A/N: So, according to a letter by Tolkein (#214), as well as giving presents on their birthday, the birthday-Hobbit will also receive a present from the head of the family (or, in the case of big families like the Tooks, the head of that particular line) as a symbol of kinship. Since it doesn't appear in any works intended for publication, this tradition isn't technically canon, but I thought I'd go with it anyway. I just wanted to make that clear so that it doesn't look like some weirdness I came up with myself when birthday traditions for Hobbits are described in so much detail in LotR.

Also, as before, don't use any medicines described to treat yourself.

It was while the rest of the family were finishing their elevenses that Dalgo entered the dining room, bleary eyed and in a state of disarray. Young Mrs Grubb breathed a private sigh of relief; it was the first time she had seen her eldest son that morning.

"And where have you been?" Old Mrs Grubb said. Petunia was sat beside her, spreading butter over a scone.

"In my study. Working," Dalgo said, picking up a scone from the cake stand and cutting it in half. "Where else?"

"I don't know, I thought maybe you'd gone to sea," she said. "Missing both breakfasts. It's not normal. Not the blueberry!" She brought her hand down on the table with a smack that made the crockery chime and Petunia drop her scone. "Blackberry, I said!"

Petunia paled as she hurriedly went to take another scone. "Sorry, Mrs Grubb."

Young Mrs Grubb sighed and set her cup of tea down in its saucer. "Why don't you start clearing up the kitchen, Petunia? I can manage here."

"Yes, madam," Petunia said, rising and scurrying out of the room, the relief visible on her face.

Young Mrs Grubb moved the blueberry scone onto her own plate (there was no sense in letting to go to waste) and set about preparing a new one. She wondered vaguely if Petunia had only accepted her proposal in order to escape their smial.

While all this had being going on Monno had been watching Dalgo, his mouth puckered in distaste. "I hope you haven't been seeing clients in that state," he said.

"No, I only disordered myself to irritate you," Dalgo said blandly, buttering a scone. His mouth twisted into a spiteful smile. "I haven't had to register any deaths today, if that's of any consolation to you."

"Not a great deal."

"You could make some effort," Abelia said. "I'm sure you could be… acceptable-looking if you tried."

"I have moved beyond the frivolous pursuit of the aesthetic ideal," Dalgo said.

Abelia groaned and covered her face with her hands. "Why do you talk like that? No one talks like that!"

"Let's not argue," Young Mrs Grubb said.

"I'm sorry you dislike my mode of dress, Abelia," Dalgo said. His expression was indifferent but there was a certain cruel glint in his eye as he continued with a deliberate emphasis, "I know dark colours aren't to your taste."

Abelia's face went red with anger and she opened her mouth to speak.

"Let's not bring that up, either," Young Mrs Grubb said quickly. She considered pointing out that their father didn't allow raised voices at the dining table, but decided this would do more harm than good. She inhaled deeply as she set Old Mrs Grubb's scone on her plate and did her best to smile at Dalgo. "It would be nice if you took some pride in your appearance. For yourself as much as anyone else."

"Oh, don't bother," Monno said, setting his teacup down and rising from his seat. "He never listens. I have a wedding to officiate, I'll see you all later." He gave his mother a brief peck on the cheek before leaving the room.

Young Mrs Grubb left her mother-in-law to her scones and turned to Dalgo. "I am glad I managed to catch you, actually. We need to talk about who you want as the new maidservant."

"I want the short one," Old Mrs Grubb said, chewing.

Young Mrs Grubb didn't turn her head, but kept looking at her son, a tense smile forming on her face. "Dalgo?"

"I thought there was still some time to go before Petunia's departure," Dalgo said.

"There is, but I would like some time to adjust one of her uniforms. I don't want the new maid serving in day clothes in front of company. Now, I favour Miss—"

"I want the short one," Old Mrs Grubb said again.

Young Mrs Grubb cast her a sidelong look. "I wasn't addressing you, Mother."

"So I'm only allowed to speak when spoken to, is that it?"

Young Mrs Grubb sighed resignedly and looked over at Abelia. "You don't have to stay, Abbie, it's awfully boring stuff."

