[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger was feeling a bit out of her depth. Wren’s eyes were swollen from tears; her voice choked. Her little hands twisted the napkin Ginger had given her in a hopeless manner. And Tim, here he was on the verge of tears himself, his voice all raspy. And him trying to be the big, brave man about it, trying to take care of his sister, himself, and his sense of pride.

The Hobbit sniffed back her own tears at their predicament and took a deep breath. ‘Well, Master Woodlock,’ she began, mastering her own quavery voice. ‘I had a good bit of work I thought you might help with today, at least. Mostly in the garden this morning. After that, I’m not sure . . .’

She heard Cook clumping up the wooden stairs from the cellar where she’d gone to fetch another ham to slice. Ginger’s face brightened as the knob to the fir door turned and the older Hobbit’s form stepped through, a fine smoked ham wrapped in a canvas carrying sling hanging from her right hand.

‘Cook’ll know what to do!’ she said with an assuring smile . . .