Chapter Nine: The Fire

"Things were forever different after that night. It seemed that the world was Déagol. His eyes seemed the brightest, his mouth the most enticing, his voice the most dulcet, his hair the most curly. He was forever on my mind.

"As my grandmother regained her strength, we took her outside for walks. The time she was forced to spend in bed made her restless, and she soon returned to painting, something she had not done since my youngest uncle was born. Déagol and I were kept busy searching for plants that would give her dye – he showed me where to find the best ones. At night we would sit in front of the kitchen fire and crush them into ink. After we were finished he would sit on the rocking chair and smoke while I sat at his feet. After a week, I began to lay my head on his knee. After another week, he began to stroke my hair. We never spoke of it.

"'You love him,' Iris said to me as she took down the cold-stiff laundry.

"Her words bounced back in forth in my head for days. I had never been in love before. Yet he fascinated me, intrigued me, and I longed for his every smile and touch.

"I began to do little things for him: making sure he got his favorite plate at dinner, washing his favorite waistcoat, opening the doors for him. He always gave me that smile of his, warm and slightly sad. We never spoke of that either.

"'You love him,' Grandmother said to me as she dipped her brush into the yellow dye.

"This time I blushed and lowered my eyes, for I knew that it was true.

"'Don't worry, lad,' she said. 'I won't tell a soul.'

"That night Déagol and I sat beside the fire again, and his fingers caressed my hair. As the flames leapt, so did my heart."