Marigold had what she thought was a secret. When she was younger, if ever there was a hobbit who gave her those kinds of feelings – the kind that make lasses pull petals off daisies and recite, "he loves me, he loves me not" – it was the interesting and handsome Mr. Frodo, and it was a natural consequence of being rescued by him from under the linden tree. Her practical mind knew it could not be: he was one of her "betters" after all, not close enough in age, and simply had no cause to ever notice her that way. So she had locked her feelings up in a far-off corner of her heart and turned to other, as she felt, more productive pursuits. Even when he rescued her and a number of other hobbits from the Lockholes after the Scouring, she did not allow herself to think of him that way, for after all, she had been one of many.

But when Sam had asked her to work for Mr. Frodo – alone with him, in his house, for many hours a day – she remembered her heart had broken inexplicably into a sprint, and she had to chide it to slow down and to stop being foolish.

Because Bagginses, after all, did not fall in love with Gamgees and healers were not allowed to fall in love with their patients, nor employees with their employers. It was a recipe for poor judgment and mistakes, and generally destructive to work ethic.

And Marigold, if anything, had very good work ethic. She was a Gamgee, after all, and Gamgees worked, from the moment they could stand up, and even Mrs. Bracegirdle, who was fond of admonishing her to "learn how to rest, or else you'll spon-taneously com-bust, young miss," had not walloped it out of her.

In fact, if Marigold was not fixing something, plugging up holes, or straightening what was crooked, she felt very easily at loose ends. At Bag End, however, there was, for the present moment, no danger of this.

The first thing that set her mind to work was, of course, Mr. Frodo himself.

There was clearly something amiss with him, and went far beyond Sam's description of being deeply tired and in pain.

He would not sit by windows, or go outside unless it was absolutely necessary. When he spoke to her – and to Sam, too – he had an absence in his gaze, as if he was looking through them rather than at them. His story about the foreign ways of brewing tea seemed improbable to say the least. And when she spotted a mouse in the kitchen and reflexively launched a ladle at it – she was dangerous with kitchen utensils when she wanted to be, and was the terror of all vermin at Bagshow Row – Frodo jumped so high he nearly put a hole in the ceiling.

She made a note to never do that particular trick again.

Frodo was, of course, perfectly kind and obliging to her, and it didn't seem like he was afraid of her – it was something rather more unseen and undefined that troubles him.

Indeed, even when he was not actively assisting in deciding where things would go, or putting things up where she, being short even for a hobbit, could not reach, he did not eschew her company. Rather often, he would sit in the same spaces as her, reading – though he did not turn the pages often at all – and looking, from time to time, in her general direction – rather like a cat, she thought, for there was something similar in the way he slowly blinked his eyes and had, in those moments, a relatively placid air that said, "yes, I do not mind being here with you."

(Of course, no cat she had ever seen had blue eyes like that – save one, who, like Frodo, lived in a rich patient's house, and, unlike Frodo, was white all over, pink-nosed, and deaf.)

And also rather like a cat, Frodo would get up abruptly at times, and leave without apparent reason or explanation, only a clipped apology. He would disappear into his room and stay away for an hour or more, and when he did, she, with some effort, quelled her desire to furtively listen outside because… Well, because she certainly wouldn't have wanted someone listening in on her like that, so she couldn't imagine he would be pleased with it.

At first, Marigold had half a mind to quiz Sam further on what was going on – but she had a feeling Sam himself did not know, which is why he had recruited her help. In which case he had been somewhat off the mark, since she knew a great deal about pre-birth nerves, post-birth melancholy, and even post-birth hysteria, a dreadful thing that made it necessary to separate mothers from children from time time, but when it came to Frodo (quite apart from him not being a woman in a pregnancy-related predicament), she had no inkling of how to address, or even name, what she was seeing. She even thought of going to Dr. Boffin in confidence – having cross-trained with him at Mrs. Bracegirdle's behest – and describing Frodo's circumstances under the guise of seeking anonymous council "for a friend." But somehow she felt that Frodo would not want his affairs discussed in even that way, so she continued to watch, wait and listen. Skills translated, after all – on this point Sam had not been wrong – and if she envisioned Frodo as a cat, then he was a wounded one who had not seen kindness from others in quite a long time. What was one to do with such a being?

