The Delver sisters had prepared for bed long ago, but were still sat chatting on Maizey's bed, as they did most nights. But tonight was different. Every so often they would lapse into a twitchy silence, and they took turns glancing at the door. Meg wasn't home yet. She'd gone out after dinner, as most of the Delvers did, their hole not being big enough for everyone to comfortably spend the afternoon at home, but Meg was usually home in good time. The only exception to this was on a Friday, when she would take advantage of the half-day to go to an inn. Today was Sunday, though, and there was still no sign of her.

"Should we tell Mum and Dad?" Myrtle said, echoing the thoughts of her older sisters.

"Not yet," Clover said. "She'll be home soon. Ain't no point worrying 'em." Secretly, she wanted to tell them, but she felt like waiting was what Meg would do, and there was nothing specifically to be worried about.

"How'd you know she'll be home soon?" Poppy said.

Clover shrugged. "She's always come home before."

"It only takes once," Poppy said darkly.

Myrtle's eyes widened and she looked from Maizey to Clover for reassurance. The former glared at Poppy. "I really hate you sometimes."

Poppy sniffed and looked away. "Well at least I ain't a hoyden."

"Least I ain't an uppity little madam."

"Stop." Clover had buried her head in her hands.

"I think she's gone to Winden's house," Poppy said. "I heard she went there the other day, after they'd ended it."

"Why?" Myrtle said.

"To beg him to take her back, of course."

"Nah. She'd've gone to give him a piece of her mind," Maizey said.

"Be quiet!" Clover said. "More like as not, she din't go there at all." I wish Meg was here, she thought.

It was then that they heard the door open, and all turned to see Meg stood in the doorway. Clover's shoulders sagged with relief, though she'd never admit she'd actually been worried.

"Can't last five minutes without me, can you?" Meg said, slightly unnerved by her audience. "Thought you'd be abed by now"

Maizey leaned back on her elbows. "We was just wondering where you got to."

Meg walked to the chest of drawers and pulled out a nightgown. "Just, you know… pottering."

Clover watched her sister intently. She noted the slightly stiff way she was walking, and the glistening layer of sweat on her face. "You all right?" she said.

"I'm fine," Meg said, taking the nightdress to the far end of the room to change beside her and Clover's bed. Her voice had a breathless quality to it. "Never better." She reached out to lean on the bedstead as she walked past.

"Good to see you home, though," Maizey said. "Me and Poppy would've had it out, it you han't come in when you did."

"Can't be having that…" Meg said while she undid the laces of her bodice. Her usually nimble fingers fumbled with the knot.

Clover chewed her nails, and stared. By this time the other three had also noticed Meg's discomfort and joined Clover in watching their eldest sister.

"Are you sure you're—" Myrtle began. She received her answer when Meg suddenly doubled over, a hand pressed over her mouth.

Maizey was the first to react. She dove beneath the bed for the chamber pot and was by Meg's side a moment later. She held Meg's hair back as she retched into the pot while Poppy and Myrtle fled from the room. Clover remained where she was sat, frozen in uncertainty.

Maizey was speaking to Meg in soft tones. "All right, lass. All right." She glared up at Clover. "Some good you are."

Clover snapped back into the present, and climbed off the bed. "What do you want me to do?"

"Help me with 'er laces."

Meg had stopped retching now, but was clutching at Maizey's arms, her face contorted with pain. Clover tried to undo the laces, but it was difficult with Maizey in the way. Mrs Delver rushed into the room, the younger sisters shadowing her. She placed a hand on Meg's back. "Think you'll be sick again?"

Meg shook her head, her hair falling about her face.

"Come on, then. To bed with you," Mrs Delver said, quickly undoing the laces and pulling the bodice over her arms. She helped her off with her skirt, so that Meg was wearing only her shift when she was gently but firmly pushed into bed.

Meg sat down heavily and fell onto her side without protest. As Mrs Delver covered her with the quilt, she mumbled the word, "Sorry," half into the pillow.

"You can't help there's a flu going round," Mrs Delver said. "Poppy, I think there's some water left in the jug in the kitchen."

As she left the room Mrs Delver pressed a hand to the invalid's damp forehead. Her brow creased. "No fever. When'd this come on?"

"Little while ago. I stayed at Lavender's 'cus I thought it'd pass."

"Been drinking?"

