A/N: The Crying ceremony depicted here is borrowed (read: stolen) from the Cornish tradition of Crying the Neck. Since Hobbits have their own version of 'Hey Diddle Diddle', I didn't think their own version of Crying the Neck was out of the question. The words, obviously, have nothing to do with the actual real life ceremony, but some effort was needed to be made to make it Hobbit relevant, so I linked it to Yavanna.

I went with 'Ivon' as Yavanna's Sindarin name, rather than 'Ivan', because I thought 'Ivon' sounded better as a feminine name for those who aren't aware of the context.

Any views expressed by characters describing Crying the Neck as 'just a funny little ceremony' are not representative of the views of the author.

Technically speaking, only those who had actually helped with the harvest were allowed to go to the harvest festival. In reality, however, it was attended by anyone who wanted to, and they were welcome, provided they contributed to the food and drink, or could play an instrument. This made for better parties. So the farm slowly filled with Hobbits from all over Bywater, the tables nearly groaning under the weight of their contributions, while they waited for the festival to officially begin. Sango had been lying in the shade of a tree when the last of the wheat was brought in, Tiger Lily and Opal sat either side of him. He was planning to spend most of the next day lying in a cool room with a cloth over his face.

Tiger Lily nudged him when Mr Delver approached. He sat up sleepily. "Hmm? What?"

"We're just about finished now, sir," Mr Delver said, "if you'd like to make the doll for the Crying."

"Well done," Sango said. He rubbed his eyes. "You can do the Crying, Jon, if you like. I don't think I'm qualified."

"Very good, sir."

As Mr Delver made his way back to the barn, Sango got reluctantly to his feet. "I suppose we should head over." He brushed some dirt off his breeches. "Have you ever seen the Crying, Opal?"

"I've heard of it," she said.

"It's just a funny little tradition the workers like to do every year. It marks the end of the harvest."

When they reached the barn, Mr Delver was just emerging with a bundle of wheat, which he was twisting into a corn doll. Silence rippled out as he walked to the centre of the crowd, who shuffled out of his way to form a circle around him. Everyone wearing a hat removed it reverentially. All watched Mr Delver.

Presently he looked up his work and turned to face the east. He held the corn doll high above his head. "Who is this maid?" he called to the crowd in general.

As one, the Hobbits who surrounded him replied, "'Tis Ivon the fair."

"And what's she to us?" Mr Delver said.

"'Tis her harvest we reaped."

"And how shall we honour her?"

"With food and with drink!" the workers shouted enthusiastically. Then they broke into applause, and cheering. Most of it came from Meg and Jack.

"Quieten down," Clover said. "It's embarrassing."

Mr Delver left the circle, and handed the doll to Sango. "There you are, sir."

"Thank you, Jon. Thank you, everyone. It's been a good harvest this year. Help yourselves." He indicated the tables near the house. "And I'll send the beer around in a minute."

The workers streamed past him and the Tooks. Between the moving Hobbits, several of the children took up a game of tag.

"What are you going to do with it?" Opal asked, staring at the corn doll.

"We hang it in the kitchen until it's time to plant next year's crop. Then we burn it and plough the ashes into the field," Sango said, turning the doll over in his hands.

"Isn't burning a symbol of Ivon blasphemous?"

"Don't ask me, it's not my doing. It's meant to sort of return her to the earth, I think. Are you two staying for the feast?"

"I am," Opal said.

Tiger Lily fidgeted nervously. "I was going to go home now, actually."

"Ugh." Opal rolled her eyes. "You're so boring. I'm going to get a drink."

While Opal left, Sango turned to Tiger Lily and said, "I wish you would stay. Sorry, I know you find things… difficult."

Tiger Lily looked to the farm gate, and then back to Sango. "I suppose I should. Sometimes I worry I'll become a recluse. I can leave when I like, can't I?"

"Of course." He looped his arm through hers to walk her to the party. "And you never know, you might enjoy it."

Behind them, Mr Delver had reunited with his children and wife. Mrs Delver planted a kiss on his cheek. "I'm very proud," she said.

"Cheers, Joy," he said.