"I don't mind staying," Abelia said, resting her jaw in her hands, obviously expecting the following conversation to be more amusing than any other way she could occupy her time.

Young Mrs Grubb returned to Dalgo. "Who do you favour?"

Old Mrs Grubb brought her hand down on the table again, making her daughter-in-law wince. "I tell you, I want the short one with the smart mouth—what was her name?"

"Delver," Dalgo said.

"Yes, that's the one. I want her."

"No, you don't," Young Mrs Grubb said, doing her best to keep her voice level. "Eat your scone."

"It's my attendant and I have every right to say who I want, and I want the short one."

"You weren't even supposed to attend the interviews. I only let you in because you kept ramming your chair against the door."

"And it worked," Old Mrs Grubb said smugly, drawing herself up. "You had no right to block me out like that. A fine way to treat your mother-in-law, who welcomed you into her home and gave you her only son and—"

"This," Young Mrs Grubb said, her voice equal parts anguish and irritation. "This was why I wasn't going to let you sit in." She looked at Dalgo for support, but found he was smiling amusedly.

"You're being very quiet," she snapped. "It's your smial and your wages, so who do you favour?"

Dalgo raised his head loftily and poured himself a cup of tea. "I trust your judgement."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "No, you don't. You want the Delver lass too. I can tell."

He sipped his tea. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Young Mrs Grubb tossed her spectacles onto the table and buried her head in her hands. "You're all mad."

"I'm not," Abelia said.

"Don't talk back," Dalgo said.

"But just how am I supposed to speak to anyone without talking back to them?"

"You know full well that's what not talking back means."

Young Mrs Grubb watched them arguing through her fingers, lacking the energy to intervene. It was when Old Mrs Grubb joined in that she fully surrendered to the sense of abandon. "Fine!" she said, standing. The sound of her raised voice shocked the others into silence. Her breath quickened, and she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Fine. If you want to let an impudent little chit into our home, I will bow to the common will. But when—when—she makes a fool of us in front of company I am holding the two of you personally responsible." She looked from Dalgo to Old Mrs Grubb before storming out of the room.

Dalgo, Abelia and Old Mrs Grubb looked at each other, frozen and unsure. A moment later Young Mrs Grubb returned to the room, red in the face. "Forgot my spectacles," she mumbled, snatching them up from the table.

"Mother…" Dalgo said, and she hesitated in her retreat, "I will give approval to whoever you choose."

Some of her tension dissipated as she sighed. "I don't really care anymore, sweetheart. What difference will another raver make in this smial?"

She left them to their silence once again. Old Mrs Grubb bit into her scone and started to chew loudly. Dalgo cleared his throat. "I suppose that means a visit to East Warren Lane is in order."

"Can I go?" Abelia said.

"No."

"You can't deny me, I'm not a child."

"You've no business there. Have you ever been to that part of Bywater?" he said, and drank from his cup.

"I go there sometimes with friends to see how the low-born Hobbits live." At this Dalgo was seized by a coughing fit and Abelia had to thump him on the back. "Got it out of your system?" she said sweetly as the coughs started to subside.

"Yes," he said hoarsely.

The corner of Abelia's mouth twitched and she gave him one final thump, much harder than the others, making his eyes water.

"Yes, thank you, Abelia," he said, trying to swat her away. He gulped down some more tea, glowering at her from over the top of his spectacles. "Why am I only learning about this now?"

She rolled her eyes and flounced out of the room, gripping her skirts for added drama. "You're not Father."

He scrambled to his feet and pursued her. "I don't want you walking around those parts of Bywater!"

"Mother, Dalgo's being an ass again!"

At the table Old Mrs Grubb had been watching all of this with mild disinterest. Now she finished her scone, wiped her mouth with a napkin and started to wheel herself out of the room. "This is why I stopped at one," she said.

Her arms ached. Her back ached. Everything ached. That was without the stinging cold on her fingers and face. Clover sat back and looked at her fingers: dirt was crusted around the nails, the knuckles were swollen and tender. She folded her arms, tucking her hands between her upper arms and bodice.

"Would you like my cloak?" Meg said.

"No." She watched as Meg pulled a particularly large stone out of the earth and dropped it in the bucket with a clink. Little groups of workers were dotted over the bleak, bare field, each with a bucket between them. "I hate de-stoning."

