No one seemed to know what was going on. The Boffins had moved out two days after the party, so this was the Delvers' first day officially in the employ of Mr Sackville-Baggins. They and the other workers had all gathered around the farmhouse, where Mr Boffin would usually delegate the jobs for the day. No one had told them to do any differently today. Everyone was shuffling around nervously and trying to avoid looking at the windows. The curtains were all drawn; a reminder that the house was shut up, and the indoor servants gone to find new employment.

"I wonder what they're going to do with the house," Meg said, folding her arms and shivering.

"They could give it to us," Maizey said.

Jonson snorted. "On Friday the first."

Meg smiled at him. "We could make good use of the room."

"Better than the Boffins did."

"Will someone else come to live here?" Martin said from Rob's elbow.

"Who'd want a house in the middle of a farm?" Jack said.

"A farmer," Martin said.

Rob affectionately put one of his hands on Martin's head as Jonson snickered.

"Good answer, lad."

Jack cast Jonson a sidelong glance. "I meant besides a farmer. 'Cus the new farmer's not living on the farm, is he?"

"Not living in Bywater, never mind the farm."

"Are we sure they're not getting a tenant farmer in?" Maizey said.

"Not according to Dad," Meg said.

"Dad don't know everything."

"He knows more'n us."

"I'd get a tenant in," Jack said. "Less work than trying to run a farm in a village you don't live in."

"Well, he's rich," Meg said, straining to see over the heads of the other workers. "They have ways. Old Granger's here."

Old Granger was the bailiff, and as much a part of the farm as the house itself. He had been there since the previous Mr Boffin's time, and for far longer than any of the manual labourers. Mr Delver was already moving towards him. "Where's Baggins?"

"You'll hear in a minute. Don't start on me, I've not got the time." He stepped up on an old tree stump to address the assembled Hobbits. "Right. I know you're all worried, but Mr Sackville-Baggins has said there's to be no dismissals in the immediate. I can't give no more reassurance than that, but I hope that'll put some minds at rest for the time being." He inhaled. "As you might've guessed, Mr Sackville-Baggins isn't coming today."

"Where is he?" Jack called.

Old Granger scowled at him. "That ain't your concern, Caften, an' I'd appreciate if you didn't interrupt." He opened the notebook he was holding and looked over the pages. "The farmer has sent me his instructions, and I don't want no trouble, and I'm not here to pass comment. I'm just the messenger."

A soft murmuring rippled through the crowd. Meg looked down as Martin slipped one of his hands into hers. His face was turned towards her, wearing an expression that said, 'I don't understand.' She said nothing, but gave his hand a gentle squeeze. It was better than admitting she didn't understand either.

"We need the most able lads to stay up near the granary." Granger inhaled deeply. "Mr Sackville-Baggins wants two more built, as quick as possible."

There was silence.

"What for?" Mr Delver said. "The old one's always served well."

"I don't know an' it's not my place to ask," Granger said briskly.

"It's 'cus we don't have a mill to send the wheat to," Orsan Brandon said. "My wife couldn't get bread two days last week. We worked bloody hard on that harvest an' now it's going to naught."

There was an affirmative outcry from the gathered workers.

Granger shut the notebook with a snap. "You can complain to me all you like, but that don't change anything. It's very early days, and I don't know how the new farmer will react if he thinks work ain't getting done as he'd like. I do not want any of you to lose your positions so close to winter, so I am urging you now to do your best to see his wishes fulfilled. Am I clear?"

There were no more complaints after that.

They were fighting again.

Clover had quickly learned that the best thing to do during these arguments was to find a job that would keep her out of the way until things calmed down, so she had decided to trim the wicks of the candles. The Grubbs only had four rooms with windows—two at the front and two at the back. This was more than most Hobbit-holes, but the number of other rooms meant they got through an inordinate number of candles. They weren't cheap either. These were made of wax and lacked the vaguely meaty smell that was given out by the cheap tallow candles the Delvers bought. She sighed as she looked at the row of candles she had laid before her on the tea table. It was going to take much longer than she had originally thought.