Clover was glancing from the farm gate to her father and back again. Eventually she said, "I think I'll just head off for a bit. I've an errand to run."

"You sure?" her mother said. "Can't it wait 'til tomorrow?"

"Won't be long," Clover said. She was already walking to the gate. "I'll be back afore sunset. You don't need to follow me, Meg."

But Meg wasn't listening. Instead, she was busy searching the moving crowd. Without warning she darted away from her family.

"Winden!" she said, and threw her arms around a lad who was standing a little way off with a group of friends.

"Easy, lass," he said, and detached her from his shoulders. "What's all this for?"

"I'm happy to see you," she said. "Is that allowed?"

He laughed. "You're a funny thing sometimes. See you later, lads."

She took his hand and they started to walk to the tables together. "How was work?" she asked.

Winden threw his head back and groaned. "The housekeeper had a right go at me today."

"What happened?"

"I dropped a box of glasses. It was a mistake anyone could make. They took the cost out of my wages, which… All right, fair enough, but she din't need to talk to me like that. Don't worry, though, I'll be revenged on her. Not sure how yet."

Meg rested her head on his shoulder. "Don't."

"Aw, Meg, but you din't hear her."

"I know. You don't deserve to be treated so poor. But don't do nothing rash. Please?"

He sighed, and smiled lopsidedly. "All right then. For you. I hope you appreciate my sacrifices."

She looked at him coyly. "I'm sure I can think of a way to reward you."

"Is that right?" He leaned in and kissed her neck. She turned her head to face him, giggling, and he kissed her again, on the lips. She pulled away.

"Don't," she said, but smiled as she did. "My parents are right over there." Inadvertently, they had almost caught up with the Delvers. She draped her arms over his shoulders, and lowered her voice. "But if you're good we can find somewhere to go together after the festival. Alone like."

He grinned. "Strumpet."

"Rake."

They resumed walking, hand in hand. When they did catch up to the Delvers, Winden called over to Mr Delver, "Well done with the Crying, Jon."

Meg's father looked over his shoulder at the couple. "It's 'Mr Delver' 'til you take her off my hands, lad."

"Ignore 'im. Come on, let's get to the feast," Meg said, and dragged Winden along behind her while she rushed past her family.

All the farm workers, and everyone else, had converged on the group of tables and chairs around the house. The cooks and the visitors had made sure they were fully stocked. The air hummed with discussion and laughter, and if you listened hard enough you could hear the musicians trying to tune their instruments. As Meg and Winden moved through the crowd they heard snatches of different conversations. Some were about family or work, but most were about the food. There were cakes, sparkling with sugar, and current buns, and soft slices of bread, with thick, crunchy crusts. Bowls overflowed with freshly picked raspberries and pears. There were also glistening meats: chicken, beef, pork and lamb. Meg's mouth had started watering before they'd come within twenty feet of the tables. Of most importance were the barrels of beer, and everyone was already drinking freely.

She and Winden managed to find a couple of seats, and she was happily biting into a slice of bread, smothered in rich butter and blackberry jam, when an arm reached across her line of vision to grab a seedcake. A lad was attached to the arm. "All right, Meg," he said. "Pretty as ever."

"Nickon," she said, grinning, and tried to wipe jam away from her lips.

"Ain't trying to take my lass from me, are you?" Winden said, wrapping an arm around Meg's waist. "You'll have to fight me for 'er."

"Nah. I'll just wait 'til she leaves you." He winked at her. "Save me a dance," he said before he disappeared back into the throng.

"I hate him," Winden said, and let go of Meg's waist.

"He don't mean it," she said. "It's just 'is way." Her cheeks were flushed nonetheless.

Winden made a non-comital grumbling noise and rose to his feet. "I'm getting a drink. You want one?"

"I'm all right, thanks. You won't drink too much, will you?"

"Still trying to save me from a life of wickedness?"

She shrugged. "Ain't nothing wrong with a bit of wickedness. Now and then."

He grinned. "My level-headed lass. I'll marry you one day."

Meg said nothing, but watched sadly as he started to move away from the table. The music started up. The tune was old, traditional, and made for dancing. Meg shoved the last of her bread in her mouth and swallowed. "Can we dance, Winden?" she called to him over the noise.

