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‘I think perhaps that we should be heading back,’ Zimzi said, nudging Derufin with her elbow. ‘We’ve a roomful of mathoms to clear away if you hope ever to have a meal cooked in our own kitchen.’ She pulled her shawl about her shoulders, watching him as he drained the last of his mug.

Derufin grinned impishly at her as he leaned back in his chair. ‘You cook? You actually cook?’ Before the last words were out of his mouth he jumped quickly from his chair, nearly knocking it over. Zimzi had a dangerous glint in her eye and a soup bowl at hand.

She laughed at his ungraceful exit form the chair. ‘You didn’t really expect me to crash this on your thick skull, did you . . . my dear?’

The others at the table egged Derufin on. It was after all a grey, rainy day, and a little entertainment was appreciated. But he disappointed them by apologizing for his rash remark . . . though he meant it only in jest, he assured her.

‘Cold rations for you today, Mister Derufin,’ joked Gil, his friends joining in on his laughter.

‘Not a bad idea, Master Gil,’ Zimzi returned winking at the Hobbit, who blushed a bright crimson at her attention. ‘But, I’m afraid it will be cold rations for both of us if we do not get back and get those things stowed away.’

They said their good-byes and headed out toward the groundskeeper’s cottage. It was sprinkling on and off, and Zimzi draped her shawl up over her head. Soon they had reached the little path that led from the stable to the cottage and turned up it. They were nearing one of the little patches of flower garden when Zimzi stopped suddenly, a perplexed look on her face.

‘What do you see?’ asked Derufin, narrowing his eyes at the scene before them. It all looked about the same to him as when they’d left.

‘That tree there,’ Zimzi said, pointing to the hawthorn that stood with branches outstretched over the new little plantings. ‘I’m very sure it wasn’t there when we left the cottage this morning.’

Derufin shrugged his shoulders. He honestly could not recall a tree or no tree, for that matter. ‘Well, it looks harmless enough,’ he commented, putting his hands on her shoulders and propelling her toward the covered porch. ‘The rain’s picking up. Let’s get inside.’ He took one last look back at the hawthorn. It looked normal enough . . .