A/N: To be clear, I mean 'pellar' more in the context of a folk healer rather than a practitioner of magic. It was the only synonym for 'wise woman' that I was happy with and didn't contain the words 'man' or 'woman'. And since I already had a foot in Cornish culture with the Crying I decided I might as well go with 'pellar'. To those that argue the word 'pellar' is inseparable from magic use because it likely derives from the repelling of evil spirits I say: Shh!

Disclaimer: I'm not sure this is a necessary warning, but don't try and treat your joint and back problems with henbane.

Out of the six eldest Delvers, Rob had always felt somewhat pushed to the side by force of personality. Meg had been their mother's right hand for as long as he could remember, Jonson and Jack seemed perpetually in competition to prove who was more dominant, Clover was a force in her own right, and Maizey goaded everyone on from the side-lines, taking pleasure in the chaos. Rob was usually content to just sit and watch while the politics of sibling-hood played out, not saying or doing anything until it was necessary for someone to physically hold Jonson and Jack apart. He had no ideas of becoming the 'head lad' if that was what they were fighting for. There was no doubt in his mind that honour belonged to one of them (though he had no idea which), and they were welcome to it as far as he was concerned. Even back when he'd gone in for fighting other lads—he winced at those particular memories—it had never been for prestige or to prove he could. It had usually just been because they had made him really, really angry. He had ambitions, but he was quite happy to potter about in the background while everyone else pecked at each other like hens.

Maybe that was why the younger ones seemed to prefer him out of the elder six. He was more mouldable than the others, being more or less happy to be whatever they wanted at that precise moment. He wasn't sure how he felt about this. It didn't help that he felt somewhat out of his depth at this precise moment.

"An' then she said I was the one who started the rumours," Poppy said as she sewed up the fraying hem of the bed sheet. "But really it was Lilac. An' then Lilac told 'em it was me as well, an' she told 'em all I hate Sea Aster."

"Right." His brow creased with concentration as he tried to sew up the hem on the other end of the sheet, holding the needle clumsily between forefinger and thumb. Jonson and Jack would never dare to be seen taking part in lasses' work, but Rob had never felt any particular need to assert his masculinity on that front. Along his line of thinking, in the same way that paying for a meal was the chivalrous thing to do, so was helping his mother and sisters keep the smial on occasion. "Which is Sea Aster again?" he said.

"The one what works down the poulterer's. It's not that I hate her, it's just that I don't like now snide she can get when the mood takes her."

The impression Rob got was that all of Poppy's friends were equally snide. "Don't rightly know what to say, Pop," he said. "Sure you'd not be best talking to one of the other lasses about it?"

She shrugged and rotated the sheet as she reached the corner. "Myrtle's still too little, Clover just thinks it's all silly, and Meg and Maizey always try and find a way to 'make it better', sort of thing. Sometimes there ain't no way to make it better an' you just want someone to listen to you. That make sense?"

"Reckon so," he said, going back to the sewing. Part of the reason he had set about helping Poppy was that he could still feel Master Rico's hand on his forehead, and the words he had used against him made a tight knot in his chest. He needed to make it all go away, and the easiest way to do that was to lash out, but he had learned through making continuous mistakes through his teens and early tweens that lashing out was not a good idea—occasional relapses aside. It just made people afraid of him, which made him feel anxious and made the need to lash out even worse than before.

That left him with the option of trying to distract himself and simply waiting for the knot to go away.

At least things seemed to be going nicely with the Took lass, though it was all a bit odd. When they'd parted she'd held her hand out for him, palm to the ground, presumably for him to kiss, but her face had been nothing but embarrassed. The gesture had felt far too formal for him and in a moment of panic he'd given her a firm handshake instead. Her expression had been quizzical, but also, he realised, pleasantly surprised. So that was all right, then.

"I forgot where I got to…" Poppy said despondently, picking up a pair of scissors from the sewing basket.