"A little." Meg turned her face to the pillow again and gritted her teeth.

Mrs Delver pulled the quilt back. "Show me where it hurts."

Meg curled an arm across her stomach, but didn't even attempt to speak.

Mrs Delver folded her arms. "I know Heather Hobble's not the best cook, but I never seen her food do this to a person." Poppy re-entered with a cup of water, which Mrs Delver helped Meg to sip from. "I know you're not one to be coddled, but if it gets worse you need to let Clover or someone know."

Med nodded.

Mrs Delver smiled grimly and lightly touched her hair. "Good lass." She glanced up at Clover. "You'd best share with Maizey tonight, but I probably din't need to tell you that. You come and get me if you're not sure on something."

After disposing of the contents of the chamber pot, Mrs Delver returned to her room, where Mr Delver was waiting, half-asleep.

"Lass all right?" he said.

Mrs Delver climbed into bed beside him. "Will be, hopefully. Too early to tell. Goodness knows what's wrong with 'er."

Mr Delver groaned. "That's a day's pay gone. And if we need to send for a doctor on top—"

"Your daughter's lying ill and all you can think of is our coffers," Mrs Delver said, lying back and pulling their quilt over her.

He rolled over to face her. "I have to. They're near empty."

"We've always been all right in the past."

"I know. But the next disaster'll be the end of us."

Mrs Delver lay on her back with her eyes closed. "That won't happen."

"How'd you know?"

"I must. Don't know what I'd do otherwise."

Mr Delver said nothing, but wrapped an arm around Mrs Delver's waist and pulled her closer to him. She opened her eyes and turned her head to look at him, wrapping his greying curls around her fingers. Eventually they fell asleep as they were.

All of the Delver lasses had a troubled night. Meg was sick again, and got up for the privy more than once. Clover had to help her walk, and her repeated insistence that Meg could and should use the chamber pot where pointedly ignored. She was too ill to go to work the next day, or the day after that. By the Wednesday she was well enough to get out of bed and help around the house, but still too weak for work at the farm. It was on that day that the rain came, and the Delvers all came home with sodden clothes and mud-caked feet. There was an initial rush to change into dry clothes, during which Meg was relegated to the parlour to keep her out of the way. This was followed by the usual rush to the dinner table.

Like the previous two days, the first thing Clover did after finishing the washing up was to see Meg, who relished the company. She had been banned from eating at the table with the rest of the family, and Mrs Delver had discouraged the other Delvers from seeing her too much, partly to prevent her sickness spreading if it was infectious, and partly out of a fear of overwhelming the invalid. Meg disputed this second point, but was overruled. She found Meg had returned to the lasses' room, where she was trying to get through a pile of clothes that needed mending. She smiled at Clover. "How are you, little'un?"

"Could be better," she said, wringing out her waist-length hair. "Han't seen rain like this in a long time. The Elder King must be punishing us for our wickedness."

Meg smiled. "Being ill has its advantages."

"It's almost as if you planned it," Clover said, searching the top of the dresser for hairpins, "and now I expect all of us'll get colds, and you'll be the only well one." She glanced at Meg, who was sewing up a torn shirt seam in a way that Clover could only describe as aggressive. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, of course not." Meg looked back at her, and though her face was bright there was no joy behind it.

Clover tried to read more into the expression. If there was no true joy, then what was there? She found nothing. Meg returned to her sewing, keeping her eyes on her work while Clover started pulling her ashy brown hair up into a bun. She didn't look up again until Clover was almost finished. "You want a hand there?" Meg said.

"No, thank you. Does it look all right?" Clover said, looking into the hand mirror and turning her head from side to side to try and get a good look.

"It's all loose at the back."

Clover swore and removed the hairpins and ribbons, allowing the damp locks to tumble down her back. Meg smiled to herself. "Here." She stood behind Clover and tied her hair back with one of the discarded ribbons. "You may be near thirty, but that don't mean you've outgrown your old sister." When Clover made no reply she continued. "What's this for anyway? Headed somewhere nice?"

"Just meeting a lad," Clover said.

"Ooh," Meg said, twisting the ponytail into a neat little bun, careful not to pull too hard. "Do I know 'im?"

"You'll get to meet 'im if 'e's up to scratch."

Meg laughed as she tied another ribbon around her handiwork. "Good on you."

Clover closed her eyes and cursed herself internally. "How're you feeling today?"

