The Golden Perch Inn

[Girl in the Grass]

Delighted with the cosiness of the room, Mirabell gave a tired smile as she spoke to Rowan. "Mirabell Took, but for the most part people call me Mira. The room looks lovely; I don't think I'll be needing anything but that hot water you mentioned." Rowan smiled and said, "Alright then, Miss Mira, I'll be back in a few minutes after you've settled in."

As the other hobbit closed the door behind her, Mira took another look around the room. Stepping over to the bed, she ran her hand over the quilt, admiring the different colours of fabric and the thick quality. The flowers gave the room a lovely scent, and as she sat down on the bed Mira inhaled deeply, enjoying the sweet odor. Just as she flopped back onto the bed with a sigh of contentment, there was a knock at the door and she heard Rowan's voice: "Miss Mirabell? I've got that hot water you wanted."

Mira went to the door and opened it, thanking Rowan for the water, and shut it again. She quickly washed and combed her hair, her stomach starting to rumble with hunger. When she was satisfied with her appearance, Mira left her room and proceeded downstairs to the common room, wanting nothing more than a hot cup of tea with a sufficiently large meal. As she entered it from the hallway, she glanced around for Rowan. Seems as though she's not here, Mira thought to herself, and her stomach grumbled in protest. She sat down at an empty table to wait for Rowan to reappear, hoping it wouldn't be too long.

[Tiffany Aching]

The sandy-haired pony gave a decided toss of his mane as his mistress tugged on the reins. From this short distance Cookie caught the scent of fresh hay – and oats! His nostrils widened taking in the heady promise of food. He was a stout little fellow given to as little exertion as he might manage and as much feed as he might appropriate. He looked back over his shoulder at Miz Miribelle with as encouraging an expression as he could muster.

‘Yes, yes, I know my little dear. I’m hungry, too.’ Miribelle Rushybanks sat fully upright on the little cart’s padded seat and looked about the darkening yard. At a distance, she saw a familiar figure just heading up the few steps to the Inn.

‘Will?’ she called out in a firm voice. ‘Is that you?’ She thought she saw him turn toward her and she waved. ‘Come help me won’t you with Cookie.’ She set the brake and stepped down from the cart, wrapping the reins about the brake’s handle once she’d set both feet firmly on the ground.

[Undómë]

Well, they’ll just to to airdry now... she thought, shrugging her shoulders at the stack of mugs still sitting out where she’d left them.

No sooner had Rowan come back from seeing Mirabell to her room than she’d been called into the kitchen by Primrose. Cook, it seemed, was in somewhat of a tear; her day upset with tales of wolves marauding the countryside. Why some of the Inn patrons had whispered it about that they might have to bolt the doors to prevent being got at by the savage beasts. The stories of previous encounters grew as the day had worn on. And along with them had grown the size of the wolves and their number.

There were bangings about in the kitchen; skillets slapped hard on the stove top; cleavers clapped down hard on the cutting board as chickens were cut into pieces. Hmmmph! thought Rowan taking in the scene. No wolf or pack of wolves would dare step paw in Cook’s kitchen!

‘Here,’ she said picking up a basket into which she scooped a plentiful heap of flaky biscuits. ‘Let me just take these out to the Common Room.’ She placed the basket on a tray along with several pots of jam, butter, and honey. From the back of the stove, Rowan retrieved the kettle and set about making several large pots of tea. These she placed on another tray with a bowl of sugar, a pitcher of cream, and some tableware – small plates, knives, spoons.

Primrose gave her a grateful look as Rowan balanced the trays on her hands and back through the kitchen door. A few quick steps brought her to a large table in the center of the Common Room. She set down her burdens and arranged the biscuits, tea, and accompaniments about the table’s top. The mugs were retrieved from their smaller table and set near the tea pots.

Clearing her throat loudly, she clinked a spoon against one of the empty mugs. ‘Supper’s coming in a bit,’ she said, not elaborating on the reason for its delay. ‘Here’s some tea and biscuits and jams and such to tide you over ‘til the chicken and taters and peas are done.’ She glanced toward the kitchen hoping to see Prim’s face giving her an encouraging nod. No such luck.

‘Come on ‘round,’ she encouraged the waiting diners, motioning for them join her.

[Arry]

‘Will? Is that you?’

Thoughts of food, drink, and not least, escape were put aside as he heard his named called. Turning about, he saw Miz Rushybanks motioning for him to come over. He trotted toward her, a grin on his face.

‘Bet you’re here for chicken and biscuits, aren’t you?’ he said with a smile. As he recalled the old gal enjoyed Cook’s chicken and despite her slender build could put away a good sized helping of it, along with plenty of well buttered biscuits.