It was simple. Leave tokens of goodwill, offer good food, and wait for him to come to you.

And so she did not ask too many questions, did not call attention to strange behavior. She offered solutions, and it seemed to work, now and again. Frodo certainly ate more than a few bites of the new dish she had invented – even as Sam demanded where said dish had been all his life – and she started to make a list of soothing herbs that could be incorporated into tea. She started with mint – soothing for the stomach, certainly, then chamomile, lavender, passion flower and lemon balm. Frodo accepted all of them gratefully, but none seemed to change how he presented or behaved, even the strong brews – until she tried milk.

It had been a rainy day, and Frodo had come to take his tea in the kitchen, but as he reached for the kettle, she said, "Wait, I thought of something a tad different today."

Frodo looked curious, and she produced a cup of warm milk she had prepared just minutes before – warmed in a saucepan, with a spoonful of honey stirred in, and cloves ground on top of it. She had even placed a sprig of small white flowers on the saucer, which she had picked on her way to work.

Frodo sat down and drank, giving a sad smile as he picked up the flowers and smelled them. She returned to stirring the broth on the hearth, skimming foam off the top as circumstance demanded, but watched Frodo out of the corner of her eye.

A tear formed over his bottom eyelid, and slid down his cheek, but he drank the milk until it was gone. Afterwards, he licked his lips and sighed, and took a deep breath – a slow, calm one for him — and spoke.

"Thank you," he said, the remnants of tears still in his voice, though he was valiantly trying to hide them. "I haven't had milk like this since I was little. How did you know?"

Marigold put down her spoon and came to sit by him. The rain was pattering matter-of-factly against the window, and it felt like the right thing to do.

Though they sat close, he didn't move away, and didn't seem to be made wary by her.

She wanted to give him a hug, or rub his back, but that would not have been proper. Maybe she would later ask Sam to give him a backrub — Sam's back rubs were famous, and in the family they liked to say that he could make a second living off of them.

"Lucky guess, I s'pose," she replied. The fact that milk was, in fact, a nerve tonic per her book-learning and also filled the stomach with nourishment, redoubling the effect, seemed quite besides the point.

After that day, tea time became milk time.

After some days of unpacking and cleaning, Marigold realized another, perhaps unsurprising thing.

Neither Frodo – nor apparently Bilbo before him in his older days – had any discernible organization system to their household. More often than not, when she asked Frodo where something went she only got vague answers to the tune of "I don't really know, come to think of it," "I don't remember," and "wherever I put it down, I suppose" – though the last was only amusing the first few times.

Of course, Frodo was that sort – unkind tongues would have called him airy-fairy or "head in the clouds" – but Marigold couldn't be too unhappy with him. Still, given how many belongings he had – certainly more than all the Gamgees combined – she soon realized that here was another crooked thing that needed to be made straight, and another hole that needed to be plugged up, not the least for the sake of her own sanity as his caretaker.

To that end, she commissioned shelves, and lots of them, from Sam, and started sorting.

Frodo first watched the proceedings like they were some vague, absurd performance in a foreign language, but ultimately agreed that it made sense that maps were best separated from manuscripts, which in turn should be separated from books, while having pillowcases, sheets, and towels – kitchen ones here and bath ones there – all placed in separate cubby-holes, was likely to be quite convenient.

And as she sorted, Marigold became rather enamored with the process. She had always thought it calming, to do things methodically and repeatedly, and for everything to have its own place. She even cut pieces of paper to make labels, and before she knew it the pantry, the clothing rooms, and the two "library" rooms – for Frodo certainly had enough books and manuscripts to make a library – were like an apothecary's shop, and she had made and affixed all the labels in half an afternoon's time, while Frodo had disappeared into his room.