"Half-day," Meg said, smiling through her shivers. "Think how glad you'll be when we're indoors."

Clover scowled and did her best to brush off a stone she'd pulled out of the ground. "Why'd you have to be so bloody nice all the time?"

"Sorry. Don't mean to be. Here, I don't think we'll be able to lift it if we fill it up any more."

Clover and Meg each took a hold of the handle and lifted. Even with the both of them together it put a strain on Clover's already tired arms, and the rope was making her hands sting. She needed to get out of here.

It had been the idea of Tiger Lily's mother for each of the Bywater Tooks to write their own letter to Aferbold, to be sent together in a little package along with Uncle Hortenbold's kinship gift. It would be a nice surprise for him to hear from each member of the family individually, even if his birthday would have long gone by the time it reached him.

Tiger Lily's mother had written one. Uncle Hortenbold had written one (though the writing on the envelope had been in Aunt Mertensia's distinctively neat hand). Bandobold had written one. Tiger Lily hadn't.

They had received their first letter from Aferbold a few days earlier. Tiger Lily had skidded on a rug in her haste to get to the drawing room to hear it, while Bandobold had asked a million questions without pausing for breath. What was Buckland like? Had he been in the Old Forest yet? Had he seen any Mewlips? The mood sobered considerably when they heard what he had written.

Now Tiger Lily had borrowed his letter in the hopes this would give her inspiration for writing her own. She picked it up from the desk and read it a third time.

To My Three Darlings,

I have reached Brandy Hall safely and with disappointing speed. There are so many people in the Hall that I have so far spent most of my time in my chamber, which I am sharing with Cousins Everand and Ferdinand.

We have not yet done much searching of the Old Forest as it is difficult ground to cover. I despise the woods, and I suspect the feeling is mutual. In what time we have spent there, we have been unable to find any sign of our missing kin.

To aid the search the Tooks have been divided up into seven groups, each headed by the heir of one of the Old Took's grandsons. As the only representative of my father, I have been given charge of four of my cousins, and it is not a task I am suited to. Eramett and Ebbold are not at all happy to be under my command. Trefoil is kinder, but a little brash. The fourth is Cousin Ivy and she has been a great help to me, especially as I have not been able to think very clearly these last few days. These expeditions combined with the journey here have brought on a cold. I have taken agrimony and lemon and feel a little better, though my head still hurts dreadfully.

I have seen little of the Thain or my host, and they have been greatly agitated on the occasions I have seen them, which is understandable given the circumstances. I feel a weight on my heart that I have been so unwilling to help, when their only sons are gone into the wild. I cannot imagine their grief. Master Peregrin is a child still, not a great deal older than my own lass. I see myself through their eyes and am repulsed by my own behaviour. I shall do my best to help my kin, though more than anything I want to come home.

I still hope that this could all be only an adventure, and all will return home safely and with many stories to tell. But tales of Mewlips and barrow wrights chill me. I miss you all terribly.

I know you will all be coping splendidly without me, and I only wish I was coping as well. Do keep a close concord with my brother's family, and I hope you will be able to find comfort in them if you are in need of it.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Ever Yours,

Father

Tiger Lily put the letter down again and slowly started to write out her response. She had made several attempts to start, but each had been abandoned after she had spent too long agonising over exact phrasing and punctuation. But now she had run out of time. There wasn't a great deal to say. She asked one or two questions. She told him she hoped he got better soon, and that he would have a nice birthday, that Sango was moving to Overhill, and sent his regards, and about the little outings they had been on. She told him she missed him.

There was nothing else to say.

Tiger Lily folded the letter and made her way to the drawing room where her mother was sat on the floor, wrapping presents in brown paper. As with every year, they would be handed out to the servants with the wages as a thanks for a year's work from the master of the smial. This year would be no different, despite his absence. "Can I help?" she said.

"I'm nearly done," Mrs Took said.

Tiger Lily cast an eye over an unwrapped vase. "Are you sure you want to give that away, Mother? Wasn't it a present from Uncle Willo?"

