The Golden Perch Inn

[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...

[Tam Lin]

‘Tavaro,’ the Elf replied, nodding his head at the Hobbit. ‘Tavrobelion, originally. But if you please, Tavaro, to you.’ He waved Miribelle ahead of him, pointing her toward his table.

‘I’d be happy to have you dine with me, Mistress Marshybanks. It’s always nice to talk while you eat, don’t you think?’ Tavaro pulled out a chair for his companion. ‘Here, let me just clear these papers out of your way.’

Tavaro sat his own cup of tea and plate of biscuits on the seat of his chair. He gathered up the songs and poems he’d been working on earlier and rolled them up hastily, stuffing them into his worn leather satchel on the floor by his chair.

‘There, now we have room for mugs and plates!’ He sat down opposite her and smiled. ‘Tell me a little about yourself, Mistress Rushybanks. Do you live about here? In Stock?’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘Or are you traveling though, like me?’

[Undómë]

Now isn’t that an interesting pair! Rowan smiled, watching the exchange between the tall Tavaro and Miz Rushybanks. Physical differences aside, she thought they were well matched for a certain air of elegance and propriety.

‘Excuse me . . .’ A voice from the other side of the table called her attention away from the Elf and Hobbit. ‘Will there be something more coming soon?’ On of the Inn’s regulars had just come in and stood looking perplexed at the offering of biscuits and tea.

‘Here, Toby,’ Rowan offered with a wink. ‘Have a mug of tea to tide you over ‘til Supper’s done. Just a bit behind times this evening. But rest assured – chicken, taters, and . . .’ she pursed her lips trying to recall what the vegetable was. ‘And, oh yes, peas . . . with plenty of butter. Just like you like it.’ She tilted her chin up toward a small table near the fireplace. ‘And look, there’s your favorite spot for supper. You just go on and have a seat. Soon’s the food is dished up, I’ll bring a plate right out to you.’ She held up her hand as Toby opened his mouth to speak. ‘I know, I know – there’ll be extra butter for your taters, too.’

Rowan picked up the nearly empty basket of biscuits and made her way quickly back to the kitchen. ‘The crowd is still hungry,’ she called out as she entered the room, waving the basket for emphasis. ‘Any chance the chicken’s near done yet?’

[Tiffany Aching]

‘No, not traveling through,’ Miribelle laughed. ‘Indeed, I live here in Stock.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘I’m a weaver – these past years at least. And I run a small fabric shop in town.’ Miribelle reached down and hauled her carpet bag up to her lap.

‘I’ve just been down Marish way to see one of the goodwives there who spins yarn. Lovely, soft wool she gets from her little flock of sheep. Much prized for ladies’ shawls and baby’s blankets.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out several skeins of fine spun yarn – a soft green, a nut brown with flecks of black, and sunflower yellow. ‘Lovely colors, aren’t they? She has a deft hand with her dyes. And closed mouthed about how she makes them, too.’

Miribelle placed the skeins carefully back in her bag, snapping it shut firmly. ‘Truth is, Master Tavaro. I live by myself. And though my cooking’s quite passable, I like to treat myself once a week to Cook’s chicken and taters.’

‘What about you? What brings you here to our little village?’ She munched happily on a bite of her biscuit and blackberry jam as she waited for his answer.

[Arry]

Will said nothing in response to Rowan’s query. Instead, he held up his little knife, a half-pared potato skewered on the end of it. He cocked his head toward Cook, who seemed to be muttering over her frying pan.

Come sit by me he mouthed at Rowan, sliding a chair out from under the table with his foot. ‘Something’s put a wasp under the old gal’s petticoats today,’ he whispered, leaning in close. ‘You have any idea what?’