That day, Marigold was silent at supper. Not merely quiet, as was her custom in larger groups, but completely, deadly silent. She passed dishes and condiments without a word, and nodded and pretended to have too much in her mouth to answer questions. She all but looked through Sam who sat across from her – and so he knew a storm was brewing, and it was only a matter of time before the cloudburst.

And sure enough, after a few moments of being alone in the kitchen, him dunking the dishes and scrubbing off the remnants of food while she rinsed and wiped, she spoke up in a slow, deliberate tone.

"Samwise Gamgee, could you please tell me something?"

Silence and his full name.

This was bound to be a tempest.

Sam swallowed, and lowered the dish he was scrubbing. It disappeared under the water with a clink.

"Of course," he replied. "Leastwise I can try."

Marigold nodded. She took up the towel and carefully wiped a plate, the cloth creak-creaking over the rim.

"Alright. Here's what I'd like to know. And mind, you must tell me true. No fibbing." She put aside the plate.

"Of-of course."

"Is there a right and a wrong way of spelling things?"

Sam paused with his hand over the soapy water. That's what she wanted to know? Then why in the Shire —

"Why, of course there is."

The wet towel, spun into a ropelike shape, came down on his arm, hard.

"Samwise Gamgee, you bloody LIAR!"

Sam yelped in pain – the towel had nearly taken a off strip of skin. It had certainly taken off a strip of hair.

"What in the world—?! Mari, what's gotten into you?!"

He sucked his teeth, backing away and rubbing his injured arm. He had nearly forgotten how dangerous his sisters could be with kitchen implements.

Marigold was twirling the towel at her side, an ominous look in her eyes.

"Nothin's gotten into me," she replied through clenched teeth. " 'Cept today I learned that I've got a rotten, no-good, filthy rat for a brother. You told me 'it didn't matter, so long as you got the point across.' Those were your exact words."

"What?! When?"

"When we were wee! When you taught me how to write! When Mr. Bilbo taught you!"

Sam clutched his smarting arm, trying feverishly to remember.

"I mean – maybe? I might have said that back then? But look, I –"

"But you what?"

He had started to back away, but Marigold began to advance toward him, so he beat an even hastier retreat and put the table between them.

"Well I – I didn't want to hurt your feelin's, is all" – he pleaded, a desperate tone rising in his voice. "You were tryin' so hard, but you just kept gettin' it all wrong, time after time, and I didn't know what to do, so I thought –"

Marigold stopped and tapped her foot, folding her arms – the towel still in hand.

"And I thought, maybe – just maybe it would do to get it right enough, if you get my meanin'. We're Gamgees, after all."

He slowed his speech, his eyes darting warily from her face to the towel.

"Gamgees? What does that mean?" Her voice was as stony as her expression.

"Well, you know what I mean," Sam rejoined, emboldened – if by nothing else then the table between them. "We don't write letters to everyone we know all day – most folk we know wouldn't even know how to read letters. And we don't write books like Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo. That's just not what we do –"

Marigold lunged to the side, meaning to bring down the wrath of the towel full upon him, but he was fast enough to elude her. He raised his arms with a "whoa" expression, and the towel came down on the rough-cut table, polished smooth by many years of sitters and plates.

"And just who do you think you are to decide that for me?!" she cried. There was a sudden despair, if not tears in her voice. (And Marigold hardly ever wept – she only sulked, or got angry). "I may have wanted to write letters! I did write some things for Mr. Frodo the other day, and – and –"

Ah. Mr. Frodo. Sam might have chuckled.

"And what?" He let a smile slip into his words.

She looked like a child who was about to pout and stamp her foot, but only balled her fists at her sides.

"And – and if I'da known just how important spellin' was, I would have worked harder at it!" – she wailed. "I wrote some things for him, and I got half of it wrong! Can you imagine?! I can't tell you now embarrassin' it was!"