When he emerged, he acknowledged her efforts in his usual languid, sadly smiling manner, and said, "my goodness, Marigold, you really do leave nothing undone." And she had lowered her eyes and laughed a little, saying it was nothing, Mr. Frodo, and that she had only been a little bored.

But a few days later, something happened.

She was putting away the shopping in the larder when her eyes fell upon a label she had made for a dry goods jar – the flax one in particular, which stood in the third row from the bottom on the end. The label size and shape were the same, but the handwriting was different – Frodo's, from what she recalled of the letters and papers they had sorted. The letters were neat and tidy, uniformly spaced all in a line, like beads on a string. Her letters, on the other labels, though not for a lack of effort, were sloppy and lopsided in comparison: some sitting higher, some lower, some squeezed together while others were farther apart.

But something else was different, too. The word on the label that caught her eye was different: it conspicuously lacked the letter K.

She did not remember specifics about words often, but she remembered writing that K. She also did not have occasion to write often, but when she did she did not dislike it, and K was one of her favorite letters. It had a comforting, definitive rigidity to it, like the shaft of a dwarf's ax. But instead, speaking of axes, there was an X in the word – definitive, too, but far more like a signal to stop, like something had gone wrong.

Why was there an X? Did Mr. Frodo like X's? He might have done, knowing him…

She looked at the other labels. Some had been replaced. A number had not. She peered at the ones that had been replaced more closely, but could not find anything too different about them, except that the writing was Frodo's.

She put down her bags – which she had still been holding – and hurried over to one of the closet rooms.

The same thing had happened there. Some labels had been replaced, some not. There were more replaced here.

She then made tracks for one of the libraries. Frodo was there. He was at the small table in the middle of the room, flipping through old maps, and looked up as if he knew she was there before she had made a sound.

"Yes, Marigold, is something the matter?"

He had acquired a gift in his travels for sounding like nothing was the matter, and all but willing that fact into existence. Like "matter" was something earthly and common, while he had a foot in another realm.

Was this how elves sounded?

She must have looked perturbed.

She did not answer immediately and looked at the labels on the shelves. Sure enough. Replaced. Most of them.

Something had indeed gone wrong. X.

Her arms grew heavy at her sides, and suddenly she wanted to sit. Frodo got up and nodded to his chair.

Manners.

Dear goodness. Nobody ever stood for her. Not even when she delivered people's children.

She did not move, however.

"M-mister Frodo." She tried to sound calm, unconfused. "I noticed some of the labels – the ones I made – were changed, begging your pardon. Is that –"

What exactly was she trying to say? She felt the words running away from her, scattering like roaches into dark corners.

But Frodo waited, even as she fumbled, and did not resume his seat. Instead, he actually took up the chair, and carried it over to her.

Marigold sank into it.

"What I mean is," she gathered her words as best she could, "Did you – did you want me to make them differently? If so, just let me know… I don't mind – I don't want you troubling yourself –"

Frodo leaned against the table – a matter-of-fact… something forming on his lips.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry?! Him?!

"I've already given you so much work to do, and you work so hard, Mari. You're probably tired, and pressed for time. So I suppose – I suppose I just couldn't help myself; I'm a bit… particular about some things."

He really did sound apologetic. He paused, twiddling the button on his waistcoat with his left hand. The right was positioned, as if accidentally, behind him on the table.

"But Mr. Frodo" – a few moments' sitting had given her enough rest, and she found her inquisitive nature creeping back. "What things? I'd like to know, so I don't make the same mistake again."

"Well –" He looked down, his elvish "nothing is the matter" face wavering a bit. "Spelling for one. I suppose it's a failing on my part, but when something's spelled wrong, I cannot help but change it. I used to correct people's speech, too, all the time when I was a lad. I must have been insufferable – and I suppose it's no less insufferable now, and with the written word just the same – so once again, I'm sorry."

Marigold stared at him. He was cocking his head and shrugging his shoulders, and looked for a moment a bit more youthful.