There were worse jobs. Dusting the bookcases was tedious not just because there were so many, but because she had to drag a wooden step stool around with her to reach the top shelves.

"You're meant to be caring for me," Old Mrs Grubb said.

Clover glanced up at the gammer as she snipped the wick off the first candle. "Are you in need of anything, madam?"

"I need you to open the door so I can give them a piece of my mind."

Clover looked back down at the candles. "You know I can't."

Old Mrs Grubb scowled. "Open the door."

"No."

"I am mistress of this smial, and I order you to open the door."

"Mistress Campanula said—"

"Are my words worth less than hers?" Old Mrs Grubb said, leaning forward in her wheelchair.

"Hers are worth nine shillings a week," Clover said. She cut a wick that flicked away onto the rug. "So that's 'yes' unless we can work out our own arrangements."

There was a pause. Then cackling. "Bribery is it?"

"Couldn't say, madam."

"Don't give me that."

"What, madam?"

Old Mrs Grubb sighed and leaned back in her chair again. "Bloody chit."

"Is there anything else I can do?" Clover said.

"I want someone to read to me, but you're useless for that as well."

Clover gave only a brief glance to Old Mrs Grubb as she said this. By this point she was used to the gammer's sharp comments, but that one stung a little bit.

I could read, if I knew how.

Mrs Grubb turned her beady eyes to Clover. "I suppose you could fetch me my tonic. It's about that time."

"It's a little early," Clover said, looking at the clock.

"Only by a few minutes. Go. Now. Or I'll give you a kick up the backside."

Clover silently wondered how Old Mrs Grubb would achieve this. "Very well, madam," she said, moving to the door.

"And prepare me some tea."

Clover looked back, and saw that the mistress was hunched over in her chair. There was a hungry, scheming glint in her eye.

Clover dropped a curtsey. "Very good, madam." She stepped through to the main hallway, and closed the door firmly behind her.

"You little chit!" Old Mrs Grubb cried from the other side of the door.

Clover smiled to herself as she made her way to the kitchen. Petty quarrels with old ladies were hardly an achievement, but she would take any victories she could find. The others had stopped fighting by now. The door to Dalgo's study was open a crack, which meant he didn't want to be seen, but couldn't close the door completely in case a client arrived. This in turn meant he was brooding. He seemed to do a lot of brooding.

She opened the door to the kitchen. Monno was stood in the middle of the room, Abelia sobbing in his arms.

"Oh, it's you, Clover," he said.

Clover wasn't sure what the proper thing to do was, so she curtseyed and kept her head bowed. "Sorry. I came to get Mistress Victoria's tonic."

"Yes, of course."

There was a knock at the front door.

"I'll answer that, sir," she said, making to go.

"No, I will. You need to tend to Grandmother. I need to get back to work now, Abbie."

Abelia whimpered and nodded.

Clover stepped out of the way as Monno brushed past her. "Thank you," he said.

Clover set about preparing the tea, lighting the stove and filling the kettle. She kept one eye on Abelia the whole time. She had expected the young mistress to leave at the same time as Monno, but instead she had sat herself at the table, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.

"I hate Dalgo," Abelia said, apropos of nothing.

Clover looked over her shoulder at Abelia as she got Old Mrs Grubb's tonic out of the cupboard. She felt some kind of response was expected from her, but she wasn't entirely sure what would be best. "Well… brothers…"

Abelia sniffed and wiped her nose with the handkerchief. "Do you have brothers?"

"Brothers are most of what I have."

Abelia's brow furrowed in confusion as she looked at Clover with watery eyes.

"Yes. I have brothers," Clover said gently, spooning leaves into the teapot.

"Do they act like asses?"

"Oh, aye. It's in their nature."

Abelia laughed and sniffed again. "Do they give you trouble with your suitors?"

Clover hesitated before replying. None of her brothers had never been very protective in that area. Jonson and Jack's attitude had always been, 'any lad mad enough to want you is welcome to try his luck.' Meg was a little different. Clover knew for a fact that the first time she'd brought Winden home Jonson had paid Rob to glare at him from across the room. And she didn't fancy the chances of any lad wanting to court Myrtle when her time came.

