[Nurumaiel]

"I don't know how to read," said Marigold promptly, and without a hint of a blush of shame. "That is, I know how to read a little. I knows that says 'eggs,' and that says... to-ast... 'toast,' but I never learned to read very well. My papa tried to teach me once but I didn't pay very much attention, so he said I'd wait until I was older and not such a flighty little thing. I'd liked to learn more now, but..." She spread her hands out wide. "I have no papa to teach me."

Falco was struck by the odd way she regarded the death of her parents. She never burst into violent tears when she mentioned them, nor did her chin tremble and the tears fill her eyes, nor did she mention them as briefly as she could. She enjoyed talking about them, it seemed, and the way she spoke about them was loving and affectionate, with only the slightest hint of sorrow, so slight that it was barely perceptible. "But she is young," Falco thought, "and perhaps it does not touch her as deeply."

"Mr. Headstrong," she said, turning to him, "do you know how to read?"

"Why, yes, my little Miss Marigold," he said, with a smile. "I had a good friend in my youth, and we were always going about the Shire to collect old songs and stories. Most of them could be told by mouth, but sometimes there was a song that had just been made up one day, and never learned by anyone. Those songs we always found on little scraps of paper, and so it was necessary to be able to read. My parents never set to much store by the letters, but Fosco's parents, now, they were always trying to put a lot of knowledge in his head."

"Was your friend called Fosco?" Marigold cried, with a little smile of delight. "Do you know, that's one of my favourite names. I like to think that you had a friend who had my favourite name."

Falco stood up and went to stand behind Rory. He put his finger under the words and read them slowly. "Stew... and this says biscuits... there, you see, that's what you have sitting right before you."

Rory turned his eyes up to Falco, and they were shining at the idea of being able to tell what was served for supper by the little figures scratched on the piece of paper. "Will you teach me how to read?" he asked.

Falco blushed. "Why... er... you know, Rory, I'd like to, but I don't know how to begin. I'm such a confounded... er, rotten... teacher, that you'd learn it all backwards, I'm sure. I... er... well..." He paused, deeply embarrassed. "I... er... well... I don't know how to do it at all... I'd just make a mess of it... er..." He trailed off, and then set his eyes on the stew and biscuits. "Here, lad, why don't you eat your supper?" he said hastily. "I hate to sit at a table where the little ones aren't eating. Come along, lad and lassies, eat up."