"Let me get a drink first, lass," he said, looking back at her briefly as he pushed his way through the crowd.

"I'll just have to find someone else then," she said.

He shrugged. "Do as you please. So long as it ain't Nickon."

Meg pursed her lips and looked around. She locked eyes with a red-haired lad, who she thought she recognised as working in some shop or other. "Fancy a dance?" she said.

He looked startled. "I can," he said carefully.

"You'll do, then." She grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the tables, into a little open space where a few Hobbits were starting to dance. She immediately pulled him into a jig. Meg was not the most graceful dancer in the world, but she moved with such confidence and enthusiasm that it was easy to trick people into thinking she was talented.

No one saw when Clover returned, but she must have done at some point. She stood by herself, nursing a beer and watching the dancers.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Clover hadn't noticed the approach of Primrose Hobble, the youngest and sweetest of the wheelwright's children. She was smiling prettily, and had a drink in one hand, and a cake in the other. There were violets in her hair.

"No less than tuppence," Clover said. "Where'd you come off looking so happy?"

"Where'd you come off looking so miserable? You're hardly festive."

"I went down to the fish mongers. They said I wouldn't be suited to the job."

"Oh…" Primrose held the cake in her mouth and used her newly freed hand to pat Clover's shoulder. "Sorry to hear 'at," she said through the cake.

Clover looked into her drink. "It's like I can see the rest of my life in front of me, and it's just more of this. Do you think your dad could…?"

Primrose removed the cake from her mouth and said, "I don't think you want to go into wheelwrighting. Once you learn it, you're stuck. Or you give it up and it's all for nothing."

Clover sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. "I don't really have any better ideas. I've asked near every shop in the village."

"There's a family on North Bank Row looking for a maid," Primrose said, and took another sip of beer. "Just heard it around. With the midwifery. Mothers tend to gossip."

Clover regarded her for a moment. "About maids?"

"Yes. Sometimes." Her voice was higher than usual. She quavered under Clover's hard stare.

Clover narrowed her eyes at Primrose and then looked away. "Keep your secrets if you must. Which family, then?"

"The Grubbs. I think. You know, the registrars."

"And did your gossipy mothers say which hole on North Bank Row the Grubbs live on?"

"Number 3," Primrose said, through a mouthful of cake. She swallowed. "I don't know when the interviews are, though, sorry."

Clover nodded and drained her tankard. "Cheers. I'll think about it."

They returned to watching the dancers.

"At least someone's enjoying themselves," Primrose said, nodding at Meg, who had just finished dancing. "Usually it takes at least two drinks to get her dancing like that."

"She's been in a good mood near all day."

"Good." After a moment's contemplation Primrose leaned close to Clover and said, "The wed—"

"All right, you two?" Meg said, trotting towards them.

"I was just asking about the wedding. You have a date yet? Only Mum was wondering if she should get a new hat," Primrose said.

Meg's smile seemed to stiffen. "No," she said.

"Sorry," Primrose said quickly. "I din't mean—"

"It'll be soon enough. I think I'll just go and see how Winden's doing," Meg said. "See you later."

When Meg had gone Primrose turned back to Clover. Her shoulders were hunched. "I'm sorry. Just thought she'd have a date by now, since she's coming of age so soon."

Clover shook her head. "I don't know what's happening either. No one does."

"But they're still getting wed, ain't they?"

"Don't know. If I was your mum, I wouldn't get a new hat just yet."

Primrose looked at her in the way most look at an infected wound. "How can you speak so cruelly? And about your own sister!"

"I ain't trying to be cruel. I wish I had no reason to think so, but as it is, I can't see 'em getting wed. You all right?"

"Yes," Primrose said. She was shuffling her feet uneasily. "I think so. Can we talk about something else?"

The afternoon wore on, and edged into evening. Hobbits left and Hobbits arrived. Tiger Lily remained firmly by Sango's side. While he flitted from group to group with increasing ease, she followed, but said little. Eventually she found herself stood alone with half a tankard of beer while Sango was off getting one for himself. She was still on her first. He wasn't.