The sensible answer would have been a simple 'no'. But Abelia's wide-eyed and tearstained face compelled her to give an answer with more substance. Clover grinned.

"They don't dare," she said.

Abelia laughed and sniffed. "I wish that were true for me."

When the tea was brewed Clover placed a steaming cup in front of Abelia while she sorted out Old Mrs Grubb's tonic.

"Thank you," Abelia sniffed. "It's nice to have another young lady to talk to. Did you know, Petunia was forty-three? I shan't wait until I'm forty-three to get married."

"No?" Clover said, and smiled to give the appearance of interest. "Does your Master Boffin know that?"

Abelia smiled smugly. "We haven't talked about it. But I know we will get married one day, it doesn't matter what Dalgo says. We'll elope once we're both of age."

"You've got a little while to wait, then."

Abelia groaned. "An absolute age. I asked Mother if we could get married before then, but she said only if she died."

Clover finished setting up the tray. "Least that'll give your other admirers a chance."

She half-smiled. "I suppose so. I don't really have many admirers. Father never liked them so Dalgo doesn't liked them either." She huffed. "I'd prefer just to marry Rico and have babies. It's not fair!"

"I can't speak against Mr Dalgo, miss. It's not my place. I was going a bit far with the comment about the admirers." She struggled to prop the door open with her elbow while carrying the tray.

"Here." Abelia held the door open for her before following her down the corridor.

The attention had only been strange to begin with, but now it was becoming irritating. "Is there anything I can do for you, miss?" Clover said.

"No. I just…" Abelia wrung her fingers and looked at Clover with a worried expression.

You're lonely, aren't you? Clover thought. Come on, then…

She didn't ask again as Abelia went back to the parlour with her and helped her with the door.

"Come to join us, have you, missy?" Old Mrs Grubb said, eyeing Abelia as she entered the room.

"What are you doing with the candles?" Abelia said, looking down at the rows on the tea table.

"Trimming the wicks," Clover said absently, setting the tray down. "What would you like first, madam?"

"Tonic then tea," Old Mrs Grubb said. "Don't pour it out. I'm not such an invalid that I can't do it myself."

"What do you need to cut the wicks for?" Abelia said.

Clover cast Abelia a glance as she gave the bottle and spoon to Mrs Grubb. Surely she knew?

"Long wicks burn down the candles quicker. An' they get sooty."

"I see."

Abelia sat down on the rug while Clover oversaw Old Mrs Grubb taking her tonic and settled her with a cup of tea.

"Can I help you?" Abelia said, arranging her frilly skirts around her.

Clover looked at Old Mrs Grubb, who was drinking her tea and staring listlessly across the room. She either hadn't heard Abelia, or didn't care.

The family wouldn't be happy if she let Abelia help her. On the other hand, Clover wasn't really in a position to deny the young mistress something she wanted.

"If you wish, miss. And if it pleases you, madam," she said, looking at Old Mrs Grubb.

The old lady scoffed. "Why should I care if she trims a few wicks?"

The three ladies sat together in peaceable silence for a while. The only disturbance happened when Clover had to rescue the teacup as Old Mrs Grubb drifted off. Abelia had giggled quietly for a while before she settled down again and the quiet returned; clear as water.

Eventually the door opened. Dalgo stood in the entrance, looming over the collected Hobbitesses. His lips moved silently as he looked over the scene.

"What exactly is going on?"

"I'm helping Clover," Abelia said simply.

"That's not your place. What would Father think of you lowering yourself like this?"

"I don't care."

Dalgo flushed. "I had come here to apologise, but—"

"I don't care for your apologies," Abelia said, getting to her feet and brushing down her frilly skirt. "Thank you for spending the afternoon with me, Clover. It's been very pleasant."

Clover watched Dalgo from the corner of her eye and decided that replying would be against her best interests.

"Don't mock me," he said.

"I think I'll take a stroll," Abelia said as she ducked out of the room.

"Mother will know of this," he called after her.