But if another time she might have been glad at such a change in countenance, at that moment she had other, more pressing things on her mind.

"Spellin'?... Wait…"

Having her speech corrected was nothing new – Mrs. Bracegirdle, though no fine lady herself, had insisted on at least the rudiments of proper speech, and had nearly beaten dropped g's and double negatives out of her. But spelling?

Her mind rushed over her history with the written word – which was not extensive.

"Wait… there's a right and a wrong way of spelling, Mr. Frodo?"

Throughout her mental sojourn, Frodo had not stopped looking at her.

"Why, yes, of course," he replied. "It can be challenging, though – that much is true."

Marigold felt dizzy. She must have looked ill at ease, too, because Frodo ceased to lean against the table and squatted down beside her – though still at the respectful distance of a pace.

"But Sam – Sam said it was alright to –"

Sam teaching her her letters, the two of them practicing with sticks in the dirt.

Sam bringing home his notebooks from Bag End, letting her try her hand in the margins…

"Sam – Sam said it was alright to write how you think it sounds, and if it's close enough people will understand. He – he didn't correct me much, and he didn't say anything about right and wrong, or people being particular…"

She hated how desperate she sounded… Why would her words not cooperate with her today?

Frodo looked pensive, a knuckle pressed to his lips.

"Then there might have been a misunderstanding," he said after a moment. He looked to be choosing his words carefully, slowly. "It was a long time ago, wasn't it, that Sam taught you?"

"No, there was definitely no mis-understandin', sir." Marigold shook her head vigorously. "Sam said that as long as you get the meanin' across, it doesn't matter at all."

Frodo paused and scratched his head, getting up to lean against the table once more. His body ached and his head felt sick, for his rabbit heart, sent racing at every expected and unexpected thing, had not let him rest for the better part of a week.

Realizing he must have tripped a familial booby trap, a smile crept nervously around his words.

"Well," he tried to course-correct. "I suppose that's sometimes true, such as for your own records and between family and friends. Not that I'm not family or friends, but I am a bit particular, like I said. But when it comes to official books and papers, there's definitely a right way and a wrong way, and the words are always spelled the same. You remember, probably, from when you trained in midwifery?"

Marigold, to her great and growing shame, did not remember. Reading had never been her strong suit, nor did she have many occasions to even hold a book – and by the time she was reading herbology and anatomy in her training, it was all she could do to recognize the words and piece together their meaning. She thanked her lucky stars that Mrs. Bracegirdle had no great love for the written word herself, believing far more in hands-on learning – but she dumped several books on her apprentice just the same, courtesy of Dr. Boffin, and ordered her to read them – which Marigold did, painfully and dutifully – and then Mrs. Bracegirdle proceeded to argue with their contents, so it was all Marigold could do to understand what was what. It would have been far too much to keep track of spelling, and Mrs. Bracegirdle hardly ever made her write things, except to copy over labels on tincture bottles when she was already collapsing from fatigue.

Marigold looked at her hands. Small, tanned, pudgy hands with calloused palms fit for rolling dough and for washing, but apparently not for writing.

"I've never been much good at reading and writing, to tell you the truth, Mr. Frodo," she confessed at last. "Sam tried to teach me as best he could – and yes, that was a long time ago, when Mr. Bilbo taught him." She paused, taking a breath. "But reading's always been like chewing rocks, if you get my meaning. I don't know why. I s'ppose I'm just daft like that…"

She fought not to cover her face with her hands. Her stupid, daft, uneducated face that had no business being here with Mr. Frodo, who had apparently read so much that he had even learned Elvish.

"Well, wait a moment," she heard Frodo's voice above her – for she did not dare raise her eyes. "You're not daft by any means. I watch you and I talk to you every day. Maybe Sam just didn't know how to teach you? For goodness sake, you were both children."

Ah yes, Sam.

She would have words for him once she got home. Words that, misspelled or not, would get their meanin' across.

She looked up, and must have looked skeptical, but Frodo went on, now sounding, if one could believe it, a shade more enthusiastic.

