Merry's fears for an early departure were significantly eased when Frodo announced his decision to purchase a house. This communication came, oddly enough, not from Sam—whose messages had fallen off of late, probably due to his discomfort at relaying information about Frodo now that he had been found out. No, the first Merry knew of his cousin's evolving plans was through a letter from Frodo himself.

Thrimidge 7
Bag End, Hobbiton

My dear Merry,

I have something to tell you that will come as something of a surprise. Forgive me for not being more honest with you, but it is hard to own up to one's imprudent behavior.

The truth is, I have been living beyond my means for quite some time. Recently some speculations of mine that I had hoped would set me right went wrong and—well, the sad fact is that I had to sell Bag End. I have already contacted the S-Bs; you can imagine how Lobelia leaped at the chance. The particulars are still being negotiated, but the sale itself is an absolute fact. I have decided that my departure date will be Bilbo's and my next birthday, after which I mean to return to Buckland. I couldn't bear to part with dear Bag End before then.

Now, I don't want to hear a word about you trying to bail me out. I have made my choices and I must face the consequences of my actions. What I would like from you is simply this: Would you be kind enough to look out for a place for me? Something small and easy to keep; I shouldn't like to repeat my mistakes. I require only a little hole or a house with a bit of garden. More than a bit would be nicer, as that would give Sam something to do. Yes, Sam means to come with me. I know it's hard to believe that he would ever leave the Gaffer, but I imagine his aversion to Bag End's new tenants tipped the scales in my favor. That is the main reason I wouldn't want to live in the Hall. I have got used to having grounds, and I'm not sure I would feel right if I didn't have some land of my own, for Sam to fix up however he pleases.

I'm very sorry, Merry. I know this letter must cause you some distress. But be assured that the sale of Bag End will give me a comfortable sum to live on, for as long as I shall need it. The consolation of having you near at hand is no small benefit. On the whole, I think I can make the change without too much pain.

Please give my best regards to Saradoc and Esmeralda. I shall see you shortly, I suppose, as soon as you have located some properties you wish to show me.

I am, as always, your devoted cousin,

Frodo

Merry read the letter through twice. Frodo's decision to sell Bag End astounded him; he had assumed Frodo would leave it vacant, as Bilbo had done. This, more than anything else, convinced Merry that Frodo had no expectation of ever returning to the Shire, once he left it.

Merry took a steadying breath. "My dear, sweet hobbit," he murmured, shaking his head. As fabrications went, this one was well done; if Merry didn't know the truth, he might have believed the story himself. Quite brave of Frodo to take this tack; Merry could only imagine what his parents would have to say about their former ward's reckless mismanagement of his money. And Frodo was right; the letter was distressing, but for reasons other than what he supposed. The finality of what he was about to attempt sank into Merry as it never had before.

All the same, Frodo's words brought him a measure of comfort. His cousin did not intend to leave Hobbiton until September. Surely he would not go to the trouble of acquiring a house if he did not mean to live in it, at least for a while. Merry toyed briefly with the notion that Frodo might be sending him on a wild goose chase simply to throw him off the track, then dismissed the idea as hopelessly convoluted. Frodo had no reason to suppose that Merry suspected anything, and Merry was confident that Sam wouldn't let slip anything about the Conspiracy. Frodo had therefore written what Merry supposed would be his public explanation of events. It was reassuring to learn that the danger was not so pressing that Frodo could afford to spend one last summer at Bag End. It also provided the best clue he'd had to date as to Frodo's eventual destination.

Merry tapped the letter thoughtfully. East. Frodo meant to depart east; why else would he choose Buckland? Merry closed his eyes, momentarily relieved. Frodo was coming here; he wouldn't simply vanish.

Merry sat a moment to collect himself, then readied himself for action. First, he must convey the news to Fatty and Pippin. Chances were that Frodo had written them separately, but Merry wanted to make sure they knew the whole. Afterwards, he must decide what his demeanor must be when he broke the news to his parents. They would be horrified; Merry felt a twinge over all he would put them through that year, but confessing the truth was impossible. Merry must carry on with the deception as best he could.

After that, Merry must get onto this house-hunting business. Here he felt all the luck of his inside knowledge, for he knew exactly what Frodo was looking for, perhaps even better than Frodo did.

-0-0-0-

"We can improve the kitchen," Merry said, showing Frodo through it to the back door. "You'll want something much better for you and Sam."

"Oh, we can worry about that later." Frodo gave only the most cursory look at the pantries and stoves.

Merry swallowed his response. It was barely three weeks after Frodo's letter, and Merry already had found him what he was convinced would be the perfect house. Frodo was clearly interested in it, but not for the usual reasons. The soundness of the walls, the amenities, the size of the rooms—all these were lost on him. It put Merry's nerves into a state, for it could only mean that Frodo expected to live here for the briefest period of time. Merry quelled his concerns, and carried on in his deliberately chatty manner.

He let Frodo out the back door, and divulged what he was sure would be his major selling points. "There's a nice big yard for Sam. Nothing to it but lawn now, but Sam will soon fix that."

