[Arry]

The tea kettle came round and his cup was filled once again. The hot liquid rushed down his throat, the heat of it seeming to tingle at his toes as he wriggled them in his boots. Blessed be the simple pleasures, he chuckled as he sat the now half empty again mug on the table.

It was Buttercup that brought his meal. A delightful lass with a generous smile and sparkling eyes. ‘My thanks, Mistress,’ he told her as she placed the platter of meat and taters before him. The peas and carrots winked at him from their buttery sauce, but he stayed his hand. Turning in his chair to the West, he closed his eyes, and fell into a moment of silence, his lips moving in some short, imperceptible phrase. Then, with a nod and a will, he tucked into his meal. And the savoriness of the simple offering before him was echoed by delight which shown on his face.

Mid-bite, he noted a curious fellow at the table next to him. Bold for Gentle-hobbit, he thought, as the older gentleman stared at him with his sharp eyes. Bird-like eyes. No, not a bird, but rather the bright considering eyes of a more acquisitive animal. The sharp face of a rat flitted through his mind. The Hobbit’s bright green vest and just-so, tidy white shirt could not hide the nature that lurked within, nor could the false charm that settled like a mask on his face. ‘Best not entangle in any deals with that one’, he thought. ‘A shrewd trader, I’m thinking,’ as he watched the man assess him with a calculating look. ‘And the scales would always tip to his side, by hook or crook.’

A quick motion at the periphery of his vision drew his attention back to the tree. The small shadow stood up from its crouch over the tree’s root, and now ascended once again. Alwin smiled, hoping the coin would bring the other what comfort cold metal could.

Buttercup had come round again, nodding at him in approval as he sopped up the last of the gravy with the final wedge of bread. ‘You’re too tall for a Hobbit, sir,’ she said, smiling wide at him. ‘But to be sure, you’ve got a Hobbit’s appetite!’ He laughed outright at her words, and she rejoined with a challenge. ‘Now, don’t prove me wrong, sir. We’ve apple pie and bread pudding. Which one can I bring you?’ Much to her delight, he did not disappoint her. He asked for a bowl of the pudding.

He was not disappointed when it arrived – sweet and tasty and studded with plump currants, like dark jewels on a field of white velvet. She brought a small pitcher of clotted cream, and poured a generous portion over the sugar-crusted top of it.

With a sigh of further pleasure to be encountered, he sank his spoon into the midst of it.