"Lilac told everyone you din't like Sea Aster."

"Right." She started to snip through some stitches. "So then Sea Aster—"

"I did those, din't I?" Rob said, looking at the stitches Poppy was unpicking.

"Yes, you did. I can tell because they're slack."

He frowned in frustration. "It's bloody fiddly."

"You'll get the hang of it."

"Dinner's ready!" Mrs Delver called from the kitchen.

There was a clatter as a dozen pairs of feet rushed to the kitchen. The Delvers all knew what time dinner was, and like all respectable Hobbits, always made sure they were in the vicinity when the time came. If anyone wasn't there then it was usually a sign that something was wrong. Rob was left to fold the sheet before ambling after Poppy into the kitchen and depositing himself in the nearest vacant seat. Looking around Rob realised that everyone was there. Mrs Delver, Meg and Clover were busying themselves with serving out the food, which accounted for three of the empty seats. There was still one left over, though…

The front door opened, and Mrs Delver lifted her head at the sound as she continued slicing the bread. "Did you see the pellar?" she called.

"Yes," the voice of Mr Delver responded from the hall. "Gave me some henbane oil."

She grimaced. "Put it in our room. Somewhere hard to reach."

Clover was shuffling around the table to serve out the mashed turnip, and as she passed Jonson he said, "Not much chance of you getting at it, then."

Rob winced as Clover brought her hand around Jonson's head with an audible smack.

"Ow!"

"Jonson, don't make fun of Clover's height. Clover, don't hit your brother," Mrs Delver said resignedly. "Lawks. I din't think I'd still be telling you that at your age."

"Sorry, Mum," Clover said with all the tenderness of a snake, glowering at Jonson while she did.

Mrs Delver looked at the nearly-full table in front of her. "Any of you find a bottle and you don't know what's in it, you put the cork straight back in and wash your hands. Henbane can kill a person. You understand me?"

A vaguely-affirmative mumble was the only response she received.

"I said, 'do you understand me,' Martin."

"I know, Mum," the lad said, slumped forward on the table with his arms folded.

"Good." She watched as Mr Delver entered the kitchen, rubbing his shoulder. "Think it'll help?"

"Hope so," he said, rotating his arm in its socket. "Did my old dad good when his back started giving him grief."

"Yes," she said forlornly. "I feel old."

"That's because we are old."

"Yes, thank you Jon."

He watched her concernedly for a moment before walking up behind her. "How's my Joy, then?" he said, placing a kiss on her neck.

"Get off," she said, a broad smile lighting up her features as she squirmed. "Bloody rake."

"Don't go cold on me," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling into her neck.

A chorus of disgusted cries rose up from the children.

"Oh, be quiet," Mr Delver said, looking at them. "If it weren't for this sort of thing, none of you'd be here."

This elicited a new bout of cries. Only Meg stayed quiet, laughing silently as she set two jugs of water on the table.

Mr Delver released his wife and went to sit in the chair between Danny and Martin. "And my life'd be a lot easier."

"You'd miss us if we was gone," Maizey said.

"You're the first I'd be without," he said. "Let's see…" He looked over his children, deciding who was the most delicate. "I'll keep Poppy, Rob, Myrtle, Fastad and… Meg. The rest of you can push off."

"Push off yourself," Jack's voice called from the other end of the table.

Mr Delver grinned at this. "There's my lad."

"Will you keep me, Dad?" Martin said, tugging at the shoulder of his father's waistcoat.

"Oh, all right then," Mr Delver said, picking Martin up under the arms and pulling him into his lap. "Seeing as you asked nicely."

"What about me?" Danny said.

"Definitely not. Not after all that trouble we had with you letting the pigs out."

"I din't mean to!" Danny said petulantly.

"No? And the cravats on the sheep?"

Danny opened his mouth, but hesitated. "That weren't my idea."

"Hmm. What I found worrying about that was the amount of forethought you must've put in."