"Well, Thyme's mother's been ill, so I thought I'd give her something a bit nicer this year." She smiled puckishly and put her hands on her knees. "Uncle Willo need never know. Are those the letters?" her eyes flitted down to the papers in Tiger Lily's hand.

"Yes. Where would you like me to leave them?"

"Here, I'll take them," Mrs Took said, rising stiffly to her feet and holding a hand out. Tiger Lily handed them to her and groaned as her mother unfolded the newly written letter.

"Oh, Mother, really? It's only to Father."

"Mmm…" She didn't look up from the letter as she pulled out the chair to sit at the writing desk.

"But it's not as though Father's going to share it with other people," Tiger Lily said desperately.

"You know how he is for forgetting things. If a letter of yours is going to fall into the hands of some Brandybuck rascal, I'm going to make sure there's nothing incriminating."

"There's nothing incriminating there."

"It pertains, in part, to a lad," Mrs Took said. "So there's potential for incrimination. Once a letter's been sent, it's out of your power. It might be stolen, shared with others or kept—"

"Kept in a drawer for fifty years," Tiger Lily said, sitting down on a settee as she prepared to repeat the rest of the mantra. "And if I send a letter that could be read as improper, even if that was not my intent, it could ruin my future prospects. I know."

Mrs Took sniffed. "It is true, you know. My mother read all my letters until I was married, and it never did me harm." She stood, placing the letter on the desk and pulling the chair out. "I would like you to mention that I accompanied you and Sango to Mossdown Rocks."

"Yes, Mother." Tiger Lily went to sit in the chair.

Mrs Took placed a kiss on the top of her head. "There's a good lass."

Tiger Lily smiled at the warm feeling that grew in her stomach and took up the quill. "Do you have any plans for this afternoon?" she said. She had none herself.

There was the crinkle of paper as Mrs Took returned to wrapping the presents. "I'm going to be calling to the Goodenough's. Mrs Goodenough is organising her usual fund to benefit the poor at Yule, and it gives Bandobold a chance to play with children his own age. Would you like to come along? You and Lorna could have a little chat."

"Um… I don't think I will, if that's all right." She didn't really like Lorna.

"Perfectly. Did you have any plans of your own?"

Tiger Lily leaned her jaw in her hand, watching the trail of ink dry on the line she'd just written. What could she do? "I could see Sango." They would have to stay in the house, for want of a chaperone.

"I see." There was a pause. "Then you might ask him about arranging someone to fix the fence."

The knot of anxiety that made a permanent home in Tiger Lily's stomach tightened a little. "He will. He's just busy with moving preparations."

"I'm sure." She didn't sound convinced. Tiger Lily looked over at her and frowned in confusion. Seeing this, Mrs Took sighed. "Lovely as Sango is, his sense of responsibility does leave a little something to be desired."

Tiger Lily scowled, feeling affronted. "He's busy, that's all."

"Your loyalty does you credit."

Tiger Lily turned back to the paper in front of her and signed off the letter with an irritated flourish. "It's done," she said.

"Lovely. Just leave it there and so I can put it with the others."

Tiger Lily went to leave the room, but was interrupted when she reached the door. "Out of interest," her mother said, "why did you ask about how many Took ladies there are in Buckland?"

"Oh." Tiger Lily started scratching at the paintwork on the doorframe. "It's just I wanted to know why Ivy and Trefoil are there. I thought ladies weren't of any use."

"Well, they're spinsters, they have to find something to keep themselves occupied," Mrs Took said hotly.

"I'm a spinster."

"You're a child."

"Why didn't Opal go?"

"I don't know. But I can't imagine Mertensia would want her daughter running about the Old Forest like that. Not if she cares about her reputation," Mrs Took said. She looked like she had eaten something sour.

Tiger Lily nodded. She had irritated her mother again. She did her best to smile. "I understand now. Thank you, Mother," she said brightly.

Her mother's face relaxed slightly as it became obvious there would be no more questions. "That's all right. You have a nice afternoon."

"You too."

Tiger Lily made the journey to Boffin's Farm alone, keeping her head down. When she arrived she was directed to the morning room to wait. She turned her head to the door when it opened, expecting Sango. But it was Mrs Boffin who walked in, all smiles and jangling bracelets.