"Maybe reading more enjoyable things can help… Wait just a moment…"

He turned away and looked at the shelves, quickly scanning the titles. He pulled down a volume. Then, failing to find what he seemed to want, he padded off to the other library.

He returned after a few minutes, bearing two more books, and laid all three out on the table. They were The History and Customs of Hobbits, an anthology of poems and songs, and Bilbo's Translations from the Elvish. He had hesitated over the last one, wondering if it had too many unusual concepts and names for the present purpose, but figured that since Marigold had always listened closely when he and Sam spoke of elves, there was a chance that the interest was familial, and had persisted.

"Here are some of my favorites," he said. "You can borrow them, and see if you like them too. I always learned best by finding words in books – and if I wanted to remember them, I would copy them down."

Marigold looked at the books, dumbstruck.

"And I could help you, if you like," he went on. "We could read and practice words together, and if there are things that are especially difficult for you, we could see if we can make them easier."

He paused. His rabbit-heart was racing in his throat, though there was no conceivable reason for it to do so. Had even this little bit of excitement proven too much? He wondered if his heart would someday get tired of acting like it was being hunted for sport, and stop altogether.

Marigold ran her finger down the spine of one of the books, her face a mix of awe and trepidation. It was similar to the look she had when they found some of Bilbo's more prized possessions – except this time, she also had the air of accepting a child to hold – just born and passed around to all the relatives.

"This is… too kind," she spoke at last.

His heart grew quiet, and he drank in the feeling – the feeling of being at ease, or at least not unwell. But with it came fatigue, worse still than what he had before. What was he even thinking? He had never taught anyone in his life. Where would he even find the strength for it?

"Is – is it alright if I keep them here, though?" Marigold asked. "They might get spoiled by my nieces and nephews at home."

She turned the book over. The spine had grown pliant from much opening and closing, but the original ink of the title was still dark and clear.

"And there's always so much fuss and noise at home, it makes reading all the more trying," she added, as if in afterthought. "I s'ppose living there so long I should be used to it, but I'm not."

Frodo nodded.

"I understand. Of course. They're yours to keep wherever you wish."

He hooked the thumb of his left hand into his pocket, and drummed his fingers on the outside. His right hand stayed behind him.

Then again, an extra hour or two of Marigold each day would not be a hardship. Evenings alone had little to offer except wine and daring to hope, only to see those hopes dashed in the worst way possible.

"And I get bothered too, now, when there is too much noise and commotion," he added, as if commenting on the weather. "So if you need somewhere to escape to, you are always welcome here. Even if you aren't working."

Marigold looked up in surprise. She had just opened the book, and brought it close to her face to peer at the letters – more beautifully strung, even beads on a string – and inhaled a breath that stirred an odd, familiar memory.

Did he just say… "always" ? No, she couldn't have heard right.

But more than that, did he just say… "bothered"?

He certainly seemed bothered at times, but it was the first time that he had actually said it. It was always "like" and "don't like" with him, and at times he was "particular," but never bothered, hurt, put out, or especially distressed, if one believed his words.

But Frodo looked at her, unflinching, and showed no sign of taking back what he said. In fact, he only gave one of his slow, catlike blinks; his lovely, elfin features were remarkably stoic.

"A-always welcome? I'm sure you don't mean that, sir," she replied, shaking her head and putting down the book. She looked hurriedly about her, trying to recall what order of business she had set down and forgotten before all this began.

Ah, yes! The shopping! She had abandoned it on the pantry floor. And there was still the mending to do, and the dinner to start.

"I – appreciate the thought, sir," she added quickly, turning toward the door. "But I really shouldn't im-pose on your kindness that way. An hour or two after work – that ought to be enough – so long as you can spare it. You need your rest."

Frodo nodded.

She certainly had her restless, self-conscious side, but that, too, he did not dislike. In fact it was rather charming, in its own way.

And she was right.

He sighed, as she hurried away to the kitchen.

He really did need his rest. If only she knew how difficult it was to come by, and how little difference her presence would make in that regard.