"Stop all this, now," Mrs Delver said, as she made her way around the table with the potatoes. "We wouldn't be without any of you."

"Speak for yourself," Mr Delver said as Martin wriggled off his lap to return to his own seat.

The little lad looked disappointedly at his plate. "Ain't there any meat, Mum?" he said.

"Not this time. Maybe next week, lad." She kissed his mop of brown curls before continuing down the table.

Meg closed her eyes. Her illness had cost the family nearly half of her usual weekly wage. "I'm— I'm really sorry, Mum."

"Hush, lass," Mr Delver said, pouring himself a drink. "You couldn't help it."

Meg didn't meet his eye. "No," she said in a whisper.

Rob looked down at his plate. Even with the fish and chips earlier he could easily have eaten all of it. He sighed, and tore his piece of bread in half. "There you are, lad," he said, passing the bread over to Martin.

"You feeling all right, Rob?" Mrs Delver said, putting a hand on his forehead as she walked past. "You ain't coming down with anything are you?"

"I'm fine, Mum."

"Well, don't go giving up your food," Mr Delver said. "I know you mean well, but we need you hale."

Martin, sensing that he might be asked to give the bread back, stuffed the entire piece in his mouth at once.

Rob shrugged. "I had lunch at an inn."

"Did you, now?" Mr Delver said, leaning forward. "How'd you pay for that, then?"

"Went with a friend."

"And they paid, did they?"

Rob mumbled his assent.

"And how're you going to pay 'em back, eh?" Mr Delver said, tearing a piece off his own bread. "You know we don't take charity."

Rob pushed his mashed turnip around his plate. "They offered."

"I don't care, lad. I won't have my children getting by on other people's coin."

"Don't worry, Dad," Maizey—who'd been eavesdropping—said. "It'll have been that posh lass what's taken a fancy to him."

Mr Delver raised his eyebrows. "Posh lass?"

Rob glared at her. "Don't."

"What posh lass?" Mrs Delver said, glancing from one to the other.

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. He looked pleadingly at his sister. "Don't. Please."

"A Took," Maizey said triumphantly.

Silence crept over the table. Rob looked apprehensively at the sea of faces staring back at him. Then…

"What Took?"

"The same one from the farm?"

"Is she rich?"

"How?"

"Why?"

"What about the Tooks?"

Rob's breathing quickened. There were too many voices, and all of them were shouting at him. He brought his hands down heavily on the table and rose to his full height. "Shut it!" he bellowed.

Immediately the room was silenced again, the faces now upturned and wide-eyed. They were frightened. Rob lifted his hands from the table, flexing his fingers self-consciously. "Um…" He hurried out of the room as quickly as he could.

Mr Delver looked over at Maizey. "Well done."

"Sorry," she said, looking down, suddenly contrite. "I din't mean…"

"No one ever does. It's all right, lad," he said, rubbing Martin's back. The lad had leaned over to hide his face in Mr Delver's waistcoat.

"Maizey," Mrs Delver said quietly, standing next to her. "This Took—"

"I'd maybe leave it for now," Mr Delver said. "We can talk about it later."

She scowled at her husband. "I know what those Tooks get up to. I'm not having him get involved with all that."

Rob's seat remained conspicuously empty as the other Delvers began quiet, subdued conversations while they ate.

Meg was the first to finish and rise from her seat. "We got any hanks of wool, Mum?"

"One or two in my knitting basket, I think. You don't have to, Meg," Mrs Delver said.

Meg shook her head lightly. "I've dealt with him as many times as you. I won't bother if he's still wound up."

In the parlour she found Rob sat on one of the ancient settees that her parents had always owned, the cushions crushed rock hard from more than thirty years' extensive use. He was hunched forward, his face to the ground and massaging the fingers on his right hand.

Meg folded her arms and leaned against the doorway. "You hit the wall again?"

His head snapped up and he looked at her sheepishly. "No?"