She watched the Hobbits who were dancing. She marvelled that they knew exactly what to do and where to go, and never once seemed to worry that they were doing it wrong. She turned away when she heard Sango's voice through the chatter of strangers

"Excuse me… Excuse me…" When he had almost reached her he tripped.

Tiger Lily darted to him. "Careful!" She caught him in such a way that he ended up slumped in her arms, where he burst into laughter. He'd spilled most of his beer, while she had somehow managed to keep most of hers. She helped him stand up straight, and looked on him with a mix of concern and affection. "You're feeling better then," she said.

"Very much," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "In my experience beer can make most things better. You'd know that too if you drank more." Sango leaned back to finish what was left in his tankard.

"I don't think Mother and Father would be happy if I came home the worse for drink."

He wiped his mouth and rested his tankard on a nearby table. "Well, mine won't be home until tomorrow. They'll never know. Are you done with that, then?"

She looked into her tankard. "Yes, I think so."

"May I?"

She wordlessly passed her drink to him, and he drained the tankard.

"You're disgusting," Tiger Lily said, but without any actual reprimand in her tone.

"I am," he said happily. Suddenly, he grabbed her shoulder and stared at something happening behind her. "Lavender Hobble's coming over," he said.

Sango let go of Tiger Lily's shoulder and she stepped to one side, so that they were both facing the approaching Lavender.

"Put your tongue back in," Tiger Lily said, and received a sharp nudge in the ribs from Sango. "Ow!"

"But why?" Sango said, ignoring the dirty look Tiger Lily was giving him. "I saw her with one of the labourers earlier."

"You said they were arguing."

"They were. But lasses don't get over that sort of thing that quickly, do they? Or do they?" He looked at Tiger Lily for guidance.

"I don't know!"

By this time Lavender reached them. She gave a little curtsy. "Evening, Master Sango. Enjoying the festival?"

"A little too much," he said, grinning like a fool.

Lavender snorted, and covered her mouth. "Me too. Don't know how much I've 'ad to drink." She placed a hand on Sango's arm. "Mind if I spirit him away?" she said to Tiger Lily.

"Do." She tried to sound as indifferent as possible.

Lavender smiled and linked arms with Sango, leading him away. He looked over his shoulder and gave Tiger Lily a smug look. They disappeared between the rows of strangers, and Tiger Lily suddenly felt very alone. She looked around. All she could see in the deep orange sunlight was other Hobbits, locked into their own conversations. Each circle of friends seemed as impenetrable as a stone fortress. She couldn't see Opal anywhere. Panic rose up in her. It seemed that everyone was watching her, and that all the laughter was at her expense. The heat from being in such a large crowd of Hobbits was becoming too much. She prayed that her heartbeat would slow, or she thought she might faint, or cry, or both. Tiger Lily held her arms protectively about her, and walked away towards the gate, unseen and alone.

Sango didn't notice her go. All of his attention was taken by Lavender. It wasn't so much that she was beautiful, though she was pleasant-looking. Her primary charm was that everything she said and did was said and done with the absolute certainty that it was right. Not that she had no capacity for guilt, but that when she had been in the wrong she would give an appropriate apology, and think no more about it, without regret or worry getting in the way. She was herself as much as it was possible for anyone to be themselves, and she knew that wherever she was was where she was meant to be. The overall effect was captivating.

"I… Uh… Couldn't help noticing you and the eldest Delver lad earlier," Sango said. He was leaning against the barrel while Lavender refilled her tankard. "I hope it wasn't too… I don't like to intrude—"

"Oh, that," Lavender said airily. "We've been courting these past months, but I've had to let 'im go." She moved away from the barrel, Sango trailing after her. "He wronged me."

"Oh, no," Sango said. "Are you all right?"

Lavender shrugged. "I don't have no sore feelings. No point in dwelling, is there? What's done is done." She grinned.

"I'll drink to that," he said, and did.

"Me too," she took a drink from her own tankard. "So I'm unattached."

Sango sagged with relief, and hoped it didn't show. "Me too."

