When Buttercup splashed onto the bushes the next morning, she burst into giggles laced heavily with hysteria, rivulets of tears streaming down her cheeks. Shock gonged through her body with reverberations deep enough to set her bones to aching.
What had happened? How? Why?
Time was broken, and all the Valar could manage was to recruit a hobbit to their aid? Her? Had the lot of them, and Eru, gone utterly insane?
Yes, a part of her decided with wide-eyed disbelief. Yes, yes, and yes again. As they said, the proof of the pudding was in the eating, and this pudding was a gelatinous and repugnant blob of goo.
Change one thing, and the ripples spread, causing more changes, the sole rational part of her posited. By altering her dwarves' actions, she disrupted Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli from meeting their fate, yes, but she'd inadvertently changed Bofur's.
She laughed harder until she howled. No, it wasn't funny in the least, but for this to be placed on her? Really? Not great minds like the Elvenking's or Gandalf's. Oh, no. Not on broader shoulders such as Dwalin's or Balin's. No, the world had gone and broke itself, and the answer it decided to spit out was Buttercup Baggins.
It was too ludicrous for words.
The touch of absurdity fled, stealing away her giggles with it. (The thief. How dare it? That was her job!)
Leaving her sagging into the bush with terror cuddled close like an unwelcome lover. Tweak something here, and something way over yonder would go out of whack. The scope of the challenge she'd been handed boggled her mind. How was she supposed to figure this out? She could not leave copious notes for herself if she was forced to keep repeating this day. (Granted, if it kept repeating until some magical combination did the trick, she'd have ample time to memorize things.)
Bofur, a part of her sniffled. I am so sorry. Oops didn't quite cover it, she didn't think. (Was there a chapter she'd missed in the Hobbits' Guide to Good Etiquette that covered the subject? Did one send flowers or a gift?)
A boot scuffed the broken pavement. Deliberately, she assumed. Then a masculine voice said, "I would ask if something was the matter, but the question would be moot. May I be of assistance?"
Westley. Buttercup shook her head no, mopping the tears and snot from her face. She grimaced in embarrassment at the deplorably messy sight she doubtless presented. "I quite think I'm alone with this," she said, her voice dejected.
And by the Shire, she hated that tone. Bagginses didn't use it—they were too stubbornly proper to wallow like this. Tooks didn't use it—they were dramatic enough, but it was offset by an unquenchable optimism. She'd only seen it fail once in her lifetime.
So where, Buttercup Baggins, is this coming from? Hmm? Things had gone wrong, but this story's end had not yet been written. Granted, her emotions felt scraped paper-thin with gaping and raw holes appearing in the weave, but that was no excuse to behave like a faunt, her inner self scolded, wagging an admonishing finger.
It was like having an inner Bilbo, she sighed. She conceded that perhaps in this case that was a good thing.
Westley clucked his tongue, and she felt all the worse. He stepped closer, bringing his masked face into view. "Alone? There are people abounding if you but look. Help is but a request away," he added with a flourish, bowing gallantly.
Her Took and Baggins side eyed the blob of despondency caked to her heart like day-old taffy with matching determination. It, they deemed, did not belong. They tackled it, beating it out of existence and leaving her much lighter. "I suppose there are."
Without asking, Westley plucked her from the bushes and set her on her bare feet. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am—"
"Westley," she finished for him, a weak little grin breaking through her former gloom. "Or the Dread Pirate Roberts."
He stilled, his blue eyes all the bluer for the black mask and bright sunlight. "You've heard of me."
Buttercup drew herself up. "Westley, I have a story to tell you. Wizards and elves have so far been no help. Perhaps what I need is the scheming wisdom of a pirate."
One black-gloved hand touched his chin while the opposite arm folded about his middle. "You have my curiosity."
Buttercup startled. "Oh! My manners! Buttercup Baggins at your service. My tale, you see, begins in these very bushes…"
That day set the pace for too many that followed. She started her mornings retelling her tale to Westley. Her first chat with him had revealed a frighteningly brilliant intellect. Though that daily recital ate up a few minutes more with each repetition, he never failed to have ideas or encouragement.
Even if he did think her six courses short of a seven course meal. (All that's left is the sugary, fluffy dessert, a part of her snickered.)