Since Marigold seemed, for a moment, more intent on feeling sorry for herself than angry at him, Sam made a cautious step toward her – though he still kept the table between them.

"Well, better late than never, eh, Mari?" – he tried to inject a cheerful lilt into his tone. "And Mr. Frodo… Well, I'm sure he wouldn't hold it against you. I mean, to be fair I didn't expect you to believe it, not for this long. What with all the readin' you've done for Mrs. Bracegirdle, I woulda thought you woulda figured it out for yourself…"

But in expecting Marigold to give up her defenses, even as she spoke of her shame, he could not have been more wrong.

The towel came down on his hand, hard.

"Don't you put this on me, Samwise Gamgee! Don't put this on me!"

Sam yelped in dismay, and backed all the way to the wall.

He considered, quite seriously, the option of begging truce – or simply escaping out the door, but was loath to reveal their argument.

Marigold made as if to strike him again, but he was out of reach, so she stamped her foot and took it out on the poor, defenseless wash basin, hitting it hard with her fist.

"You know I was too busy sortin' out the hip bones from the thigh bones and the ergot from the fenugreek to bother over spellin'! You used to read to me yourself when I got tired!"

Sam sighed.

That much was true. And he did recall that Marigold's progress through her books had been painfully slow – she had pored over them many a night after the rest of the household had gone to sleep.

He rubbed the side of his head.

"Ugh!" Marigold threw the towel to the ground. "I can't believe this."

Sam pressed his lips.

"Well, look, Mari" – he made one last, desperate attempt at conciliation. "I'm sorry. I really am. I shouldna have said what I said – not back then, and not now. But look – I really think you oughtn't trouble yourself so much with all this. I mean – readin' and writin's hard, and there's no need for everyone to do it well. And Mr. Frodo, well – he's the kindest soul alive –"

"Yes, that he is," Marigold retorted, her upper lip curling. "And Mr. Frodo doesn't think I'm a dunderhead, unlike some people!" She picked the towel off the floor. "He agreed to help me, you know! He thinks I can write proper if I'm taught."

"Oh, well then –"

"Oy, what's going on in here?" The Gaffer appeared in the doorway. "I won't have a rowdy house, not if I'm not the one dolin' out the discipline!"

But Marigold, having said her piece, spun around and stomped out, and the slamming of a door was all the answer he got.

The Gaffer turned to Sam, who sank down at the table, cradling his head in his hands.

"Forty years an' three sisters, and I still can't get on with lasses…"

He, too, made no specific reply to his father.

Rosie appeared in the doorway and tiptoed past the Gaffer, crossing the room on quiet feet and coming up behind her husband. She put her arms around him and pressed a kiss into his hair.

"You get on with me, love, and that's enough." She gently rubbed his back.

Sam sighed.

"Let's hope you don't have as long a memory as her."

"Oh, that's interesting." Rosie began to rock him back and forth, and raised an eyebrow. "So you think Marigold has a long memory, do you? I wouldn't have known."

(The two of them had played dolls when they were little, so of course she knew, but that was quite besides the point).

"I'm curious now" – she added, winking over her shoulder at her father-in-law. "What did you fight about? Was it that time you tied her dress to the tail of a pig and made it run down the hill?"

Sam shook his head, nonplussed.

"No, not that. But apparently I didn't teach her spellin' well enough when we were younguns, and she's gone an' embarrassed herself with Mr. Frodo."

His wife's gentle rocking was rather soothing, and by that point, he cared much less who knew.

"Ohhh, dear." Rosie clicked her tongue. "And we really shouldn't go embarrassing ourselves with Mr. Frodo, should we? Because Mr. Frodo judges sooooo harshly…"

The Gaffer shook his head.

He had been chewing on the inside of his cheek, watching the proceedings, and let out a gruff sigh.

"I said it before and I'll say it again. I knew no good would come of book-learning'."

He turned on his heel and shuffled out for his evening pipe.