"Mmm? What?" Old Mrs Grubb lifted her head and blinked sleepily. "What's all this noise?"

Dalgo sighed and rubbed his eyelids. "Nothing, Grandmother, go back to sleep."

"There's a client out here for you," Abelia called from the outside.

"Thank you." Dalgo turned his narrowed eyes to Clover. "Don't allow her to aid you again. That's an order."

They locked eyes. Clover snipped the wick off the final candle. "No, sir."

The stern expression flickered into confusion for a moment. "I trust that means you shan't make a repeat of this."

"No, sir."

Clover gazed at him, unblinking and expressionless.

I'm not going to lose to you. I can keep this going for as long as I want.

Eventually Dalgo turned away. Old Mrs Grubb frowned at Clover. "What was all that about, then?"

Clover shook her head as she collected the candles. "No idea."

"Then the lad remembered about the pebble in his pocket, and he threw it as hard as he could. It hit the troll right atween its eyes and it fell to ground with a mighty crash."

This was one of those evenings Meg liked. The well-worn story was underscored by the rhythmic clicking of Mrs Delver's knitting needles. Martin was leaning against Mr Delver as he told the story, half-asleep while one of his father's hands gently pulled back a lock of his hair before letting it fall again. The twins were sat on the other settee, with Jack and Rob sat on the floor in front of them. Rob looked almost as enthused as the children; Jack less so.

It was a shame she wouldn't be able to stay.

"You ready soon, Mum?" Meg said.

"Aye. Just give me a moment." Mrs Delver finished the row, and snipped off the end of the wool. "There."

She wrapped the newly-finished scarf around Meg's neck as she passed her into the corridor.

"Keep you nice and warm. I'll get the baskets," Mrs Delver said as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Meg was tying her cloak when the knock at the door came.

"Who could that be at this time?" Mrs Delver said.

"I'll get it," Meg said. Her lips parted when she opened the door and found Nickon Hobble stood on the front step. "Nick?"

"Meg." He tugged at his cap.

"You here to see Jack or…" She didn't want to risk asking if he was there to see her.

He shook his head. "Not today. Your mum there?"

"In the kitchen. You want to come in?" she said, standing aside to let him pass. "Is everything all right with yours?"

"Aye. Just need her expertise."

"I thought that sounded like you, Nicky," Mrs Delver said as she came out of the kitchen, an empty basket in each hand. "What can we do for you?"

"Mrs Budd's birth pangs've started, and Mum and Rose are out tending to Mrs Skinner. I was wondering if you could go?" He gritted his teeth when he finished, obviously knowing this suggestion would not be welcome.

"You been to the pellar?"

"She's not at home. I got Widow Stabler to go, but she'd like a hand."

Mrs Delver sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"I dropped in at the Skinners', and Rose said it'd be a few hours yet, but Mum knows she's needed at the Budds' tonight," Nick said. "I told Mr Budd I'd find someone. I'm sure he'd be comforted by having someone as capable as you tending his wife."

"Yes, all right, I'm going," she said, handing the baskets to Meg. "No need for flattery, I know it needs doing."

"Just speaking the truth, mistress."

"Away with you."

"I'll wait up," Mr Delver said from the other room.

"See you do. An' make sure the kettle's on the fire."

"Yes, madam!"

"You want me to stay in, Mum?" Meg said.

Mrs Delver shook her head as she tied her cloak. "No, lass. We need them nettles." She put her head around the parlour door. "Could you go with your sister, Jack?"

"Can't Rob go?"

"I asked you. You're older."

Nickon cast Jack an aside glance as he walked stiffly into the hallway. When Mrs Delver was gone he said, "Nettles?"

Meg looked down at the baskets. "We was going out to pick nettles for soup. It's not 'cus we're poor," she added quickly. "It's 'cus bread's been scarce of late."

"I know," Nickon said quietly. He looked at Jack as he tied his own cloak. After a moment he returned his attention to Meg. "You want some company?"

She smiled. "That'd be nice. If you can spare the time."

"I've always got time for pretty lasses," he said with a grin.