It was his suggestion to map out the events of the day using his pocket watch. No true plan could be made unless they knew as many variables as possible. With that in mind, she vowed to follow the key individuals throughout this day, one at a time. Starting with Thorin.
Getting past Nori was the first obstacle. The first morning, she chatted at the dwarf from below, determined to glean some way to minimize the time it would take to convince him to permit her into the mountain. Without telling anyone else.
Arguing didn't work. The auburn-haired dwarf's ears turned into fortresses of I-can't-hear-you the longer she railed at him. (She blamed Dori for that.) Wheedling didn't work, either. Dain and the enemy kept arriving before she managed to set one haired foot inside the mountain. Perhaps she wasn't using the right tone of voice or some nuance was wrong, for try as she did to emulate that first success with him, she failed to repeat it.
So it was with the sense of coming to the end of her options that Buttercup changed tactics. From hence forth, she vowed, she'd show Nori no mercy—she unleashed her most dire weapon upon him. Yes, indeed. She'd go full chatterbox on the stubborn dwarf.
It shouldn't have worked, but she was a Blue Ribbon natterer on a mission. She pestered the stuffing out of the poor dwarf from the instant she arrived each morning.
Time was a commodity that (apparently) she had in spades, but she refused to waste it. What if it stopped misbehaving all of a sudden? An unlikelier event with each day, but a potential one nonetheless.
With that fear lurking in the recesses of her mind, Buttercup donned her ring when the enemy arrived, waited for Nori to make his egress from the mountain behind Thorin hours and hours later (at 3:53 pm to be exact), and openly joined him when the dwarves were entrenched in battle. Too late for the dwarves to argue with her intention.
There, in the heat of battle, she resumed her verbal assault.
Nori was flabbergasted—they all were at her sudden appearance. (Or perhaps aghast was a better descriptor, for none of them were happy to see her in the thick of battle with her "letter opener" and not much else.) To their further consternation, their burglar had lost his mind and developed an unnatural fascination with Nori. And—and!—he seemed oblivious to the danger swirling around them.
Blood and death all around, Buttercup still giggled, which did not reassure her friends one bit. Quite the contrary, for from that point on, they tossed her looks of pity and alarm.
Buttercup ignored that and chattered like a magpie, peppering Nori with a never ending barrage of questions. Whether it was the pity that did the trick, she wasn't sure, but Nori spilled more on that bloody field than at any other time.
She learned he'd taken to stealing during the dwarves' early exile after the Ris' only sister had died of deprivation. (Buttercup's throat had tightened to learn that, and at the pain that flashed through Nori's eyes as he snarled the explanation to her.)
She learned Nori fancied a lass back in Ered Luin named Signí, a maiden a decade his senior with (according to Ori) nut brown hair and eyes, and a cheerful way about her that caused all around her to join in her laughter. (Buttercup hoped to one day meet the dwarrowmaid.)
She learned that Nori had a deep phobia of rodents—especially rats—and collected spoons—with or without permission—from every home he entered. A memento to remember souls by, he claimed. (By that, she took that Bag End was short one spoon.)
No, sir, her dwarves were not happy with her presence on the battlefield, and truly, they were justified (even if they didn't remember it). She died dozens of times, that despite Nori daily growing frustrated enough to start spitting out fighting instructions.
(She weaseled still more from him when she lay dying in his arms four or five times. It was a terribly low way to go about it, but a hobbit did what a hobbit had to do.)
Learning to sword fight in the middle of a battlefield didn't seem the most opportune of timing, but she certainly didn't lack for opportunities to test each skill. Slowly, she began to improve.
Then came the glorious day when she obtained what she was after. The key. The glorious key to unlock all things Nori. In a word: Dori.
The following morning—she thought she was on the nineteenth repetition by now, or maybe the twentieth—she raced to Erebor's gates, smiled up at her friend and said, "Nori, my fine chap. A rope please?"
Nori huffed, folding arms across his chest as had become their habit, and began to speak. "Bilbo. There is no way—"
"Let me up, or I'll make sure Dori knows what happened to that masterpiece of a cake Dori labored over for a full week for Ori's fiftieth birthday celebration."
Nori's lips parted. The whites of his eyes showed.
She beamed up at him, hands folded before her. "I do apologize for resorting to blackmail, but you, Nori, are a difficult nut to crack. Threats didn't work." Then with a bigger smile. "This will do in a pinch."