"Yes," Frodo said, but he wasn't looking at the yard. He was looking at the belt of trees that surrounded the cottage. Merry couldn't help speculating about what Frodo must be thinking: who would notice my movements if I left by the back way? How much warning would I get if someone was coming up the road?

Merry took up the train of thought for him. "There's hardly any prospect, but you could thin out the trees if you wished. You're in a proper cocoon here, but that's what the cottage was built for: folk who wanted a quiet escape from the busyness of the Hall. That's the reason it's set so far back from the road; people will miss the house altogether unless they know where to look. It will also make you hard to find at night; I doubt anyone would be able to spot the place unless you left out a lantern to guide them."

Frodo was surveying the path to the road, which was visible only through a narrow gap in the thick hedge. He nodded appreciatively.

"And you've hardly any neighbors," Merry continued. "It wasn't a problem before, because no one lived here regularly. But you might spend some lonely days, as you're far enough away from the Hall to make drop-ins inconvenient. I suppose you could meet your closer neighbors in time. Nate Billowbuck's farm is a quarter of a mile south; he's the nearest, I think. There just aren't too many folk out this way, and no wonder. The Old Forest starts not far east of here. Do you remember that time we sneaked in for a look round? Oh, it must have been twenty years ago. Anyway, the gate we took through the Hedge is little more than a mile off. Not that you'll be wanting to pop into the Old Forest, of course. Still, the gate is generally kept in good order. Old Alaric sees to that."

As a matter of fact, the Hedge gate was in perfect working order. When he'd first checked out the cottage two weeks ago, Merry had fetched the key, and made sure of it. He was dismayed that the path leading to the Bonfire Glade had decayed to the extent that it had, but he was confident he could make out its general direction. Not that Frodo probably intended to depart through the Old Forest, but Merry wanted to keep his options open.

Frodo turned about in a circle, looking from the road to the low, roof-turved house, to the belt of trees that seemed to hold the yard and little cottage in the palm of its hand. Frodo met Merry's eye and smiled. It wasn't a happy smile; something in his gaze was already far away. Merry almost choked, and fought hard to maintain his semblance of cheerfulness.

Frodo, occupied with his private melancholy, appeared to notice nothing. He cleared his throat. "This is perfect, Merry. Thank you. I'll take it."

-0-0-0-

The months had fled by faster than Merry could have dreamed. Now, this very night, Frodo would take possession of the house he had purchased, intending to abandon, so many months ago. Merry's shoulders slumped as he crossed the fields from the stables to the house. He slipped in the back way, through the spinney. It was so dark under the trees, Merry could see nothing but the gleam of open lawn before him, guiding his steps.

He pushed open the front door, surprising Fatty. His cousin was arranging some knickknacks on a little table in the foyer. Fatty started so badly he nearly dropped the silver dish he was holding.

"Oi! You might have knocked, to give me warning. That would be something, wouldn't it? To convey Frodo's things safely from Bag End, only to shatter them here after they were carefully unpacked."

"I'm sorry." Merry stepped inside, and closed the door. He looked round at the mirror on the wall, and the vase of dried flowers in the center of the table Fatty was embellishing. "Fatty, you've made the place look lived-in already."

Fatty adjusted the placement of a decorative mug, a souvenir of Bilbo's from Lake Town. "You realize, of course, that we are completely mad. All this work, and he'll likely be gone in a week or two."

"I know. But it can't be helped. Frodo must go soon, if he's to beat the Fall weather."

"You're sure he's making for Rivendell? It seems awfully late in the year to start."

"That's where Sam thinks he's going, and he's generally right about these things. Now," Merry undid a few buttons on his topcoat. "What's next?"

"I've made up the fire, but I wasn't about to haul all that water by myself." Fatty tried to look annoyed, but his eyes twinkled. "Really, Merry, I ask you. Three baths. What possessed you?"

Merry shrugged. "I wanted to pamper him. Frodo will see little of that for some time, I think."

"True enough." Fatty gave the arrangement a final tweak, and straightened. "What are you going to do if Gandalf has caught up with them? Make him bathe in the cauldron?"

"Gandalf can very well wait his turn until the others have done." Merry stopped, surprised at the sharp note in his voice.

Fatty burst into a laugh. "My goodness! You aren't best pleased with Gandalf these days, are you?"

Merry blushed. "I can't say that I am, considering the trouble he's caused."

"My dear Merry, I'm as dismal about Frodo leaving as you are. But you can't go blaming poor Gandalf. It was Bilbo's ring that started the business. The old wizard is probably saving Frodo's life; I hope you realize that."

Merry didn't answer. The idea of Frodo's life being in danger was not something he was ready to bandy about in ordinary conversation. "I'll help you with the water."

Fatty's concern turned out to be well founded. They were both red-cheeked and puffing by the time the second great cauldron was filled. The hearth had been expanded, amongst other improvements put in that summer, but two good-sized kettles were all that would fit over the kitchen fire.