"Hello, Tiger Lily, dear. How is your family?

Tiger Lily looked down at the floor. "Fine thank you, Mrs Boffin."

"Have you heard from your father? Have they found anything?"

"Not yet."

"Ah, well. I'm sure they'll be found soon." She walked past Tiger Lily and started to brush down one of the cushions on a settee. "I suppose it must be difficult for your father, with his… infirmities."

"Yes…"

Mrs Boffin sat down daintily and arranged her skirts neatly around her. "Sango's just popped out, I'm afraid. But I'm glad you're here." She smiled at Tiger Lily and patted the seat beside her. Tiger Lily nervously settled down in the offered place. "The young lady Sango left the house with—what can you tell me about her?"

"Lavender?"

Mrs Boffin's smiled widened, showing off her dimples. "That's right. What sort of lass is she?"

Tiger Lily swallowed. There was something she didn't like about this, but she wasn't quite sure what. "What sorts are there?"

"Oh, you know. What's her bearing, her parentage?" She hesitated. "She seemed a little different from the lasses that have turned Sango's head before."

Tiger Lily chewed her lip and gripped her skirts. She turned her head to the door at the sound approaching footfall and low conversation.

"Don't mind them. That's just the workers leaving the house. Why don't I call for some tea and we can have a nice long chat?"

Tiger Lily tried to smile back, nervously. "I don't have much to tell you. I've seen little of her."

"Ah." Mrs Boffin smoothed down her skirts. "Well, when you see more of her you can come to me and we can have a chat then, hmm? Best not say anything to Sango. Keep things between us ladies." She patted Tiger Lily's knee, setting her bracelets clinking again.

Tiger Lily rose, flustered. "I think I need to take my leave."

"It's just I'm a little concerned," Mrs Boffin said, standing, "that a lass such as her is not suitable for him. Don't you agree?"

"I'm not sure," Tiger Lily said in a wavering voice. She dropped a brief, panicked curtsey. "Goodbye, Mrs Boffin." She ducked into the hallway and closed the door behind her without waiting for Mrs Boffin to say anything else. She had to press her back against the door to keep out of the way of the passing gaggle of servants and farmhands. She kept her eyes on the floor to keep from meeting their eyes. She risked an upward glance as the group was reaching the end of the passage, and picked Rob out of the crowd easily. He looked over his shoulder at her and nodded, tugging at his cap.

She smiled at him briefly, and then the workers turned the corner. She followed behind them through the front door, keeping enough distance between herself and them that she didn't feel too embarrassed that they were taking the same path over the fields to the gate that led onto the road. Slowly, Rob started to fall behind the others. Tiger Lily clasped her hands together as he fell into step with her.

"Afternoon, miss," he said, walking with an easy gate.

"Good afternoon."

"Been up to see Master Sango?"

"That was my intention, but it seems he's otherwise occupied."

"Ah. Your plans been spoilt, then?"

"Such as they were."

They were the last ones through the gate, and closed it together. Rob looked back at the departing crowd of Delvers before licking his top lip and turning back to her. "I don't have nothing planned neither. Fancy wasting the afternoon?"

Tiger Lily smiled without trying, the way she usually only smiled when Sango was in the room. "Yes. Definitely."

Rob nodded, one of his large hands still resting on the gate. "Let me head home for something to eat first. We can meet up where we did last week."

"We could get something at an inn."

He winced at this. "No. I still can't pay you back for last time."

"You don't need to."

"I want to. I want to pay you back, but I don't have nothing to give."

Tiger Lily stared at the road as a thought slowly crept into her mind. She looked up at Rob. "Do you know how to fix a fence?"

"I still don't understand why you wanted to come," Dalgo said as he and Abelia walked side by side down East Warren Lane.

"It's interesting," she said, looking at a pair of matrons gossiping over a fence. She looked back at her brother and held her nose in the air petulantly. "And Mother said I could, so there."

Dalgo turned away and sniffed. That she had come to this place in his company was of a little comfort, but not enough. Better for her to stay in the neighbourhood near the Pool. He noticed that she was lagging behind—distracted by a group of children playing hopscotch.

"For goodness sake stay close to me. And don't stare."