"How did you…? What did…?" A finger pointed at her along with a glare. "You're bluffing."
"Nope," she cheerfully informed him. "Let me jog your memory. It involves a bit too much ale, a bar fight that left you half-blind with a black eye, and a nice outline of your body smashed down upon the entire confection." She clucked her tongue. "Then came the panicking. Poor Dori. He never did discover what happened to his labor of love."
The rope dropped. Nori eyed her like she'd gone and turned into an orc on him. Just for kicks, for the first time since she'd begun working on him, she patted his cheek. "Would it make things easier on you if you knew I was a maid?"
By his sputtering, she assumed not.
On to her next challenge: Thorin.
The first day, she followed the King under the Mountain invisibly, even through the battle. The pocket watch allowed her to determine when things transpired, but more, watching him in the throes of madness broke her heart.
Buttercup witnessed for the first time arguments with his sister-sons, Balin, and Dwalin. As each dwarf departed in turn, she alone saw the flicker of sanity and pain flame to life in Thorin's blue eyes. But just as fast, the kindled spark of life faded, leaving his eyes a lackluster shade.
She couldn't leave him like this. Should she stumble upon the right combination of events to end this endless cycle, she didn't want him to carry more guilt than she could prevent. To this end, she delayed in moving on to follow Balin through his day.
No, she began her campaign to jolt Thorin from his madness.
The next thirty-three days—yes, thirty-three!—were spent single-handedly learning the ins and outs of How Not to Cure Dragon-Sickness, by Buttercup Baggins. (By Yavanna if things ever returned to normal, with wondrous things like tomorrows and days after, she vowed to write the valuable experience down for future generations.)
She started with the basics. The direct approach. She marched up to Thorin and slapped him across the face. "Snap out of it."
It ended in lots of screaming—his berserker with fury and hers the shrill type of a young girl scared out of her wits—then that ax, and blood and… Well, in the end, it did work, after a fashion, for Thorin was quite sane and distraught as she bled out.
"No," he choked, hands hovering over her body as if he could prevent both blood and spirit from leaking out of it. He'd ripped the crown from his head and hurled it away before placing a gentle, shaking hand to her cheek. His palm was rough with calluses and grime, but she savored the sensation. (How often did a girl get this much of the king's full attention?)
"Bilbo, my friend. My brave, foolish friend. What have you done? What have I—?"
"'S okay," she slurred. "We'll do b'ttr 'morrow." She missed the rest, being occupied with dying and all.
What did she learn? Shock and pain worked, but she didn't see how sacrificing herself or any of the Company was a winning solution.
On to attempt #2. Sneaking across the treasury with her ring, she stole Thorin's ax as he marveled over yet another golden mathom. Then she slapped him across the face, told him to snap out of it, and stood her ground with arms before her chest, confident since he'd been disarmed.
Until he yanked a dagger from his boot. Lesson learned: stay out of the dwarf's reach. Far out of it. He was a walking arsenal.
Buttercup grew more creative. She searched out pine cones within Dale to haul into the mountain (Nori watching with nonplussed, saucer-sized eyes) and proceeded to pelt Thorin with them for a good twenty minutes while invisible, evading him with sudden bursts of speed.
It did nothing but rile the king. The good news was that a Thorin weighed down by all the gold he wore was decidedly less fleet of foot than herself. Buttercup emerged the victor. No death was had that day, and by the end, she was giggling like mad.
It wasn't every day an adult got to play catch-me like a fauntling.
Her actions, however, did prevent him from leaving madness behind. So incensed was he that he spent the entire battle inside Erebor attempting to pin her down. It was back to the drawing board.
The next day, she drafted Nori and the Durin princes to her cause. She had to, for she didn't know Erebor's layout nearly well enough. (Yet another chore to add to her growing list.)
With their aid, she found one of King Thror's famed silver fountains, and by dipping fingers into its waters, she discovered it brimming with cold mountain spring water. A bucket provided the means and directions to an overlook to the treasury provided the way.
Tongue clamped between teeth, she hauled the heavy bucket up stairway after stairway until she had her perch to strike from. There, she waited, Nori and Durins scandalized. (She rolled her eyes. Thorin might be king, but he was still flesh and blood and rather deserved what he was about to get.)