"Ugh." Jack wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I'm staying here if you're going to talk like that."

Meg shrugged in a way she hoped looked unconcerned. "Well, you don't really need to come along now that Nick's coming with me."

"Wouldn't be proper for us to go by ourselves," Nick said. "People'll talk."

Jack rolled his eyes as he opened the door. "Bloody proper. No one cares about any of that. 'Spescially not you."

"Who says I don't?" Nick said, following him out. "I'm very proper."

Meg followed them forlornly. When Nick had made the offer to go with her, she had hoped it would give them an opportunity to be alone together. It wasn't as though anyone would have minded. No one cared if a lad and lass went off alone together, even if it wasn't technically proper. Her dad had never been strict about that sort of thing. And she was of age, for pity's sake. She followed Nick and Jack down the lane and did her best to ignore the voice in her head that was telling her something was wrong.

Clover slipped silently through the crowd in the Green Dragon, unnoticed. Her stature (though irked her at times) gave her a degree of anonymity. She followed the voices she was listening for and was drawn to the table being presided over by Farmer Cotton. The gaffers were all bent low over the table, talking urgently.

"The loaves're half the size they should be."

"But the harvest was good."

"As was the leaf harvest."

Clover got an empty chair, but everyone was sitting too closely together for her to pull it up to the table. "Could I sit in, please?" she said.

"What do you expect when they're taking the mill apart?" Mr Warren said, not acknowledging Clover's presence. "Can't get flour without a mill."

"What happens if they don't build a new one in its place?"

"I found something out," Clover said.

"They are building a new one," Mr Hobble said.

"They're building something. Too early to tell if it's a mill."

Clover reached between the shoulders of two gaffers and rapped smartly on the table, bringing their conversation to a halt. "Can I sit in, please?"

The gaffers shuffled their chairs around, giving Clover enough room to pull her chair in. "Someone's been buying up leaf plantations in Longbottom," she said.

Farmer Cotton tapped on the table top with a finger. "Lotho S-B by any chance?"

Clover opened her mouth to reply, but was too surprised to speak.

"Word is he bought Sandyman's mill, and it's on his orders it's been taken apart," Farmer Cotton explained. "And Tavenner's told me he bought the Dragon a few months back."

"He's my landlord," Farmer Westcott said, frowning into his tankard. "He's been asking me to pay with crops for the last couple of years." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I din't think much of it at the time, but now I'm afeared of what'll come of it."

"I don't like it," Mr Warren said. "No one should have that much land."

"How's he going to manage it all?" Clover said. "Keep track of all the goings on…"

"He won't. It'll all go to ruin," he growled.

"Winter's just around the corner," Mr Hobble said, staring into space. "We haven't had leaf for weeks. If he's the cause of that and now the bread's getting short…"

Farmer Cotton took in a deep breath. "It seems to me whatever path we go down, Mr Sackville-Baggins is at the end of it."

"Right." Mr Warren finished his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "I'm going up to Hobbiton tomorrow to give 'im my piece. Who's to join me?"

Farmer Westcott squirmed. "I can't. I've got Ripon an' Chastity to think of."

"It's long term gains, Foren. What'll you have to leave your Ripon if Baggins sends the land to ruin?"

Westcott didn't meek Warren's eyes as he squirmed. "I'd rather we had a roof over us this winter."

Mr Warren glared at him before returning his attention to the others. "Any of you?"

"I can't go all that way. Back's been playing up on me," Mr Hobble said.

"I'll think on it," Farmer Cotton said. "Not sure yet if facing him head-on is the wisest thing."

Mr Warren scowled and snatched his hat up from the table. "Bloody yellow sods."

"Nice to see you too, Eldon," Farmer Cotton said.

"We can't be without bread," Warren said. "I'm not going to take it silently."

Clover followed him as he stormed away from the table. "Mr Warren! Wait!"

He stopped and turned on her. "What?"

"You din't say when you wanted to go up tomorrow."

He passed his hand over his eyes. "Your dad know you're here?"

Clover scowled. "What's that to the point?"