Abelia scowled and did her best to keep up with his long strides. "I never understand how people can say, 'don't stare.' How are you supposed to look at anything without staring? Am I to walk about with my eyes closed for the rest of my life?"

"Don't feign ignorance. You know perfectly well what I mean."

"What if I don't?"

"You do."

"You can't prove that."

Dalgo's eyes became thundery. "Then I will recommend to Mother that we write to Miss Bradley."

Miss Bradley had been Abelia's tutoress until earlier that year, and this suggestion silenced her immediately. Dalgo paused outside Number 12. A youth was raking up leaves in the front garden and had been watching their approach. Dalgo smiled briefly and dispassionately at the lad and opened the gate for the suddenly bashful Abelia. "Would I be correct in thinking this is the Delver residence?" he said, closing the gate again as he followed her into the garden.

"You would," the lad said, not pausing in this work.

When it became obvious the lad wasn't going to offer any more assistance Dalgo continued, "And is Miss Clover at home?"

"Think so."

"Might it be possible to speak with her?"

The lad pulled a face and leaned his rake against the chestnut tree. "I'll make inquiries forthwith, my good sir."

"Thank you," Dalgo said, doing his best not to make his irritation noticeable, though he could see Abelia grinning from the corner of his eye.

The lad opened the front door and put his head through. "Oi, Clove! Some posh bugger's out here asking after you." He smiled at the indistinct shout he received in reply. He turned his smile on Dalgo as he went to retrieve his rake. "She'll be out directly."

Dalgo didn't trust himself to reply.

Clover emerged from the smial a moment later, wiping her hands on a dish rag. When she caught sight of Dalgo and Abelia she froze, her quick eyes darting from one to the other as she tried to assess the situation. It was Abelia's presence that threw her. Still she kept her back straight and poised. Taking queenly steps over the threshold she held her head high, though not so much as to make her bravado too obvious. "Good day, Mr Grubb. Young miss." She turned her head to see Hender grinning wickedly and leaning on his rake.

"Don't you mind me, now," he said.

Clover remained stoic. "Why don't you head inside and take over the mopping for me?"

"That's lasses' work."

"Away with you," she said, throwing the dish rag at him, which he caught easily with one hand. As Hender went inside Clover returned her attention to the Grubbs. "I wasn't expecting to see you again, Mr Grubb. I hope your family's well."

"Quite well, thank you," he said.

She tried to lift her features sufficiently to appear helpful. "How can I be of service?" She asked this despite knowing the answer already—the only answer there could be. But that seemed so unlikely. Even if it was true she couldn't make him feel foolish by thinking too far ahead of him. Mr Grubb didn't come across as the sort of Hobbit who was kind to those who made him feel foolish.

Dalgo stood with his feet together and kept his hands folded behind his back. "Your turn of phrase is apt. I've come to tell you that the maidservant position in our smial is yours, provided you are able to supply a reference from your current employer."

Clover clasped her hands as the reality of this began to sink in. "I see. Thank you, Mr Grubb."

Dalgo's eyebrows raised a fraction. Clover tilted her head to one side. "Is something the matter, sir?"

"Only that I had anticipated that you would be more surprised. Considering the way in which your interview ended."

"Begging your pardon, sir, there weren't no other reason for you to call on me." She realised she had given away too much and bowed her head in a display of humility. She was not going to let her arrogance ruin this for her again. The trick to being one's own master was to make everyone else think they were the ones with power. "Thank you for favouring me, sir. I will serve you and your family as best I can."

She rose her head again, and saw that some of Dalgo's self-assured air had disappeared, apparently unnerved by this sudden show of subservience. There was a pang of satisfaction as she realised she had taken him by surprise twice in as many encounters.

"I'm sure," he said, pulling himself together as best he could. "Do drop in on us when you have that reference, and Mother can measure you for your uniform. We should be ready for you to begin your work not long after that."

Clover drew in a deep breath. An actual uniform. She almost felt out of her depth. "I will. Thank you, sir." A rather important point occurred to her. "Please, sir, how much is the position worth?"

"With the cost of board removed, it's nine shillings a week."

Clover nodded, but furrowed her brow as she did. It was less than half of what she got on the farm. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He gave a shallow bow. "Until our next meeting."