When Thorin's endless pacing carried him in range, she tipped the bucket. Splash! Thorin bellowed, Buttercup cheered. Then after a long moment where she beamed and Thorin practiced his most acidic glower, they were off. It was The Great Chase, Take II, with similar results. (Bother.)
On and on the attempts continued. She pelted him with applies (in true Shire tradition) when her annoyance reached a feverish pitch. She raced through his halls, singing boisterous songs. She snatched away his crown. She hastily assembled a fresh fruit pie from the elves' provisions for the men of Dale to throw at his face (alas, she hadn't the time to bake an actual crust), and poured a vat of stolen (she felt a twinge of guilt about that) molasses over his head.
Thorin, she was more convinced than ever, had a head as dense as the stone walls of the mountain he loved. It was pure frustration that goaded her into her final action. Yes, frustration and a wee, itty-bitty kernel of temptation. A naughty, silken voice whispered seductively (the wanton thing) that Thorin wouldn't remember any of these events. An enterprising hobbit might…just might, mind!…sneak in a little something for herself.
No one would know. And she'd adored Thorin in silence so long. Surely it wouldn't be that bad to indulge herself a little bit… Right?
That night, the idea refused to go away. It tantalized her with images that returned each time she thrust them from her mind.
No. She wouldn't do it. She had more pride than that.
Really.
For all that, Buttercup Baggins found herself ignoring the buzzing voice of disapproval that sounded an awful lot like her brother as she shucked her breast bands, begged and pleaded a dress from Bard's daughter Tilda (the girl blinked in disbelief but then thrilled to have a live doll to dress up), fluffed her hair and tucked a wildflower behind one pointed ear.
Truly, she felt horrible for considering taking such liberties (truly!), but she marched into Erebor, Nori trailing behind, then Ori falling in, then Bifur, and Gloin, and Dwalin… Her cheeks heated, but she was a hobbit on a mission.
Really, this wasn't for herself. It was for Thorin! Either today would be the day she dragged Thorin kicking and screaming from his madness, or she'd…she'd…
Tell the truth, she wasn't certain what she'd do. But it'd be dire!
She donned the ring at the entrance to the treasury then crept into the space. Nerves jittered their way across her skin leaving behind pebbly gooseflesh. This is wrong, Buttercup Baggins. Tookish even for the first Took! Her lips curved naughtily.
Just this once, she pacified her Baggins self. Tomorrow, she'd be respectable again. Yes, tomorrow.
Reaching Thorin, she removed the ring. Before he could do more than blink a bit confusedly at her, she rose on tiptoes, claimed his beard in both hands and drew his lips to hers.
This, she decided, was one way she wouldn't mind dying at all.
He didn't run her through. As Buttercup ended the kiss, her toes curling into the pile of coins and gems underfoot, she counted that a win. His lips tasted just a bit of ale, and his breath stank, but by his Mahal, returned to sanity or not, that kiss had sent sparks through her system brighter than Gandalf's fireworks.
Then came that hard part: opening her eyes. Running in a skirt wasn't going to happen, so whatever Thorin's reaction might be, she was going to have to face the music head-on. (Drat it. Then almost immediately, a counter thought: You should have thought of that first, you brazen thing!)
Her eyes creaked open with infinite slowness, only to find themselves captured by an intense blue stare set within an incredulous face. An intense blue stare lacking one shred of gold-sickness in their depths.
"You," Thorin said hoarsely. "You are no male."
He noticed, the feminine core of her heart exulted. It proceeded to dance around with fists in the air while the rest of her prodded her lovesick-ninny self to the side to make way for Buttercup, Mistress of Changing Time.
"That worked," she breathed, her embarrassment falling away. "You're sane." Then she jumped up and down, squealing. "You're back! It worked!" Then singing across the massive space to the Company, "Thorin's back!"
Answering cheers filled the air, and treasure clinked loudly as a dozen dwarf boots slogged quickly across the treasury.
A big hand folded slowly around her arm, one finger at a time. Her smile wobbled. Oh, dear. Mistress of Changing Time raced for cover, leaving the lovesick ninny to face the consequences of letting her lips wander where they wished. Using that hold, Thorin turned her to face him once more.
"Bilbo," he said, and a teaspoon of temper entered his voice.