The hairpins were slid into place, firming up the bun and tucking the loose strands away. "Well enough. I might be able to go back to work tomorrow." Meg returned to her seat on the bed and the pile of sewing.

"Think so?"

"Hope so. It's too quiet here with only me, Mum and Myrtle. I like chaos."

"I know you do, strange thing." Clover sat on the bed opposite. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"Only gossip." She drew the shirt back into her lap. "What's happening with the mill?"

Clover scratched the back of her head, being careful not to mess up her hair. "Not sure. No one's been too keen to gossip in the rain. Martin and the twins wanted to walk up and have a look but Dad won't let 'em 'til the weather clears up."

The day before news had arrived that Sandyman's Mill in Hobbiton was being taken apart. So far the only things to have been removed were the inner workings, which now lay uselessly on the grass around the mill. The reason for this was not yet clear.

"Wonder why old Sandyman's doing it," Clover said. "Maybe he died," she added in a cheerful voice.

Meg gave her a disapproving look. "At least don't sound so happy about it."

"You don't like 'im either."

"That don't mean I hold with celebrating 'is death."

Clover grinned cruelly. "Or maybe I'm just more honest than you."

Meg turned her eyes up. "What're you still doing 'ere? Off with you. Best not leave your lad waiting."

Clover rose to her feet, giving Meg's shoulder a squeeze. "Thanks for doing my hair."

"Ain't no trouble."

"Mind if I borrow your cloak? Mine'll still be wet."

"Course you can."

"Thank you."

When Clover reached the door Meg called, "If he don't act like a gentlehobbit you just send him to me and I'll give him a hiding."

Clover smiled. "Even I'm not cruel enough for that. Have a nice evening." She dug her nails into her forearm as she walked down the corridor. She took Meg's untouched cloak from the stand and threw it about her shoulders. It would only provide the minimum protection against the rain, but it would have to do. Jack and Rob could be heard playing with the younger ones in the parlour. She considered asking to borrow one of their jackets as well, but dismissed the idea. She didn't want to spread her lie any further, and wearing a lad's jacket would be more unseemly than turning up soaking wet.

The door to the parlour opened, flooding the corridor with the noise of playing children. Clover winced. Rob sheepishly put his head around the door. "Meg all right?"

"You can go and ask 'er if you like," Clover said as she tied the cloak's ribbons.

He stepped into the corridor proper and rubbed the back of his neck. "Don't like going in the lasses' room."

She half-smiled. "I don't like going in the lads' room either. Nasty smell. Reckon she'll appreciate the company, though."

"Where you headed?"

"Nowhere."

"That ain't true."

What little patience Clover had ran out. "What is it with you lot? Can't I have my own affairs?" She stepped out into the rain, slamming the door behind her.

Rob hadn't expected this, but long used to Clover's changeable nature he didn't react beyond a flicker of puzzlement in the eyes. Then he turned about, and lumbered off towards the lasses' room.

Clover was admitted to the Grubb's smial by Petunia, who relieved her of her cloak and ushered her to a door deep within the bank. There was already another lass waiting to be seen, and Clover was left to stand beside her and wait. It was with venom that she noticed her rival's hair and face were much drier than her own. She remembered the dripping umbrellas by the coat stand. One day I'll own an umbrella, she thought bitterly.

The only noise that rose above the muffled conversation from within was the sound of a ticking clock that came from somewhere in the dimly lit corridor. It was only after several minutes that Clover realised she'd been scratching her nails into her palm to the rhythm. She stopped herself as soon as she noticed. It was such a small thing, but the realisation that she had done something—anything—absentmindedly perturbed her.

Clover sought for ways to occupy her mind. She cast an aside glance at the lass stood next to her. She was nervous, but that was to be expected. The source of her anxiety was harder to pin down with so little to go on, but her breathing pattern and the lax way her hands fiddled with the lining of her sleeve suggested a place of fragility. Clover's own fidgeting was tight, and what nerves she had came from the same hard, compact place she stored most of her mental energy, theoretically for use at a later date. She spent most of her life in approximately the same state as a wound up spring. Eventually she gave up on trying to analyse her rival, writing her off as a damp squib.