"See, I always thought you was," Lavender said, with mild curiosity. "From your manner, if you don't mind me saying. But everyone says you and that Took lass—"

"Tills? No. Gosh, no."

"Glad to hear it." Lavender drank deeply from her tankard. She said in as low a voice as she could, "Is she the one what goes hunting?"

The way Sango's usually doughy features darkened told her she'd crossed a line. "That's a rumour. A cruel one," he said.

"Sorry," she said, touching his arm. "I din't mean nothing by it. If I knew it was false I wouldn't've said nothing."

The dark expression melted back into his face as quickly as it appeared. "Don't concern yourself, you weren't to know. What's done is done."

Lavender saw a window of opportunity, and took it. She stepped closer to him. "She's very lucky to have such a lad as you looking out for her. I wish I did."

Sango flushed with pride. "You could if you wanted."

"I reckon I do." She cast a sly glance at the farm house. "Would you like to go in the house for a bit? So we can talk in private."

"Definitely," Sango said breathlessly. He allowed himself to be led to the house by Lavender, as though she were inviting him into her home and not the other way around. I'll go wherever you want me to, he thought.

Tiger Lily eventually reached North Bank Row. Part of her longed for the company of another, while a different part—one she didn't like—relished the isolation. Moving along the lonely street, she might have been the only Hobbit in the world. There was no on there to judge her, or make her feel she was less than she was. She held her head up high, and felt that maybe she could be graceful and good, neither of which she could do in the company of others. Not even Sango. Not quite. She reached her home at the end of the Row, and the spell was broken. She was Tiger Lily again: plain and awkward.

Inside, her father, brother and uncle were in the hallway, putting on their cloaks. Each had a quiver attached to his belt.

"There you are," her father said. "We're just about ready. Are you still coming?"

Tiger Lily didn't hesitate to reply, "Yes, of course."

As darkness descended on the farm, the food was almost all gone, and the Hobbits that were there was slowly starting to make their way home, or to an inn if they felt they hadn't made quite merry enough. Mrs Delver was sat at a table, which had been completely stripped of food. Martin was sat in her lap, sleeping, which was only possible because the musicians had ceased playing. Fastad, the younger twin, was sat next to his father, further down the table. He was leaning against him, nodding sleepily.

"Jon," she called as loudly as she dared. "I think it's time to go home. I'll round up the brood."

She nudged Martin awake.

"Mmm?"

"I need to get up, love."

"Uh…"

She got up and sat him in her chair, where he remained curled up. She looked over the remaining party-goers, but found no obvious traces of Delver. She gravitated towards a group of children, hoping to find the older twin among them. She found him. She also found Meg. The children in question were playing blind man's buff, and she was it. The children were darting around her, laughing and goading her into catching them, while she staggered clownishly, grabbing at the empty air in front of her.

Winden watched from a bench a little way away, tankard in hand. "Come on, lass," he called. "Gonna let yourself be beat by whelps?"

"I'll get you in a minute," Meg said over the din.

"Best make my escape, then." He nodded to Mrs Delver and approached her, giving the game a wide berth. "Hard to know who's enjoying it more," he said. "Her or them."

Mrs Delver shrugged. "It's good practice for when you have your own."

Winden cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Guess so."

An auburn-haired lass gave Meg an almighty shove before running away, squealing.

"Oi! I know that was you, Olive," Meg swung around to face the direction of the shrieks.

"She's to your right!" the older twin shouted. He was standing recklessly close.

"I know that voice," Meg said, turning towards him.

He tried to escape, but she had already grabbed him around the middle. She tore the blindfold from her eyes, laughing. "Ain't nice to tell on others, Danny," she said, tickling him mercilessly.

"Meg! Stop it!" he choked between laughter.

"Never!"

"Having fun?" Mrs Delver asked.

Meg saw her and Winden, and released Danny, who rushed back into the group. "Lots."

"Good. We're off home, Dan, say goodbye to your friends."

Mrs Delver walked towards Meg, who was trying to restore order to her hair. "Haven't seen any of the other little'uns, have you?"

"How little?"

"Hender and younger. Or any that's drunk too much to get home by 'emselves. We've already got Martin and Fastad at the table closest the house."

