Paladin slept ill these nights. For all the natural protection that the Great Smials and Green Hills gave his folk, this siege was not sustainable. Tookland held far too little arable land. Now, as the year was failing, and the days grew longer and darker, so grew the shadow in Paladin's heart. People would starve this winter. He felt it in his bones. It infuriated him that there was no good reason for it. Only greed, and an absence of conscience that would let ruin spread indiscriminately across the land, was to blame. Yet folk would die from it, all the same.

Time and again he'd worried over how he might revolt, and time and again he could find no safe way to do so. There were too few of them able to help. Last winter, Saradoc had taken Paladin's lead, and sealed off Buckland from the intruders. The Buckleberry Ferry was grounded, and the Hay Gate locked. Both sides patrolled the River, maintaining Buckland's isolation. At times Saradoc managed to get small parties across the River by boat, for news or essential supplies. Now and again, he attempted the riskier method of sending out a patrol by way of the Hedge gate. Some of them never returned. They disappeared into the Old Forest, just as Pippin had done.

Paladin closed his eyes. No, there could be no help from Buckland. The distance from Tookland was simply too great. Between them lay a stronghold of Men in the Woody End—set there deliberately, he didn't doubt. Messages between the Smials and the Hall were not impossible, but they were rare. He needed reliable news for any revolt to succeed. And what of the vast majority of the hobbits, who had no such refuge to which to retreat? Any uprising of Paladin's might only make their lives more miserable. Villains who imprisoned the old and the weak might stoop to any atrocity. It had been far too long since a Thain had mustered the Shire. Bitterly, Paladin reflected that the Shirefolk at large seemed to have forgotten how to stand up for themselves when required.

Beside him in the big bed, Eglantine stirred. Paladin lay still, but she wasn't fooled. A warm hand groped its way across his chest, then stroked his cheek. Eglantine shifted closer. "What are you thinking?" she whispered.

"I'm thinking that the winter will be long and cold. We should ration everything, not just the vital stores."

Eglantine paused, then laid her head against his chest. She fiddled with the embroidered ties at the front of his nightshirt. "I'll take the girls into the storeholes tomorrow. We'd best know how much we can spare, and still save enough for the Spring."

"Spring." Paladin felt near to despair. Spring was the "starving time," the hardest part of the year. How could his folk fight off well-supplied ruffians, when they were weak on their legs from short commons? Chances were, if they lasted until Spring, Tookland would fall. Spirit she had in plenty; what she lacked was strength.

Eglantine kissed his chest, startling him. "We'll get through this. We always do."

There seemed little point in arguing with her. Paladin saw a different future, one in which the last islands of refuge were starved and assimilated one by one. What made everything worse was knowing that simpleton Lotho was behind it. A blockhead who couldn't make a move without a written plan, with every step spelled out for him—and now look at him! Snapped up most of the Shire, and de facto taken it over. It astounded Paladin, how a hobbit of such substandard abilities should rise to a position that let him inflict his cruelty and incompetence upon so many others.

Eglantine rubbed his chest. Gently, he put her hand aside.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he murmured. "There's no sleep in me tonight. I'll look over the maps one more time. Perhaps there's a parcel of useful land somewhere that we can take and hold." He threw aside the bedclothes and rose.

"Have Erling make you a warm milk," Eglantine murmured, as Paladin knotted the belt of his dressing gown.

"I'd rather not disturb anyone. Don't worry about me. I simply must prowl about until my mind settles upon some solution."

He had reached the door, and was on the point of going out, when Eglantine's soft call stopped him. "Pal."

He turned. His wife was sitting up in bed, a tumble-haired silhouette. Even in the dark, melancholy was evident in her posture. It was certainly present in her voice.

"Sometimes," she said softly, "there is no solution."

Paladin stared a moment, then turned the knob and went. A single sconce at the end of the corridor guided his steps. Paladin walked briskly but lightly, frowning in concentration.

There must be a solution. There was always a solution.

So spoke his conscious mind. But there was an empty room in the smial, and an unfilled chair at the table. Every day they forced him to confront the fact that sometimes wishes were futile, and the keenest hopes could never be fulfilled.