It wasn't too long after that the door opened and a third lass left the drawing room, head held high, a young gentlehobbit followed closely behind. "I'll be back in a moment," he said, before disappearing with the lass down the corridor. Clover watched them go, completely fascinated. He returned on his own, walking leisurely, and looked with indifference at Clover's nervous rival. "Come in," he said, opening the door, "and don't look so frightened."

They disappeared into the room, and Clover drank in the rare moment of solitude.

At a little more than four foot, Dalgo was exceptionally tall for a Hobbit of the Third Age. He was also much thinner than a Hobbit should be, making him seem taller still. But what fascinated Clover was the way he carried himself: his hands folded neatly behind his back, which he kept as straight as possible, as though he thought himself not quite tall enough.

Then there was the indelible look of disdain on his face and the imperious tone with which he spoke. To Clover this suggested prudishness and, most of all, arrogance. Arrogance as far as the eye could see. He's used to looking down on people, she thought. Mostly figuratively. He considers himself the cleverest person in the room, regardless of the company he keeps. She recognised some of the symptoms of this from her own behaviour. But his body language was loose. He was a lad born into a good family and had never had to fight for anything in his life, which had made him lazy. It was only natural that people should look up to him, so there wasn't any point in him ever actually trying.

Clover smiled. The best thing about people who had sat themselves up on a pedestal was surprising them by climbing up to meet them. Or knocking them down to meet you. Whichever was more fun.

It didn't seem that much time had passed when other lass emerged, Dalgo once again showing her to the door. He returned on his own a moment later, and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. "Are you the last?"

This took her by surprise. She looked down the empty corridor. "Yes."

"Come along, then," he said, opening the door.

It was only now that she became aware of how ridiculous the height difference between them was. Clover was the shortest of her full-grown siblings, and the top of her head didn't quite reach Dalgo's elbow. She rallied, though, standing as straight as she could as she walked past him.

The room she walked into was a study that contained a single desk, behind which was sat Mrs Grubb. She was quickly joined by Dalgo, who sat with one lengthy leg crossed over the other. An elderly gammer with beady eyes was parked in a wheelchair to their right.

"You were… Miss Delver, weren't you?" Young Mrs Grubb said, examining a sheet of paper in front of her.

"Yes, madam," Clover said. It was too warm in this room. She could feel her clothes getting damp, and not just from her dripping hair.

"Well, I'm Mrs Grubb. This lady is my mother-in-law, Mrs Grubb, and this is my eldest son, Mr Grubb." The lad gave her a slight nod of the head in recognition, but his expression remained unamused. Young Mrs Grubb smiled. "I apologise if it becomes confusing."

"It won't, madam."

"Glad to hear it," Young Mrs Grubb squinting at Clover over through the thick lenses of her spectacles. "You look awfully young. How old are you, exactly?"

Clover only took a moment's hesitation to say, "Thirty-three."

"Good." Young Mrs Grubb added a quick note to her paper and smiled up at her. "I also apologise if this is all a bit formal, but I wouldn't like to let someone into my household without a proper talk with them first."

So, this was a live-in position. Clover succeeded in masking her surge of excitement at this news. "No, madam."

"So, have you worked as a maid before?" Young Mrs Grubb said.

"No, madam, but I help my mother with the cleaning. And cooking on a Friday."

"We shan't be needing you to cook most days," Young Mrs Grubb said. "I like to keep my own table, if I can."

"As is proper for a Hobbit."

Young Mrs Grubb half-smiled, and looked down at her notes. "I've always thought so."

"I wonder," Dalgo said, pushing his spectacles up his nose by the bridge. "If domestic work within the family home could really be considered an adequate replacement for experience within a paid position of domestic servitude."

Old Mrs Grubb cackled. "And to think there was a time when all he could say was, 'horsey, horsey'."

It took all of Clover's fortitude to prevent herself smiling as Dalgo squirmed.

The long words, though… No one used long words like that. Not really. Why bother using those words when shorter ones would do just as well, and you know they would do just as well, especially when you're talking to a working-hobbit who you have no need to impress? Because you need everyone else to know you're the cleverest person in the room. Because knowing it yourself isn't enough. You need other people to tell you so again, and again, and again. What's the point of being clever if not everyone knows? So you end up trying too hard, cultivating your own special breed of idiocy.

Clover smiled to herself as she watched Dalgo. You really have no idea what you're doing, do you? I've got you down, mister.

He must have seen something in her expression he disliked because he scowled at her and said, "You still haven't answered, Miss Delver. Would you prefer it if I rephrased the question?"