"I last saw Myrtle off that way." Meg gestured away to the right. "You wanting help finding 'em?"

"If it ain't no trouble."

"Course it ain't."

"You are good," Mrs Delver said, and put a hand on Meg's shoulder. "Come on, Danny, let's find your sisters."

Winden watched Meg over the rim of his tankard. "You want I should help?"

"If you like."

"May as well." He set his tankard down on the nearest table. "You and your lot," he chuckled.

"Me and my lot. I reckon nearly every Hobbit I know's here." She noticed a group of Hobbits in embroidered satin waistcoats with gold buttons.

And plenty I don't, she thought.

"As with all the best parties. That's your Rob over there ain't it?" Winden said.

Meg strained to see. He was stood a little way away from the crowd with Hender. "Well spotted."

"He's hard to miss."

As Meg and Winden got closer a retching sound reached their ears. Rob was stood over Hender, holding his unruly hair away from his face.

"Oh dear…" Meg said.

"Ah, well," Winden said. "He'll know better for next time." He laughed when he saw Meg giving him a disapproving look. "What? Don't tell me you never got into a state when you were a tweenager."

She sniffed. "Couldn't say."

This was the first time Hender had been allowed to drink freely at the harvest, and he was regretting it. Winden and Rob together guided him to where the rest of the family were waiting, while Meg found Poppy. She was one of a group of tweenagers who were both too old to play games with the children and too young to take full advantage of the party, and so were all pretending they hated harvest. Poppy's fury at being summoned to go home in front of her friends barely stayed below the surface. These two and Myrtle, who had been found by Mrs Delver, completed the group. Rob also elected to go home with his family, not being the fondest of parties.

"What about you, Meg?" Mrs Delver said hopefully.

Meg glanced at Winden and smiled. "I don't think I'm going back quite yet," she said. She and Winden took each other's hands and made to walk back into the fray. "See you lot in the morning."

Mrs Delver watched helplessly as they left. "Try not to get back too late," she said.

"Don't worry, Mum," Meg called over her shoulder.

"She's gone, han't she?" Mrs Delver said, to no one in particular. "I've completely lost her."

"I think we lost her a while ago, Joy," Mr Delver said. He draped Hender's arm over his shoulder, the better to support him. "There we are, you fool."

"I know. I just din't want to believe it," Mrs Delver said.

"I'm tired," Martin whined.

"Come on then, lad," Rob said, getting on his knees. Martin scrambled up his brother's back like a squirrel.

"How much have you had to drink?" Mrs Delver asked sharply.

"I'm sober, Mother," Rob said, standing up again, supporting Martin's legs.

"Please can we go home now," Poppy said.

"All right, Miss Prissy. Let's head off." Mr Delver looked around. In the distance he could see Nickon and Primrose removing the wheel from the downed cart. "I was going to thank Master Sango for the party. But I don't know where he's gone off to."

Master Sango was in his bedroom. Miss Lavender was with him. They had gone there hand in hand, giggling as they went. Now they were sat on his bed, kissing. Even in the fog that seemed have temporarily made a home in his head, Sango couldn't quite believe it was happening. Her hands cupped his face. One of his hands was on her leg, and he ran a thumb over her knee. The fabric of her skirt was warm.

She nudged closer to him, and he felt her work-worn hands shift to his neck, and his cravat. The fog shifted uneasily. When she began to undo his buttons, he grabbed her wrists and broke away.

"What are you doing?"

Lavender's eyes were wide. "You don't know?"

"I do," he said carefully. "That's sort of the problem." His face had turned a very dark raspberry colour. "Marital relations… are called that for a reason."

Her eyebrows knitted together. "You told me you was a great lover."

"Yes." Still holding her wrists he moved her hands away from his shirt to rest them on the bed. "But not in that way." He patted her hands nervously. "I think maybe you should go home now." He opened the door for her. "Would you like me to walk with you?"

Lavender was still sat on the bed, and watched him with an open mouth. Finally she got to her feet. "No. I'm fine."

When she passed him in the doorway he caught her by the wrist, "You're not angry are you?" he said. He kissed her hand uncertainly. "I'm fond of you."