He helped her retrieve her carpet bag from beneath the cart seat and unwrapped the reins from the brake lever. ‘You just go along now,’ he said, nodding his head toward the door. ‘Cookie and I are old friends. I’ll see him to the stable.’ He reached up toward the pony’s ear and gave it a scratch. ‘Some sweet hay for you, eh, fellow? And a nosebag of oats, yes?’

‘Oh, and Miz Rushybanks,’ he went on, recalling her fondness for that foreign drink – coffee. ‘Might have to make do with tea tonight. I don’t think the shipment of those beans you like brewed have come in.’ He gave a little shiver, recalling the one taste of coffee he’d tried at her urging.

[Tam Lin]

‘Been too long here among the Little Folk!’

Tavaro laughed quietly to himself at the thought. The enticing scent of that hillock of biscuits drew his attention away from the poem he’d been writing. Warm, inviting, mixed with the promise of blackberry jam. And wasn’t that the fireweed honey he’d tried earlier that morning? He remembered that scent, redolent of a grassy clearing in the forest just to the west where the plants had sprung up in the Spring just after sweeping fire.

‘You’re getting rather Hobbitish, indeed,’ he went on, putting his quill down carefully and snapping the lid tight on his little inkwell. His stomach grumbled in anticipation of a plate of biscuits and a mug of steaming tea. Leaving the bit of parchment he’d been writing on to air dry, Tavaro stood up and made his way to where Rowan stood pouring tea.

‘One of those large mugs, if you please, Mistress Rowan,’ he said with a smile. His eyes twinkled as he surveyed the table. Picking up a small plate, he placed one of the larger biscuits upon it, split the flaky delight open quickly, and slathered it with butter. Both halves, of course. And atop the glistening cover he spooned out a generous portion of jam on one half and an unsparing puddle of honey on the other. Taking his mug of tea from the table, he turned, intending to head back to his table. His Elven grace did not sustain him; eyes on his tasty prize, he bumped against someone, spilling a bit of his drink.

‘Oh, please, excuse me!’ he said. ‘I haven’t got hot tea on you, have I?’ he went on, his grey eyes growing wide with alarm.

[Tiffany Aching]

Miribelle was taken a bit back. Not just because she’d had hot tea spilled on her but because one of the Fair Folk had addressed her. And not just addressed her, but made a very nice apology. To be sure it was his fault and it was only proper that he offer an apology, but still . . . one of the Fair Folk . . . talking to her!

Pull yourself together, Miribelle! she chided herself. She smoothed her skirt, and gave a little pull on her vest to straighten it. Looking up at the Elf, who was still quite tall despite the fact he had graciously bent down to speak with her, she smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s only a few drops that splashed on my skirt,’ she demurred. ‘It should dry just fine. Mostly, I think, it sloshed onto the floor here.’ She tapped her foot near a small sized puddle on the floor between them. ‘No need for alarm. I’m sure these old boards have seen their share of spills and splashes.’

‘My don’t these look good,’ Miribelle went on, changing the subject to something more pleasant. ‘Cook has a very light hand with the biscuits, don’t you think?’ She picked up a mug of tea and picked out a tasty looking biscuit from the basket. ‘Don’t you just love this blackberry jam!’ she said helping herself to a fair dollop.

She glanced back up at the Elf. ‘Gracious! Here I am nattering away at you and haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Miribelle . . . Miribelle Rushybanks from Stock.’

[Arry]

With a well practiced toss, Will let sail his cap back toward the pegs by the kitchen door just after he’d entered. He glanced back, and there it was hanging precariously from the edge of a peg. He held his breath as it teetered, threatening to fall. And grinned widely when at last it settled into place.

‘Well, that champion toss should earn me a second pint tonight,’ he announced to no one in particular as he ambled toward the kitchen’s table intending to sit down and have something to eat and drink.

His intentions were cut short in their accomplishment as a much harried Prim approached him with a pile of scrubbed taters in a small basket and plopped them down on the table’s top. These were quickly followed by a largish pot, a paring knife, and the instructions to “deal with them”. Will looked toward Cook, hoping for some sort of rescue. But she was doing battle with a number of chickens, her cleaver flying up and down in a determined manner as she chopped them.

Recognizing the inevitable Will picked up the knife and began his assigned task. He smiled at Prim, who nodded hurriedly as she began ministering to a pot of peas.

‘I don’t suppose a thirsty fellow could get a mug of ale, could he?’ His words fell upon deaf ears. Well, not all deaf – one of the ladies had given a snort at his suggestion.

‘Right, then,’ he sighed. Picking up a tater, he attacked it with the paring knife at a quick pace. The faster these were done, he thought, the faster he’d have his mug.

What on earth’s got into these two? he wondered. Supper was going to be late. An unusual state of affairs for Miz Cela’s kitchen, he pondered further. With another sigh he settled fully into his assignment. His stomach grumbled in protest at being put off. Sooner as these are done, sooner you get fed, my pushy friend...