"I know," she said soberly, one hand coming to his chest and giving it a pat. When it tried to linger, she yanked it back. (Bad hand! Bad!) "I took liberties, Thorin, and I'm… Well, I'm not sorry, sorry, but I mostly regret that."
"Mostly," he repeated, his voice giving nothing away. He reached up and removed his crown. His face contorted with strong emotions, then he hurled it away. Those penetrating eyes returned to her, his chest heaving silently.
One of Buttercup's feet crossed on top of the other, the hair of one tickling the toes of the opposite. Her hands twisted in the fabric of the borrowed skirt. She couldn't meet his gaze as she flushed bright red, heat stealing not just into her cheeks but her ears.
Thorin's stare never left her. She didn't have to look up to verify it, for it was a tangible thing. Her heart pounded away in uncertainty. He didn't love her—how could he when he'd thought other than what she was? Even if he'd suspected she was female, logic said he still couldn't love her. Thorin was all dignity and regally stubborn bullheadedness. He was a king, by the Shire.
Which made her actions all the more…rude. Her Baggins side was Not Happy with her. At all.
Despite that, a smile dared to dance upon her lips. This kiss would be hers to treasure for many long years. When she was old, rocking away in her chair in Bag End, she'd have this to take out and cherish. She, Buttercup Baggins, had adventured across Middle Earth, faced trolls and dragons, and even kissed a king.
"How long…" Thorin began, only to be interrupted as his whooping nephews enveloped him in desperately relieved hugs.
The Company exited Erebor and joined the fray much sooner than any time before, and the evidence of their king's presence on the dwarves was noticeable. Buttercup had wiggled out of her dress, much to her dwarves' shock—at least, until they realized she wore trousers and tunic underneath—and charged into battle with them. (She didn't bother informing them the mithril shirt was too cumbersome for a dress, or that she'd left it hidden in some bushes in Dale.)
Thorin had objected, but she'd shrugged, smiled, and told him he couldn't prevent her, tossing her magic ring as a reminder. He'd blustered and rumbled, but in the end, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield remained together.
As had become her habit, Buttercup stationed herself near Nori, nodding when the dwarf suddenly began belting out instructions. "Move your feet," Nori shouted at one point, exasperation and worry dripping from the words. "Don't just stand there. Move."
Move. Right. He'd said that a number of times, but she'd yet to master moving both sword and feet together.
"Your sword work has improved," Dwalin grumbled during a brief lull. With bushy brows low, he inspected her with narrowed eyes and head cocked to one side.
"Indeed." Thorin joined him.
Buttercup's shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. "Nori's been teaching me."
"That doesn't count," Dwalin groused. "A few instructions in the heat of battle?"
"Well, it's the only time I have to learn," she answered primly.
Then an orc horn sounded, the enemy forces moved, and it was back to business.
That night, basking in the warmth of her friends, she sat between Dori and Bofur around a low campfire before Erebor's gates near the tents in which healers worked to save as many of the wounded as they could. She would have been patting herself on the back, for the entire Company had survived, but news had reached them: Bard had fallen.
Buttercup poked at the ground with a stick she'd picked up. She suspected that qualified as Not Good. Time, she was certain, would continue with its tantrum.
Bard was dead, and she'd survived. Part of it had been luck, she knew. But part as well she attributed to the small lessons Nori initiated with each day's repetition combined with the way the Company had endeavored to protect her as much as they could. She suspected they'd have done as much if they'd still believed her Bilbo, but that protective streak seemed amplified with the revelation.
Mascot, indeed.
At Ori, Fíli and Kíli's urging, she'd regaled them with her entire tale. None believed her, she didn't think, but they chuckled nonetheless to hear her "imaginary" escapades with their uncle. She wouldn't have breathed a word of it otherwise, but Thorin had been away for hours meeting with Dain, Gandalf, the Elvenking…and Alfrid Lickspittle, who'd claimed leadership of the men the instant the fighting had ended. She caught only glimpses of Thorin as he strode hither and yon about some purpose or other.
Tomorrow, she'd have to chat with Westley about this latest snafu. And start following Bard to determine how he'd fallen and take steps to prevent it. With a frown, she snapped her stick and tossed it into the fire.
Buttercup determined to remain awake, Westley's pocket watch in her hand. Nori had caught her checking it, but the thief didn't ask. He watched, though. Like a hawk.