She kept her face impassive and reached a hand out to him. "Let me see, then."

He reluctantly held his hand forward to her so she could see the grazed knuckles, smeared with little streaks of blood. She clicked her tongue and pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket. "You shouldn't do it, you know."

"Sorry."

Meg tied her handkerchief, and turned her attention to their mother's knitting basket. She pulled out a hank of green wool. "Right, come on. Sit up."

Rob groaned. "Please don't, Meg. I'm not a child no more."

"Hands."

He surrendered, hanging his head and holding his hands out parallel, palms facing each other. Meg slipped the hank over them. It didn't take her long to find the knot that held the two ends together, and she started to wind it into a ball.

He looked away to the side, scowling. "Bloody mother hen. Always 'ave been."

"Someone needs to be," she said briskly. "Hush, now."

As they sat in silence they heard the steady stream of siblings leave the kitchen. Meg could recognise the step of each member of the family, and kept track of who was where. Maizey and Hender had gone out. Poppy had gone to the lasses' room, while the twins and Martin had gone to the lads' room. Their dad, Jonson and Jack had gone out, presumably for an after-dinner pipe. None of them even tried to go in the parlour. Rob watched the wool unwinding little by little. It was their grandmother—who he had been close to—who had started this little ritual, which forced him to sit still for an extended period. In the past it had sometimes taken three or four hanks for him to calm down completely. This wasn't one of those days.

Eventually the last of the wool was unwound from Rob's hands. He let his arms fall limply as Meg tucked the ball up. "Feeling better?" she said.

"Mmm."

"Good. How's your hand?"

He removed the handkerchief, and clenched and unclenched his fist experimentally. "All right."

"Lovely." She took her hanky back and gently took Rob's arm, guiding him to his feet and through the door. "Let's get some food in you."

Rob walked with a slight stoop, as though trying to make himself appear as small as possible. "I din't mean to frighten 'em."

"I know."

Rob twisted his fingers together nervously. "Few days back Jonson asked if I wanted to thrash Winden, an' I said 'no'. That was right, weren't it?"

"Did he?" He could tell by the tone of her voice that she and Jonson would be having words later. "Yes, you did right."

Only three of the Delvers were left in the kitchen: Mrs Delver washing the crockery while Clover dried and Myrtle put them away. When Rob came back into the room Myrtle withdrew and went to hide behind their mother.

"It's all right, Mert," he said, sitting at his place by his half-finished dinner. She watched him but didn't move. He smiled apologetically. "Sorry I shouted."

Myrtle approached cautiously, and put her arms around his neck. "Don't do it again."

"I'll try," he said, enveloping her in broad arms.

"You're silly sometimes."

"I know."

Mrs Delver sighed. "All right, lass, you've seen 'im. Get back here and finish up."

Myrtle released him and smiled. "Can we play when I'm done with the dishes?"

"If you like," he said. "Let me have my dinner and a pipe first."

"Be quick."

Mrs Delver glanced at Rob as Myrtle returned to the growing pile of dry dishes. "I wish I had that sort of power over you."

Meg approached her. "Jonson's out smoking with Dad, ain't he?" she said in a hushed voice.

"Should think so."

She nodded and left the kitchen. Rob picked at his dinner, painfully conscious that he was sat doing nothing while his mother and sisters worked. What sort of punishment was that? He realised his mother was watching him, trying not to be noticed. Eventually she looked at the lasses and said, "Why don't you two go and check for any cups that might've been left out?"

Myrtle looked confusedly at her, "But, Mum, I already—"

"Come on," Clover said, taking her by the arm and leading her from the room.

"But I already—"

"No, you didn't."

Mrs Delver watched as Clover shut the door behind them and then slung her dishrag over the draining board. Rob tensed as she sat opposite him. "Robby," she said gently, "can I ask about the Took lass or…?"

Rob groaned. "It's not anything, Mum. Only seen her a couple of times."

