sounds, back to an ill lit, dusty little hidey hole deep under the stairs that led up to the kitchen. Gil had found a small candle lantern, lit it, and hung it from a bent nail beneath the stair riser. From the curtain of cobwebs he’d dragged out a large, round-topped wooden chest with a large metal clasp on it, secured by a rusty looking padlock. Gil’s eyes sparkled as he motioned Tomlin closer. ‘Looks like some sort of treasure chest, doesn’t it?’ Gil said. ‘Get that old mop handle over there. Let’s see if we can break this old lock.’

The two Hobbits slipped the long oak handle through the shackle and levered down on it with all their muscle. They were rewarded by a jangle of metal as the lock swung open and hung free. The lock was quickly removed altogether and the top of the chest heaved open. Gil grabbed the candle lantern and held it expectantly over the chest. No glint of gold or gems leapt forth – just a tumble of clothes in velvets and linens and ruffles. Hats with feathers and leather bands . . . and more common types of clothes. And all of them in a tiny size.

‘Who do you think these belong to?’ asked Tomlin, holding a little grey cloak up. From neck to hem it was no longer than the length of his forearm. Gil had knelt down by the trunk and was digging through it, still in hopes of finding a few coins or jewels. ‘Hunh!’ he said, as he reached the bottom. ‘I think they belong to these . . .

He stood up carefully, his hands at waist height, strings hanging from them, and at the end danced a cleverly carved little marionette . . .