When footsteps approached out of the darkness, she barely reacted. The others, however, slid hands onto the nearest weapons. "Can we help ya?" Bofur asked with a falsely cheery smile.
"You must be Bofur," came Westley's voice.
Buttercup sprang onto her feet and grabbed the man around the waist. "Westley! This is the first time I've seen you other than our daily bush encounter."
"What encounter?" Ori materialized at her side and frowned up at the masked man.
"Ori?" Westley asked.
Buttercup nodded. To the Company, "Westley is a dear friend. He's helped me immeasurably."
"What's with the mask?" Bofur asked abruptly, pointing with his pipe. "Are you disfigured?"
Disfigured? Buttercup rounded on the dwarf, all set to give him a piece of her mind, but Westley spoke first.
"Oh no, they're terribly comfortable. I think everyone will be wearing them someday." The pirate followed up his glib words with a small smirk.
Tension rose as her dwarves stared at the man through narrowed eyes. Then in unison, they burst into laughter. Bofur tugged at his hat's brim in silent salute.
Westley bowed, a smile dancing upon his lips. Then more soberly to Buttercup, "I didn't believe a word of your tale this morning, amusing as I found it." He clucked his tongue. "You should have been more persuasive."
"I take it you believe me now." She bobbed on her tired feet, head tilted.
"Difficult not to believe when events unfold as your new and eccentric friend warned you," he said, his tone lightly scolding. "Things progressed almost exactly as you detailed. King Bard's loss, however, was glaringly absent from your tale."
Buttercup ran fingers through her chopped curls, nodding tiredly. "That's new."
Westley's lips pursed. "Another change."
She nodded again. "I don't understand how. Nothing I did should have affected Bard." Her skin itched. Turning, she found her dwarves listening with quiet intensity.
"Oh, don't mind us," Bofur said, waving his pipe. Then to Westley, "She told you all of this would happen? Before it happened?" His eyes slid to Buttercup with a silent message: You've got some explaining to do, lass.
Buttercup blushed and coughed into one hand, knowing herself found out. She'd been more consumed with her illicit kiss than informing the Company of current events. Not a proud thing to admit, but it was the truth.
"She did," Westley averred. His attention returned to Buttercup, and one hand to his chin. "What, exactly, did you alter today?"
Buttercup's lips parted, but it was Kíli who spoke next. "How many time have you kissed Uncle?" Then, "Hey!" followed the distinctive sound of Fíli's hand slapping his brother's arm.
In lieu of a direct answer, she told Westley brightly, "I was able to wake Thorin early."
"You do realize," Fíli commented, "we are traumatized for life."
Buttercup stamped one foot. "Oh, fiddlesticks. You weren't close enough to see anything. Besides," she said, wiggling fingers dismissively, "you won't remember it tomorrow."
"Unless you do it again," Bofur teased. "How do we know you haven't been cozying up to each of us. Comparing skills, so to speak."
"Bofur," she whined. Then as they all dissolved into laughter, she wagged a finger at them. "The lot of you are going to drive me daft."
"You already have to be to kiss Thorin," Nori drawled.
With a growl, she gave them her back. "Anything else?" she asked Westley.
Though his lips twitched and his eyes crinkled, the man returned to business. "You failed to mention the ROUSes this morning. That was a major oversight."
"ROUSes?" she asked, mind blank and eyes blinking up at him. Nori, she noted, blanched. Darting looks between the two males, she finally demanded of Westley, "What's an ROUS?"
"Rodents," Ori answered softly, plainly upset on his brother's behalf. "Rodents of Unusual Size."
Buttercup mouthed the words, her forehead creased. Then she blurted, "That didn't happen the first time."
"Are you certain?" Westley asked. "They poured out of the plains east of Dale and into the city. Too many of the men were overrun."
Buttercup mouthed more words, this time aimless, formless. Then with all the confusion in the world, "How could that happen? I didn't change anything that would lead to that."
"Regardless, it happened," he assured her.
Long after he'd taken his leave, she churned that over in her mind. What possible ripple could summon giant rats? As the minutes ticked away, she kept close eye on the pocket watch and worried.
She remembered watching the clock tick from 10:03pm to 10:04pm. She stood to greet Thorin shyly upon his return. The instant the watch progressed to 10:05pm, she was waking to the horse's wretched neigh and falling into the bushes.
