[piosenniel]

A month later, and they had reached Minas Tirith and settled in for the while. Bird had stayed for a time, and they delighted in her company. But soon she grew restless, the confines of the city hemming her in she said. Bird left it to Pio to scour the library as she promised, while she took a pouch of coins and headed south and east, as she had been planning.

Another month passed before Pio unpacked all that had been brought back from the Shire. One of the last things looked through being the worn leather pack she had thrown into the corner of their bedroom. It was a fair autumn afternoon when she did so. Mithadan was at the docks, seeing to the Star – a trading voyage was soon to happen and he was finishing up the details of it. Gilly had bundled the twins up and taken them for a short stroll down to a friend’s house.

There were five books in the packet jammed at the bottom of the pack. Four were cloth bound and appeared to come each from a different part of the Shire. They were little logs that the post deliverers had kept over the years. Accounts of letters - who they had gone to and who had sent them; parcels that had been delivered; complaints that had been made; new routes that had been added. And interspersed among all these little notations were other items of interest – new babies; the deaths of family members, expected and unexpected; who was ill; who was in trouble; who was getting married; and on and on. All the little news that the postal deliverers were privy to. A wealth of information for someone who loved the history of things as Cami did.

It was the last book, leather bound and secured shut with a thin leather cord wrapped round it, that intrigued her. It looked as if it had been someone’s daily companion. The surface of the covers was worn smooth from much handling, and the leather edges that overhung the pages looked as if they had been grasped often, their rims stained darker from the oils of the fingers that had often held them in their grip.

She untied the cord and opened the front cover. Stuck against the front page was a dried yellow flower, five petalled set against its heart-shaped leaves. It stirred a memory in her, of Amaranthas’ garden, and the wood sorrel that grew in the shady areas beneath the trees.

Carefully turning the page and flower, Pio gasped as she saw the faded and familiar script on the second page. Heart pounding, she sat down on the edge of her bed, holding the journal open on her knees. Her fingers traced the lines of words on the page as she read them . . .