Mr Warren sighed, pulled his cap on and turned away. "Go home, lass."

Clover stayed frozen to the ground as he left. She could no longer hear the bustle of the room around her. She was only returned to her senses when a plump-faced lad bumped into her. She didn't bother listening to his apologies and instead left the inn, slamming the door behind her.

Meg's hand brushed against the side of a leaf as she reached for another stem.

"Bloody…" She sucked her fingers as the burning sensation spread across her hand.

"That don't work," Jack called.

Meg rolled her eyes. "There aren't no dock leaves about."

"These won't make good soup anyway," Jack said as he carefully plucked another leaf. "Too late in the year."

Nick snickered and sat back on his haunches. "Aye. Very inconsiderate of the baker to run short so late in the season." He gave Jack's shoulder a playful shove, knocking him over.

"By the Holy Ones, Nick! Right by the nettles!"

He laughed and held a hand out. "I wouldn't've let you fall."

Jack batted the hand away, not very enthusiastically. "Get away."

Meg smiled as Jack sat up. The light was failing, but they could still see well enough to be out a little longer. The three of them were on the Common, gathered around a large clump of nettles in the long grass. There was no one else out there tonight, save the sound of the odd cart in the distance.

"You're not hurt, are you, little'un?" she said.

"Don't call me that."

"Show some bloody respect, or I will knock you into the nettles," Nickon said.

"I'd prefer if you didn't…" Meg said.

"Very kind. He don't' deserve it," he said, smiling and taking her hand.

"I'm a lass," she said. "I'm weak."

"I won't hear of that."

"Sweet Elbereth…" Jack groaned, covering his face with a hand.

Meg flushed and quickly drew her hand away from Nick's. "Don't swear," she mumbled.

Nickon licked his top lip and looked over at Jack. "I think I see some silverweed over there. Why don't you see if you can dig up the roots?"

"Gladly," Jack said.

When he had gone Nickon pursed his lips and glanced towards a gorse bush that was growing nearby. Little yellow flowers were sprinkled through the dark green leaves. "You know… they say it's kissing season when gorse is in bloom."

Meg smiled. "That's funny, 'cus I don't reckon I've ever known gorse be out of bloom."

"Ah."

"Got a lot of lasses with that one, have you?"

He plucked a daisy and handed it to her. "A couple. Them that's not so clever as you."

Meg smiled sadly and accepted the daisy. "If you're looking for a clever lass you shouldn't choose me."

There was a kiss; soft, brief and chaste. Meg opened her eyes as he drew back. She had hoped it would linger more. Nickon grinned at her before grabbing one of baskets and rising to his feet. "There are some more nettles off yonder."

Meg followed him, bewildered. He was walking a little way ahead of her, not looking back and making cheerful talk. It was like nothing had happened.

Something bad was happening; something bigger than her own understanding.

It was coming for her and there wasn't anything that she could do to stop it. In truth, she wasn't sure Mr Warren had the power to change anything, even if he did manage to find a gaggle of sturdy lads to join him in Hobbiton.

If she and the gaffers were right, then the only one able to actually do anything was Lotho Sackville-Baggins, and what reason did he have to change anything? He must be aware of the shortages, and if it's putting gold in his pocket what was it to him if people he didn't know were going without bread?

But there was still a chance he could be persuaded, and being able to go with Warren would have given her some comfort. At least she would have done something, even if it might not have worked in the end. She would have had some agency in her own life. It wasn't fair.

Clover was trembling by the time she reached the back door to the Grubb's hole. It wasn't fair. Nothing had ever been fair. She had been born small and female, the fourth child of too many with neither money nor heritage to recommend her, and this had determined everything. Her destiny had always been to live as a herd animal, with every aspect of her life in the hands of others and no voice to cry out. She had tried to set her own path, but it always came down to her being without power, serving those with it.

Why her?

No candles had been left burning in the main passage, and only slivers of light came from under the doors on either side. Clover tried to pass through as quickly as possible, not wanting to see any of the family in her currant state. On her way to her quarters she passed shelf after heaving shelf of books.