"Yes?" Mrs Delver smiled sympathetically. "As friends?"

He squirmed. "Not sure yet."

"Are you going to keep seeing her?"

He groaned and buried his head in his hands. "Don't know, Mum."

"All right, all right. I'm sorry, lad." There was the scrape of a chair and the patter of feet. Then there were arms around his neck. He offered no resistance, instead leaning into the hug. "I won't ask no more questions," she said. "I'm worried for you, that's all."

Rob rested the side of his head against her, comfort filling up the gap left by the dissipated anger. "Sorry, Mum."

One of his mother's hands started to stroke his hair. "I don't want her whisking my little lad off into the blue."

He leaned out of her arms and turned his head to look at her. He wasn't able to keep a laughing smile off his face.

"Yes, all right," she said, giving him a light slap on the shoulder. "You may be a foot taller than me and built like an ale-house, but you're still my babe." She absentmindedly smoothed down his wayward hair as she smiled fondly at him. "You can get back to your dinner now."

"Cheers." He bent over his plate again as his mother returned to the sink.

The lasses returned a minute later, not having found any cups. When he finished Rob handed his mother his plate and mumbled his thanks. In the hallway he could hear Meg and Jonson's raised voices in the parlour. He shuffled guiltily to the front doorstep, where Jack and their father were sat side by side, smoking.

Mr Delver watched Rob from the corner of his eye as he settled himself on the end. "All right, whelp?"

"Yes, sir," he said, taking out his tobacco pouch and lighting up his pipe.

Jack tipped the dregs of his leaf out of the bowl and onto the ground. "I'll head in now. It's chilly." Inside, he hesitated by the parlour door, listening to the argument inside.

"It's my bloody business, and I don't want you, Rob or anyone else getting hurt on account of it."

"You've never had no issues with meddling in our business. Besides, I'm Dad's heir—"

"Heir to what?"

"I— That ain't the point. The point is it's up to me to set it right when one of us gets wronged."

"I'm older than you!"

"Not by much."

"Well, if you're so old and wise you should have known that asking Rob to get involved was a stupid thing to do. It'll kill Mum if he falls into all that again."

"You're getting stirred up over nothing."

The door opened and Jonson walked out, pushing past Jack to leave through the front door. Meg appeared in the doorway a second later. "It's not nothing!"

Jack looked at her with disinterest. "It's a little bit nothing."

Meg jumped at the sound of his voice; she hadn't properly registered his presence. But now she saw him she smiled brightly. "I've been meaning to have a word with you."

He grimaced. "Have you?"

She continued smiling, unperturbed. "Jack. Kind Jack. Good Jack. Generous Jack."

"I ain't none of them things and you know it."

Her face fell. "Yes, you are."

He laughed shortly. "You're the only one what believes that. What're you after, talking like that?"

"You're friends with Nick Hobble, aren't you?"

Jack looked away and shrugged uncomfortably. "Yes."

"Think you could get him to go to my birthday?"

He raised his eyebrows at this. "I thought you weren't having a party. You've been dreading coming of age."

Meg attempted a smile and brushed some of the dirt off Jack's waistcoat. "I'm allowed to change my mind. It's not anything proper, just going down the Dragon. I asked him myself but he din't seem too keen."

"Then I don't think nothing I say'll make any difference."

"Just try. Please?" She looked at him earnestly, but not pleadingly. She didn't want him to feel he would be upsetting her if he refused.

Jack tilted his head up and groaned. "Fine. I'll mention it, but I don't make no promises."

Rob could hear Meg's squealing laughter from where he sat on the step. Neither he nor Mr Delver had said anything since Jack had gone in. He get the vague sense that Jack had gone in specifically to leave himself and their father alone. Neighbours passed by the house in an irregular stream, every one of them nodding a greeting.

"Sorry, Dad," Rob said.