She hesitated before answering. His eyes were desperate, and earnest. Lavender smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Sweet lad," she said, and disappeared into the gloom of the corridor.

Hunting was almost like being alone, Tiger Lily thought. She didn't have to worry about talking when they were in the woods together, their hands on their bowstrings. There was still pressure, though. The pressure to meet one's target, the pressure not to make a noise. Not that making noise was much of a problem for a Hobbit. A small collection of rabbits were already strung up on Uncle Hortenbold's back.

There was a rustling, around forty yards away. It was the sound of deliberate movement, nothing made by the wind. Through the thick undergrowth and darkness it was impossible to see what it was.

The four Tooks' heads turned. Uncle Hortenbold nodded at Tiger Lily and Bandobold. The siblings crept on the balls of their feet, stepping as lightly as they possibly could, and took care to keep out of direct moonlight. There was rustling, from roughly the same place as before. As they walked they prepared to draw their strings. Tiger Lily took the shelter of a tree, Bandobold beside her, and edged around the trunk to see what was in the clearing. It was a pair of pheasants. The moonlight illuminated the male's long, elegant tale.

Without pause for thought, Tiger Lily pulled her string back to full draw, and loosed.

Meg walked home, alone. Only the sound of hoof beats behind her gave away that there was at least one other person out. She was slightly stooped in her walk, with her shoulders hunched. Her arms were folded protectively across her chest. The dark had fully set on the Shire now, and most of the light to see by was provided by the windows of those homes whose residents were still enjoying the last hours of Friday. It was only in this light that the glistening damp on Meg's cheeks could be seen.

The hoof beats were getting closer. By the sound of it the rider was in a hurry. Meg stepped off the road onto the grassy verge. She couldn't yet see the rider by the curve of the road. She continued with her solitary journey. The sound suddenly seemed very close, and before she could process what was happening, the mount and rider raced past, so fast as to be almost out of control. The rider was no Hobbit, but a tall, dark robed man, with a towering horse to match. The rider's boot almost caught her around the head, and the rush of air as he went past whipped up her hair.

Even in her shock she had the presence of mind to call, "Careful, mister," before the rider disappeared from sight further down the road.

By the time Meg did reach home she was trembling. The door was unlocked, as doors usually were in the Shire, though the house was in deep, dark sleep. She entered the lasses' room on light, silent feet. There were only three beds. The one to the right had both occupants in it, and the middle one was empty; evidently Maizey had not returned yet. The bed closest to the door was Meg's own, and Clover, with whom she shared, was already under the covers. Having changed into a nightgown—too short for her, it was probably Clover's—Meg curled up under covers, facing away from her sister. She stared at the wall. The silence engulfed her.

"You're upset," Clover whispered.

Meg twisted to look over her shoulder. "How did you—"

"Your breathing."

"Oh." Meg settled down on her side again. "Can you tell if the other two are asleep?"

"They are." There was silence again. "Did something happen?"

"Oh, I just passed someone on the road," Meg said, "One of the big folk. Riding like a maniac."

"One of the big folk? Are you sure?"

"Aye." She curled up tighter and cuddled the corner of her pillow. "Can I tell you something?" she said, eventually.

"If you like."

"I need to tell someone," she said. Her words were raspy. "But I don't want to talk about it. I don't want you to say anything at all. An' you can't tell anyone else. That's for me to do."

She heard Clover roll over to face her. "What's wrong?"

"Do you promise?"

"If I must."

Meg's breathing quickened, and she gripped the pillow tighter. "I…" The words failed in her mouth. She buried her face in the pillow and whimpered.

"Meg…" Clover propped herself up on an elbow and reached out to touch her shoulder, but Meg shrugged her hand off.

"Winden left me," she said.

Clover froze, her mouth hanging open. "Oh—" she said without thinking.

"Remember your promise," Meg said.

Clover struggled, half way between speech and silence. Every part of her was screaming that she needed to say something, some words of comfort. But in the end she did as her sister asked and turned away silently. It took some time, but Meg eventually heard Clover's breathing slip into the rhythm of sleep. She stayed awake, and stared at the wall with unseeing eyes.