"No, sir."

"Well then?" He regarded her with a needle-sharp gaze

She raised her head proudly, and did her best to match him with her own stare. "I wouldn't know, sir. But I'm one of twelve children, so I reckon caring for your family won't be too burdensome."

He seemed surprised by the confidence with which she spoke, and shifted in his seat. "How do you know there aren't ten more of us?" he said.

"Dalgo!" his mother said, her mouth opening in appalled shock.

"Rich or not, I don't think any family that large could have a home as neat as this," she said, thinking back to the immaculately kept hallway. She watched Dalgo from the corner of her eye. She recognised his voice as one of the ones that had been arguing when she had first come to inquire about the job. "Or quiet."

Dalgo raised his eyebrows, just enough for her to notice. "Indeed."

"I think we've gone a little off-topic," Young Mrs Grubb said, and glared at her son. "So what can you actually do, housework-wise?"

Clover shrugged. "Most things. Scrubbing, sweeping, dusting, polishing, making fires, washing…"

"Pressing?"

She hesitated. "No. But I can pick things up quick."

"Yes." Young Mrs Grubb made another note. "You're aware that as part of this role you're expected to care for the other Mrs Grubb?"

"Yes," Clover lied.

"Have you looked after an older Hobbit before now?"

"I cared for my grandmother towards the end 'f her days," Clover said. She swallowed when she realised her error. "Not that I'm saying—"

Young Mrs Grubb waved her into silence. "I knew what you meant. Is that all?"

She gripped her skirt as panic set in. "I help care for my little brothers and sisters," she said, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Mmm…" Young Mrs Grubb didn't look up from her notes.

"I know it ain't the same," she continued, doing her best to keep her voice level, "but the young and the old're similar in some ways."

Young Mrs Grubb turned her eyes up to meet Clover's. "How so?"

Clover realised her second mistake. You bloody idiot, she thought. "I don't know. I just couldn't think of nothin' else to say."

"Really?" Old Mrs Grubb said. She leaned forward in her chair, a mean expression on her face. "Why did you say it, then?"

Clover kept her eyes on the wall opposite her. "I don't—"

"You seemed sure at the time."

She looked down again to make eye contact with the old gammer, but remained defiantly silent.

Old Mrs Grubb grinned, unperturbed. "My daughter-in-law asked you a question, and I expect you to answer."

"Mother," Young Mrs Grubb said warningly. "I'll wheel you out if you don't behave."

"Answer me, girl," Old Mrs Grubb said, ignoring her. "I'm an old lady and I demand you answer me."

Clover closed her eyes and assessed what she should do next. When she opened them again she looked at Old Mrs Grubb, who was grinning evilly. Flattery won't work on you, will it? Then she looked at Mr Grubb. His expression was critical, though not necessarily unkind. It will with you, but it has to be a very specific kind of flattery. But then her eyes fell on Young Mrs Grubb. But it's you who's in charge. They think it's them, but we both know you're the head of the smial. Oh, well.

"What I meant," Clover said, keeping her voice calm, "was that older and younger Hobbits tend to be difficult and selfish because they see it as the place of everyone else to serve them."

There was a tense silence. Even Young Mrs Grubb had stopped her scribbling and was staring at Clover over the top of her spectacles. Clover kept her head held high.

Then there was raspy, cackling laughter and Old Mrs Grubb rocked back in her chair. "I like her!" she said. "I want this one."

"Mother—" Young Mrs Grubb began, rubbing her eyelids.

"She's much better than the tall one with the freckles."

"We can't—"

"I'll die if you don't give me what I want. So help me, I will."

Young Mrs Grubb turned to Dalgo, who was twisted away from her. A hand covered his mouth to conceal his smile. "You're not helping," she whispered. "Wheel her out, will you?"

He got to his feet, purposely keeping his face as straight as possible. "Come along, Grandmother."

"I can feel myself slipping away," she said, holding her hands outwards as he wheeled out of the door. "Is that you, Mandos?

Young Mrs Grubb returned her attention to Clover. "Most would not be so impertinent in an interview."

Clover shrugged, unrepentant. "There was no answer I could give that would please both you and Old Mrs Grubb. I thought if I was to lose, it should at least be as myself."

Young Mrs Grubb removed her spectacles and rubbed her forehead. "This wasn't how I was expecting today to go."