Books…

The gentry seemed to set so much stock by books. The two Mr Grubbs spent all day recording information in books and then would read for pleasure in the evenings. Young Mrs Grubb would do the accounts, read to her mother-in-law and write to her sisters. Dalgo pored over his late father's diaries, drinking in the words of a Hobbit long dead.

They had a voice; an immortal one. It wasn't fair.

Clover grabbed one of the books and tore it from the shelf. She urgently flicked through page after page, thinking that maybe if she just tried hard enough she could understand.

But there was nothing.

How could they derive speech, meaning and poetry from this? It was nothing more than a few worthless lines.

"You can read?"

Clover started and spun around. Abelia was stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching with innocent interest.

Clover stuffed the book back onto the shelf as her heart pounded. "No, miss. Sorry, miss. I just…" She closed her eyes. It was too foolish to try and explain. "I'm sorry I touched the books, miss. It won't happen again."

She gave a brief, embarrassed curtsey and turned away to go to her bedroom.

"I could teach you."

Clover froze. She didn't dare trust that she'd heard correctly. She looked hesitantly over her shoulder.

"I could teach you how to read," Abelia said. "If you'd like me to."

Clover sighed. She wasn't sure why Abelia had decided to take a liking to her, but she was sure it wasn't going to do her any good. "That's very kind, miss. But I don't think your family would like that."

"I want to," Abelia said, stepping forward earnestly. "I know I'm the least important member of the family but that doesn't make what I want completely irrelevant, does it?"

Clover sighed again. "No…" She frowned as suspicion crept in. "You'd honestly teach me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I want to help you. You're my friend, aren't you?"

Clover was taken aback by this. Her prickly manner didn't endear her to people easily, and she didn't have many who she considered close friends. She didn't mind this (one sturdy companion was better than a dozen foolish ones) but the idea of someone wanting to do something so big without expecting anything back was strange.

Perhaps things could be fair sometimes.

Nickon had left Meg and Jack somewhere along Bywater Road, and the Delvers returned to East Warren Lane alone.

"These'll keep us going for a while," Meg said, smiling and holding up one of the baskets. She was still feeling odd from her interactions with Nick but didn't want Jack to know this.

Jack only grunted in response and rejected all Meg's other attempts to start a conversation. In the end she gave up, and the remainder of the walk home was taken in silence.

Meg was surprised when she found their mother was already home, sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and chatting to their father.

"Did Mrs Hobble arrive, Mum?" she said as she set the basket of nettles on the table. "How was Mrs Budd when you left her?"

"She's all right. Well, as all right as you can be after a birthing. I was only there a half hour and out he popped."

"You make it sound easy," Mr Delver said, sipping his tea.

"Well, he was her fifth. It wasn't going to be an all-nighter. Sweet little thing, he was." She grinned. "We could have another."

"No," he said firmly.

"You got a lot," Mrs Delver said, tilting one of the baskets to peer inside. "Thank'ee, Meg. And Jack."

Jack set his baskets on the table and slunk out of the room without a word.

"What's up with him?" Mr Delver said, looking at Meg.

"Don't know, Dad," Meg said. "I'll go an' talk to him…"

"Don't. If he's being grumpy he needs to get out of it himself."

Meg nodded vaguely and turned to her mother. "Is there aught you want me to do?"

"You've done enough, lass. Sit down, have some tea."

Meg sat down, but couldn't stop scratching her nails against her cup. Nick's behaviour hadn't changed at all after the kiss. No attempts to get her alone or suggestions that they could see each other again. She kept going over the kiss and the words they'd exchanged in increasingly frantic circles. But still she couldn't make sense of it. What exactly did he want?

"Mum?"

Martin was stood in the doorway, wearing a too-large nightshirt and rubbing his eyes sleepily. "I can't sleep. Do you know where my blanket is?"

Meg had risen out of her seat before either of their parents had a chance to reply. "I'll help you find it, Marty."

"Meg—" Mrs Delver began.

"It's fine, Mum," she said quickly, ushering Martin out of the room. "I like to make myself useful."