Thorin Oakenshield's fists clenched and he muttered Dwarven curses under his breath. "Easy to find, Gandalf? Easy to find?" The crisp night wind brushed against his skin, a breath of woodsmoke on the air. All around him, happy halflings nestled all snug in their holes, while he bumbled about like a lost child.
"Excuse me, sir. Is there anything I can do to be of service?"
Thorin spun instinctively into a fighting stance, reaching for his sword. When his eyes settled on a small feminine form in the middle of the path, he released the hilt and straightened slowly. How had this-girl? woman?-approached him unnoticed?
"I don't mean to be a bother, sir." She raised her hands in front of her and edged forward, as if she were approaching an unknown dog and wanted to show she wasn't a threat.
Thorin fought the urge to growl. Taking out his anger on her would do nothing but prove she was right to be wary, and he hadn't fallen low enough yet to spend his time terrorizing innocent women.
He forced out a slow breath. "You wouldn't happen to know where I might find a place called Bag End?" He'd searched all along the lower reaches of the hills, checked every door. Nothing. For a burglar in search of employment this hobbit Gandalf had selected showed little sign of wanting to be found.
The figure drew near enough that Thorin could make out her face clearly in the moonlight. A young woman with a heart-shaped face framed by a mass of pale curls and wide, round eyes that reminded him of the doors that dotted the Shire.
Her lips turned up in a sideways smile. "Of course, I do. Everyone knows where to find Bag End." She gestured past him, up a trail he'd not yet trod, that led to the higher reaches of the hill. "If you go along that way, then turn left at William Proudfoot's white fence, walk a little farther on and look for the crooked hedge . . ."
Thorin blinked.
The hobbit lass paused. "Perhaps I'd best just take you there?"
"I would be . . . obliged."
"Right then. Follow me."
She stepped past him and led off up the hill. Her feet made no sound on the dirt path. Her skirts swayed, but made little noise beyond what might be mistaken for the wind through the grass. His own booted feet crunched over each pebble and stone, making him suddenly aware how much louder he was than he had thought.
Up and up they climbed. No wonder he hadn't managed to find the burglar's door. What sort of thief lived so high on the hill? He didn't know much about halflings, but what little he did told him that the higher the hole, the wealthier the hobbit.
At last, the lass paused in front of a gate. Thorin didn't need to look at the door to know they'd come to the right place. The sounds of merriment emanating from the hillside were unmistakable. Apparently the rest of his company had managed to find the place.
Thorin opened the gate and stepped through, crossing to the door with purposeful strides. He'd been ready to fume at the old wizard when he found him for giving such insufficient direction, but found his irritation had waned.
He turned to thank the hobbit lass, but when he looked back, she was gone. "How did she-"
Thorin shrugged. It was time to meet this burglar and begin the quest for Erebor in earnest. He turned and pounded on the door.
#
Bell huddled behind a low grassy hummock, biting down on one curved finger and trying not to breathe. She heard Bilbo's door swing wide, and a rich, melodious voice said, "Allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield."
Then the door closed, muffling the voices. Bell allowed herself to breathe again.
What, in the name of all the Valar, was Mister Baggins about? No one had seen Dwarves in the Shire for as long as she'd been alive, and when they'd been seen before then, it hadn't been in Hobbiton. So what were they doing making their way to Bag End, to the home of one of the most proper hobbits to be found? And what was he doing with one of their runes on his door?
The respectable side of Bell urged her to turn around, make her way back to her own little hole, and pretend she'd never seen a thing. Surely, that would be what Mister Bilbo would want. If word got round that he'd been seen in the company of Dwarves, people might start talking, and talking led to gossip and guessing and assumptions, and soon enough people would be giving him the sideways eye over the vegetable stalls on market day.
But, by the time she'd finished thinking it through, she'd crept through the fence-between the cross-slats, rather than risk the noise of the gate-and all the way to the window beneath the kitchen. The scent of Hamfast's roses filled the air, mixed with a powerful cloud of pipe-smoke that drifted down from an open window in the dining room.
The conversation was loud enough that Bell could make out several different voices, and some of the words, but not enough to satisfy her curiosity. Besides, what if Mister Bilbo were in some sort of trouble? Wouldn't it be her duty to help him? She needed to get closer.
Clinging to the wall, she slunk through the shadows until she stood just beneath the dining room's open shutters.
Now she could hear what was being said. Something about a mountain, and a key, and a . . . dragon?
Bell shoved the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle a gasp. No good! What sort of fiends were these to drag poor Mister Bilbo off to such an adventure?
She could stand it no longer.
Bell straightened until her eyes could just peer over the window-ledge. The tidy little dining room was crowded to overflowing with grizzled, be-braided Dwarves garbed in worn leather, and one tall man whose head nearly brushed the roof.
Her jaw lolled open and she snapped it shut, realizing she looked like one of her father's trout. Where was Mister Bilbo? She spotted him at the far end of the room, reading from a large, unfolded parchment. He looked fit to . . . faint.
Too late. Bilbo hit the ground like a felled tree.
A cry leapt from her lips before she could pull it back. The Dwarves jumped up to tend to the fallen hobbit, but the tall man turned his head towards the window.
Bell ducked down and leaned up against the wall, trying to think herself invisible. Please, don't have seen me.
After a huddling there for a few minutes, terrified to move, Bell decided the man must not have seen her, or if he had, decided she wasn't worth pursuing.
Gathering her courage, she peered back inside. Bilbo was sitting upright, supported by a Dwarf with a strange hat that curved out at the sides, and surrounded by the rest, including the one she'd escorted to his door. That one-Thorin Oakenshield-stared down at him with a dark look. His lips were pressed thin, his dark brows furrowed, and he glanced back and forth betweeb the hobbit and the tall man time and again.
At last, the Dwarf with the strange hat helped Bilbo up and assisted him down the hallway, to his bedchamber, Bell presumed.
She hurried on silent feet to the far side of the front door and waited beneath the bedchamber window. Soon enough, the melodious voice she'd heard earlier, and now knew to be the tall man, began to speak.
They spoke for a long time, Bilbo and the man-Gandalf, he called him. By the time they were through, Bell finally began to relax. Bilbo had made it clear that Bag End was his home, and where he would stay, and it didn't sound as if the Dwarves were likely to drag him off against his will.
Bell shivered and struggled against a yawn. The night mists had fallen, coating her face, hair, and hands with a fine sheet of moisture. She could hardly feel her fingers.
Peering up at the moon, she guessed the night was at least half-gone. If she was to be any use in the morning-and Mister Bilbo was expecting her for sweeping and laundry-she needed to get home and get some rest.
After sneaking back out the way she'd come, Bell began to the walk back down the hill toward her hole. Mister Bilbo would be safe enough. She'd do as she'd thought she should before-pretend nothing had ever happened. Everything would be as was to be expected.
But even while she walked, bathed in soft moonlight, she couldn't stop thinking about what she'd heard. Of the Lonely Mountain, and the great Dwarf realm of Erebor. Even the dragon waiting there. The stirring melody the Dwarves had sung while she hid unseen played over and again in her mind. Far over the Misty Mountains cold . . .
A small part of her wondered what it would be like. And she wished she could have had the chance to find out.