Dalgo re-entered the room, closing the door behind him. "I've left her with Petunia, but she's still in a bit of a frenzy."

Young Mrs Grubb glared at Clover as Dalgo went to sit beside her again. Clover turned her eyes downwards as regret began to creep up on her.

"What exactly were you trying to achieve?" Young Mrs Grubb said. "To impress us with your wit?"

Clover didn't look up when she replied. "Maybe. Don't rightly know, madam."

"What you've overlooked is that wit is not what people look for in a maid." She sighed. "You're young, so I will give you some advice I hope will benefit you in your future. Put yourself in my place. Would I want to employ a maid who is liable to speak her mind?"

Clover raised her head, contrite. "No, madam."

"No." She shuffled through the papers on the desk. "I think that's all we'll be needing you for. Would you see her out, Dalgo?"

Dalgo unfolded himself from his seat, where the amusement had been draining out of him. "Yes, Mother." He held the door open and looked at Clover expectantly.

Clover walked to the door, pale-faced. "I really am sorry, madam," she said just before she stepped through.

"Good. Then you've learned something," Young Mrs Grubb said, not looking at her.

Clover didn't move.

"Miss Delver?" Dalgo said.

"Yes. Sorry. Thank you for your time, Mrs Grubb."

"Mmm."

Clover stepped into the corridor. After Dalgo closed the door behind them he turned to find her stood with her forehead against the wall.

"Are you quite all right?" he said.

"Not really, sir." She sighed. "I made a proper mess of that, din't I?"

"There's no way I can answer that honestly while remaining within the realms of social acceptability," he said as he walked back down towards the front door, Clover following him behind. When he looked away from her she scowled, and made a rude gesture in his direction.

"For what it's worth, I agree with your assessment," he said.

"You what?"

He turned around, his hands placed in the small of his back, and looked down at her. "Of the dispositions of the young and the old."

"Oh." She rubbed her forehead. "With respect, sir, it ain't worth a whole lot without a job to go with it."

"No, I don't suppose it is, but that was rather your own doing. I'm sure you could have thought of something better to say. Is this yours?" he said, carefully lifting her cloak from the coat stand with his forefinger and thumb.

"Aye." She snatched it from him, annoyed at his disgust. "I know I could've said something else. I din't want to."

He looked puzzled. "Why?"

Clover tied the ribbons of the cloak. "The same reason you use them long words, I reckon."

He watched her from the corner of his eye. "That's quite a presumption."

"I know."

He kept his posture tight, as though afraid of this new territory. "What reason is that, then?"

She looked up at him with large brown eyes. "Don't you know your own mind?"

He turned his face from her, unable to stand the piercing look she was giving him. "Well enough. Do you know yours?"

"Better than I'd like."

Dalgo watched her as someone watches a lion. He was less attuned then her to finding the inner workings of the mind of others, his own intelligence finding different ways to manifest. He wasn't used to being unsure of himself. She realised this, and it pleased her.

"Good day, Mr Grubb. Sorry to 'ave wasted your time."

He opened the front door, the rain blowing in on the wind. She raised her hood, but before she stepped out Dalgo said, "What's the answer to your riddle?"

She smiled, pleased at a job well done. Though she wouldn't get the position, she had succeeded in catching a puffed-up killjoy off guard. It was cold comfort, but she would be lying if she didn't admit it gave her some satisfaction. "How about we 'ave a little trade? The job in exchange for the riddle."

"You must know I won't do that."

She sighed. "Ah, well. Can't blame me for trying."

He inhaled. "No, I don't suppose I can. Safe journey."

She nodded at him, and then disappeared down the garden path without another word. Dalgo realised his face and clothes were damp with the rain, and closed the door before she had disappeared from sight.

By the time Clover reached home her clothes were soaked through again. Her fingers and face stung with the cold and rain, followed by a burning sensation when she stepped into the hole. By the sound of it all the Delvers were at home, divided up among the different rooms. She numbed her ears to the racket, as she had taught herself to do over the years. When she'd squelched through to the lasses' room she found Poppy lounged on the middle bed, the collection of ragdolls spread around her. At the other end of the room Rob was sat on the floor while Myrtle and Fastad, knelt on the bed behind him, threaded ribbons through his overgrown hair. When Clover entered the room he gave her a look that distinctly said, 'Help me'.