Mr Delver shrugged. "No lasting damage, though you gave Martin a bit of a fright. I don't think he remembers too well the days you used to come home with your face all bloodied. Not that any of us like to remember." He studied Rob's expression and must have seen the discomfort there. "But it weren't just that you was talking about, was it?"

"No."

"What, then?"

Rob shrugged. "The Took lass. I know you don't like the uppers…" He shrunk into himself, and his speech faded to a mumble.

"Rob," Mr Delver said wearily, removing the pipe from his mouth. "I'd rather you displease me on occasion than never think for yourself."

Rob looked down. "Then I don't reckon you'll like what I've got to say next."

"Say it and you'll find out."

"I don't know what to do."

"With what?"

Rob drew from his pipe again. "Took lass."

"What about her?"

"Do I keep seeing her or not?"

"Ain't up to me, lad," Mr Delver said and blew out a delicate stream of smoke.

"But if it was you?"

"Then I'd abandon her to marry your mother."

"But what if—"

"Look." Mr Delver removed his pipe from his mouth. "If you want advice, here's what I have to give. First: don't go in with the idea that you could marry into money. It won't happen." Rob opened his mouth, but Mr Delver waved him into silence. "I know it's early days, and you're young, but you'll end up thinking about her dower eventually. I'm telling you now, you won't see none of it. The only way her parents'd let her marry the likes of you is if you get her in trouble, and we don't want that, now, do we?" He cast a meaningful glance at Rob, who hunched down further to hide his warm face.

"No, Dad."

"Good." He drew and blew out another stream of smoke. "Which leads nicely to this second point. This lass'll have a father, uncles, and cousins, and none of them'll take kindly to you. So, for goodness sake, be careful." He sighed and scratched his nose. "See, posh folk do things different. They ask for permission, formal like. But you can't do that 'cus no matter what, they'll say 'no'. So they catch you with her and it'll make the time Ripon Westcott found you with his sister look civil."

"But that ain't fair," Rob said.

"I know it ain't, lad," Mr Delver said hotly, "but that's life. Third: don't let it get to you. 'Good breeding' is just a posh way of saying 'very damn lucky'. Take Mr Boffin's sons—" Mr Delver hesitated when one of their neighbours walked past the hole. "As fine a pair of lads as a Hobbit could meet," he said, much louder than was necessary. When the neighbour had passed he lowered his voice again. "But they have less sense between 'em than any one of my brood."

Rob smiled. "Even Jonson?"

"Oh, I reckon so. Only just, mind," Mr Delver said, replacing his pipe in his mouth. "So don't go thinking you ain't worthy. It's just as like she's unworthy of you."

Rob sat silently for a moment. "But Dad," he said, "should I?"

Mr Delver removed his pipe again. "Have you not been listening to me?"

"I have, Dad, I have. But I just—"

"You're twenty-seven, son, I can't be making all your decisions for you." He saw Rob's dejected expression and added, more kindly, "Depends whether you think the good outweighs the bad."

Rob scratched his head. "Don't know about that."

They stayed silent for a while, Rob looking pensively down at the ground. His father sighed. "I know that look. Out with it."

Rob knocked his pipe out onto the ground, and ground the ashes in with his foot. "I don't mean no offence by this, Dad."

"By what?"

"I'm… I'm sort of just Jon Delver's third son."

His father frowned in gruff incomprehension. "That'd be because you are my third son."

"I know. But Jonson's got his charm, and Jack's sharp. I'm just myself."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"I know. I don't brood over it or nothing. I used to be the one with the temper, an' that was worse." He looked mournfully at is hands. Too large. Always too large. He hated it when people were afraid of him. "But when Miss Took listens to me talk it's like she thinks I'm more than myself. Like I'm something properly special."

Mr Delver's initial thought was that Miss Took would probably behave that way with any relatively good-looking working Hobbit, seeing as she'd probably never spoken to many before, and Rob was a nice novelty compared to the lads she was used to associating with. But considering what Rob had just told him about the way he saw himself, he decided this probably wasn't the best time.