On his final trip, Merry saw Fatty swinging the second full kettle over the flames. He therefore set his pair of full buckets next to the sink, ready for future use, then looked out the small, round window into inky darkness. "They should have been here by now."

Fatty clapped the dust from his knees as he rose. "I shouldn't worry. They're big lads. Probably Pippin is up to his eyeballs in ale at the Golden Perch, and the others can't shift him."

Merry fretted. "Doubtless you're right."

Fatty grinned, and nodded at the door. "Look, I'll keep the house warm. Why don't you go along and have supper at the Hall like you'd planned? You'll be leaving soon; I don't doubt you'll want to see everyone one last time."

"Of course." But Merry didn't want to see everyone. He had been preparing to leave for months. His messages were written and safely stowed away, to be delivered by Fatty a suitably safe interval after his departure. Tonight, he wanted to see Frodo. He couldn't forget the worry in Frodo's eyes when Gandalf had failed to appear for his birthday dinner. Gandalf wasn't usually late, was he? He often showed up unannounced, but did he ever neglect to arrive if he was expected? Merry worried his lip. Frodo would know the answer, but Frodo was late, too.

Merry made his decision. "Fatty, do you mind if I borrow Cully? I'd rather not take Dandy out tonight, on the off chance that we do get off tomorrow."

Fatty looked surprised. "You want to ride to the Hall?"

"It's faster."

Fatty waved. "Take him. He could use the exercise."

-0-0-0-

Cully was a gentle, friendly beast. He trotted along briskly, puffing a little from his lack of training, seemingly untroubled by the shallow banks of fog that increased as Merry approached the River. The enormous burrow of Brandy Hall sheltered Buckleberry village from the River—but Merry did not go to the Hall. Scolding himself for being a worrywart, he followed the lane past Buck Hill and down to the ferry landing. The ferryboat lay at rest, unattended.

Well, Merry could help Frodo this much at least. He walked Cully onto the ferry's deck, then unhitched it and began poling to the other side. For some reason, the River was largely free of fog, but the opposite bank was a shroud of white. Merry only saw the white bollards when they were yards away, and adjusted his angle to bring the ferry to the dock. He made everything fast, then looked into the fog. Useless. He couldn't see more than two yards ahead of him.

He led the pony onto the bank. "Come along, Cully. We'll see if your pony sense will keep us on the road." Merry wound his scarf around his neck, as the fingers of fog were chill. He then mounted up and took Cully down the short lane to the Stock Road. There, he paused.

The night was quiet, sounds dulled by the fog. So far, Merry could hardly have missed his party. They would have to have gone quite astray if they didn't take the Stock Road. Resolutely, Merry turned Cully's head north, and clucked. The pony walked up the road, his ears twitching but his pace steady. Stock was four miles away. Merry rode slowly, listening intently.

He heard the noise the same moment that Cully whickered: the creak of a wagon wheel. Merry pulled Cully to a halt, the better to listen. Faintly, a steady clop and creak of harness penetrated the fog. Merry canted his head. The sound was definitely behind him. He paused, looking into the blind whiteness. Then he guided Cully round.

"Probably a false alarm," he murmured. "But we're bound to check."

He hadn't realized he was so near the Ferry Lane. Suddenly the ghostly shape of the white posts marking the lane sprang up on his left. At the same time, he realized a wagon was stopped just at the turning of the lane.

"Hallo there!" hollered a voice, so gruffly that Cully snorted and stopped short. A dark shape moved belligerently from the front of the wagon towards Merry. "Now then, don't you come a step nearer! What do you want, and where are you going?"

-0-0-0-

When Merry returned to the little house in Crickhollow, his cloak was damp from fog. He stamped his feet on the front mat, stopping to inhale deeply the delicious aroma of Fatty's cooking. He sighed, and let the bulky burden he'd carried on his shoulder from the stable slide to the floor.

The noise brought Fatty running. He burst into the front hall, just as Merry wearily hung his cloak and muffler upon the pegs. Fatty stopped short, seeing the cluster of bags that Merry had dropped. "What is that?"

"Our saddlebags." Merry bent to retrieve his basket from the bench. "And these are mushrooms for our dinner, a welcome gift presented to Frodo from Mrs. Maggot."

"You found him, then!" Fatty snatched the basket eagerly. "Is he coming along?"

"Yes. They'll all be here in half an hour, I expect."

"All? Gandalf, too?"

"No. Just the three."

Fatty stared at the pile on the floor, which Merry stooped to gather up. "The mushrooms I understand. But why did you bring up the saddlebags? They'll give away the game, unless you chuck them in a cupboard before Frodo gets here. If you can find an empty one, that is. This is hardly Bag End."

Merry rose, recalling the black shape across the River, and the thrill of fear in the others' voices. He smiled sadly; he didn't doubt Frodo's stay would be shorter than even they had feared. "Don't worry, Fatty. We won't need to hide them for long. I have a feeling we'll be packing tonight."