"Off with you, lads," she said, opening the door obligingly. "I need to change."

"Right. Come on young'un," Rob said, and heaved himself up, while Fastad scrambled down off the bed.

Rob tried to pull the ribbons out as he walked, but only succeeded in making the knots tighter.

"No!" Myrtle whined. "It took so long!"

Clover grinned at his increasing frustration. "Leave 'em in. They suit you."

He glared at her. "Jonson and Jack see me like this I'll not hear the end of it."

"Serves you right for letting it get so long."

"I was only trying to keep 'em occupied."

"Oh, all right. Get down so's I can reach."

She untangled the ribbons while Rob knelt on the floor. When she was done he left the room, ruffling his hair as he went. "Cheers, Clove."

Clover started to rifle through the dresser in search of a nightdress. Poppy looked up at her in disgust while Myrtle climbed onto the bed next to her. "You went to meet a lad looking like that?"

Clover glared at her over her shoulder. "Meg tell you about that, did she?"

"Aye."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I met a lad looking like this." There was a lingering bitterness from the way Poppy looked at her. "Ain't you a bit old for dolls?"

Poppy looked down, abashed. "I don't play games with 'em no more. It's just…" She looked at the worn-out figures, made with the off-cuts of adjusted clothes. Most were donated to the family from neighbours and friends whose children had outgrown their toys.

Clover pulled the nightdress over her head and sighed. "It's all right, Pop, I din't mean it. I han't completely given up dolls when I was your age. You know where Meg is?"

"Kitchen," Myrtle said, picking up a doll.

The washing line that usually zigzagged between the grassy front of the house and the tree in the garden had been brought into the kitchen, turning it into a maze of bed sheets and underclothes. Still she could hear Meg and their mother, Jack's voice chipping in occasionally. Clover fought her way through the sheets towards the fire where Meg and Mrs Delver were bent over the large tub that served as the family bath, a large pile of washing beside them.

Jack was leaning against the mantelpiece while he waited for the kettle to boil. He looked at Clover confusedly. "Having an early night are you?"

She shrugged. "I've already got through two sets of day clothes today. Din't think Mum'd appreciate me putting on a third."

Meg looked up at her. The steam from the tub had plastered her hair to her face. "You're back early. Did it not go as hoped?"

"Not really."

"Want me to give 'im that hiding?"

"Nah," she said, and sat down at the table. "I'll just set Rob on 'im."

"Don't say that," Mrs Delver said sharply.

Clover winced. "Sorry, I was only joking."

"Well, don't." She wiped her forehead. "We don't want none of that. Not anymore."

No one spoke as dusty memories of Rob's less-than-ideal past resurfaced.

Jack coughed. "So, what happened?" he said.

Clover shook her head. "It was my fault. I said some things I shouldn't've. I was trying to be clever, and ended up being stupid instead."

"Aw, never mind, love," her mother said. "There'll be other lads."

"I know, but I feel like such an idiot." She slumped forward on the table.

"Oh, no." Meg hung the pair of breeches she'd been scrubbing over the edge of the tub, and dried her hands on her skirt as she walked over to Clover and rubbed her back. "You ain't stupid. You never have been."

A pang of guilt hit Clover as she remembered Meg's real heartbreak. She sat up and gently pushed her hand away. "I'm all right, Meg, don't mind me."

Meg gave her a final pat on the shoulder before going back to the washing. Jack took the whistling kettle off the fire, and eyed Clover as he poured it into the teapot. "Who is this swain of yours?"

Clover looked at him sharply. "You wouldn't know 'im."

"No?"

"No."

He smirked at her. Clover was used to thinking of herself as 'the clever one', but there were times she suspected Jack was just as quick as she was. Probably quicker, since he didn't let his pride get in the way.

"While you're here could you take the sheets off the line?" Mrs Delver said.

"Don't, Mum," Meg said. "I can—"

"I'm all right, really," Clover said, and pulled the nearest sheet from the line to make a point.

"Ain't nothing wrong with accepting a little help," Meg said.

"No," Clover said as she started to fold the sheet.

She laid the sheet on the table and glanced at Jack. He was witty and self-assured with a healthy sense of absurdity. She saw her mother at the washing tub. Frazzled and flighty. Then there was Meg. Loving. Frightened. Completely closed to outsiders. I wish you'd take your own advice, she thought.