[Primrose Bolger]

The sun was climbing high into the sky as Ginger leaned on the handle of her hoe and surveyed her handiwork in the garden. The hills of potatoes were nicely padded now with straw and all the weeds between the rows had been pulled out and a nice little system of furrows made between to the plants to channel the water. As she’d gone along, she picked a basket of vegetables for the evening meal. Cook had been simmering some pieces of old hen in the large soup kettle, with a bouquet of herbs and a fat yellow onion. She’d asked Ginger to bring in a basket filled with taters, carrots, peas, snap beans, and parsnips. Ginger sighed, knowing that all these vegetables would need to be cleaned and diced for the soup.

As she glanced around the vegetable garden, she decided her work with it was done for the day. The herb garden was smaller and would take less time – weeds did not seem to spring up in it so readily for some reason. And then of course there were the flower plantings to be seen to, but that would be a task to her delight. Ginger loved working with flowers; they were so pretty, she thought, and delicate. And so delightful to smell. These last two bits of gardening would have to wait, she decided. She was a bit hungry, and thirsty for something other than well water. Ginger walked to the tool shed and put the hoe away, thinking now of a cool glass of tea and a nice sticky bun.

In through the kitchen door she went, careful to wipe her feet on the rug before she entered. The kitchen was empty for the moment, though down the cellar stairs she could hear the sound of hammering and the slightly off key whistling of various tunes. Lunch was laid out along the cupboard, waiting to be prepared a little later in the morning – hams and cheeses to be sliced for sandwiches, crisp lettuce from the garden early that morning draining in the colander in the sink, mustards, pickles, and there on racks, cookies cooling. Ginger sat her basket of vegetables by the sink, then nosed about for a stray sticky bun. A plate of them stood on the kitchen table covered with a clean cloth and she took two big fat ones on a bright blue plate she’d gotten from the cupboard.

Now all she needed was a cool glass of tea. Buttercup came in looking for a glass of teas for a customer. ‘Here,’ she said, handing two glasses of tea to Ginger. ‘Take this out to that table near the bar. The one where one of the Fair Folk is sitting by herself. Her name is Gwenneth.’ She saw the hesitant look on the Hobbit’s face. ‘Go on now! She won’t bite. And I have things to get done in here.’

Ginger rarely visited the Inn. Her knowledge of the Fair Folk was limited to stories from her Da how he’d seen them at times at night passing through the woods going west. They seemed rather magical to her from the stories, beautiful and tall and fair of face and graceful. She peeked through the kitchen door to see where the Elf was and a nervous giggle almost escaped her. Somehow the idea of bringing tea to one of the Fair Folk seemed strange. In her images of them built off the stories, she thought that they might be above eating and drinking, so to speak. Quite unlike Hobbits. But there one sat, waiting for tea . . . ordinary tea . . . just as she was having. Squaring her shoulders, she put on her best smile and went up to the lady Elf’s table.

‘Begging your pardon, Mistress . . . Gwenneth, is it. But here’s your tea, fresh made!’ Ginger held out her plate with the two sticky buns on it. ‘And I’d be happy as ever if you’d like to share these with me.’

Oh my, now you’ve gone and done it Ginger girl! Perhaps she wanted some time to herself! she thought, turning several shades of crimson at her boldness.