"Well, if you reckon that's worth all the hassle then go for it, lad," he said. "Have fun, do whatever it is tweens do these days, but please take care. I don't want the Tooks coming after you."

The door squeaked open and Myrtle walked through. She walked up behind Rob, leaning her chin on his head and hanging her arms limply over his shoulders.

"Hello," he said.

"Rob, you said you'd play with me," she whined.

"I did," Rob said, heaving himself up. "Come on, then." Myrtle took his hand to lead him inside, forcing him to walk with a stoop. All in all, he decided he quite liked being the little'uns' favourite.

Sango had been attempting to read for the past half-hour. He could just about manage, but it was a slog, even with books that actually caught his interest. He was sat dangerously close to the candle on the end table, and still it was hard to make out the words. He shifted even closer. The plan was for him to spend the evening with Lavender at the Green Dragon. He had hoped to walk with her that afternoon, but a friend of hers had been ill and she had wanted to spend the afternoon with her instead. There was a chill as the door opened, and Rico stepped into the room, smelling of ponies. "Hello, Rowley. Having a scholarly day, are you?"

"Close the door, it's freezing," Sango said.

Rico gave a frustrated sigh and closed the door with a slam.

"Thank you," Sango said with false brightness. "How are the Grubbs?"

"Monno was a bore, as usual," Rico said, removing his riding gloves. "We saw your lady on the way back," he said, giving one of Sango's legs a light kick.

"Lavender?"

"Who?"

"My young lady," Sango said, looking up at him. "We started courting this week."

"Oh. Poor lass."

Sango smiled humourlessly at him. "If you weren't referring to Lavender then…?"

"Miss Tiger Lily. She was walking with a farm lad." Rico sat down. There was something Sango didn't like about the way his brother was smiling.

"They met at harvest. When she was helping me," Sango cast a disapproving look at his brother.

"Oh, will you let that go?" Rico said, slumping down in the armchair. "It was a week ago."

"I don't care, you left me alone to cope with everything, and you knew—"

"Rather strange, though," Rico said. "To walk with a working-hobbit. A Took custom?"

"I think not. She's soft-hearted, that's all. He was nice to her."

A scheming smile spread across Rico's face like a disease. "She never struck me as the type."

Sango sensed he was falling into a trap of some kind, but still said, "The type for what?"

"For courting a low-born lad, with all the implications."

"No!" Sango said indignantly. "She wouldn't be so silly, and she's certainly not that sort of lady." He practically spat the word 'sort'.

"As you say." Rico grinned, sitting back again and getting out his pipe

Sango sat in silent contemplation for a moment. Matters of reputation were important, especially for a lass. He glanced up at Rico and cleared his throat. "You know… If I were to find that you've been spreading gossip, I might be inclined to tell Mr Grubb about it. I think he would like to know if a rumourmonger were courting his sister."

Rico leaned back in his chair, regarding Sango. "I see," he said.

Sango did his best to resume his reading, but found it even more difficult than before. Even with his conviction that Tiger Lily wasn't that sort, he wasn't quite at ease. Perhaps he would have a word with her, just to make sure she wouldn't be going down that particular path with Master Rob. He shivered as someone else opened the door.

"So this is where you're hiding yourselves," Mr Boffin said, settling down on the settee beside Sango. He looked from one son to the other. "I would have liked for at least one of you to help me hand out the wages."

"I was out with Abbie," Rico said.

"I was out with Tiger Lily," Sango said.

Their father sighed. "You know… charming as lasses are, they won't put money in your coffers. If you want to be able to support a wife, you're going to have to start sacrificing your pleasure time to help me here."

Sango picked at the corner of his current page. "I ran things at harvest."

"That was a week ago, and you've done next to nothing since." His hands started fidgeting. "I'm glad I managed to catch you both together, actually. You see, there's been a development. You recall your cousin Lotho…"