She curtseyed. "And you, sir." She suddenly remembered the still-silent Abelia. She curtseyed again. "Nice to meet you, miss," Clover said, fully aware that they hadn't even spoken.

Abelia curtseyed in return, but kept her eyes turned down. "And you."

Clover couldn't rid herself of the question of why Dalgo had brought this lass with him. She wouldn't ask, though. It wasn't worth the risk. But Dalgo must have seen what she was thinking in her expression, because he smiled and said, "My sister Abelia. We're under strict instructions to walk her briskly twice a day."

Abelia's head snapped around to look at him. "Excuse me—!"

"We must be on our way," Dalgo said, opening the gate for Abelia and smiling in a way that—in the right light—could be mistaken for affable. "Good day, Miss Delver."

Clover watched as they went back down the lane, bickering as they went. What now? She would need to get that reference from Mr Boffin. That probably wouldn't be a problem; she had known him give good references to sots and ninnies. She would need to pack up her things, which would man determining what actually belonged to her. Individual ownership was only a vaguely understood philosophy among the elder Delvers, who had stopped caring. She would have to tell her family she was leaving the farm. She would have to tell them she was leaving home. Oh dear…

Clover turned to go back inside, but stopped short when she saw three small faces (and one larger face) pressed against the window. She groaned internally and started muttering to herself as she went indoors, steeling herself. As soon as she had shut the door Maizey bounced up to her from the parlour. The twins and Martin hung back, wary of Clover's prickly nature.

"Got yourself a young gentlehobbit, have you?" Maizey said, grinning.

Clover looked up at her sullenly. She didn't have time for this. "I'm not Rob," she said. "You try any of your mischief with me and you won't have no teeth left by the end of the day." She put her hand on the door that led to the kitchen.

"Like to see you reach that high."

Clover turned sharply but Maizey had already escaped through the front door. She sighed resignedly as she entered the kitchen. Her father was lying shirtless on the table while her mother rubbed henbane oil. Clover doubted its effectiveness. If anyone else shared her doubts they hadn't vocalised it. Meg was mopping the floor with irritating enthusiasm.

"All dealt with, lass?" Mr Delver said, his voice muffled by his arm, which he was resting his head on. "Who was it?"

"No one important…" She was watching Meg. "What're you doing?" Clover said wearily, already suspecting she wouldn't like the answer.

The bewilderment was clear on her face. "Hender said you wanted me to."

Clover rolled her eyes. "Bloody knave. I asked him to do it."

Meg half-smiled and dunked the mop in the bucket. "Ah well. I like to keep busy."

Clover groaned internally as she looked back over at their parents. Mrs Delver had finished applying the henbane oil, and was now washing her hands. "I need to have a word with you," Clover said.

"About what?" Mr Delver said as he did up the buttons on his shirt.

"You haven't done nothing silly, have you?" Mrs Delver said, drying her hands on her apron.

"Nothing like that," she said, sitting down at the table. "It's a good thing. I got myself a new job."

Silence. Her parents both looked at her, perfectly still, a look of blank incomprehension on their faces.

"Why?" her mother said.

Clover shrugged. "I wanted one."

Mr Delver leaned back in his seat, regarding her. "What job?"

She stared back at him as hard as she could. "I don't reckon that's your concern."

"Clove," he said, leaning forward, "I'm your father. Tell me."

Her insides withered slightly. There was no avoiding this. "A maid job."

More silence. Mr Delver inhaled in an audible hiss, and then exhaled silently. "You know how I feel about servant work."

"I do."

"But you went for it anyway."

"Yes."

They looked at each other and a smile slowly spread across his features. "Good on you." He leaned back in his chair again. "I say that because you went your own way, not because you're happy to lower yourself."

Clover held her arms out to indicate the room around them. "We can't get no lower than we are now. An' I don't see what the difference is atween working indoors or working the land," she said. "We're serving the uppers no matter what."

"But being in the field ain't the same as waiting on 'em. There's a dignity to it."

"Not really. They call you by your first name no matter if you work indoors or out."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "What's that to the point?"

Clover folded her arms. "You don't let no one Master Sango's age call you 'Jon'. 'Cept the Boffins."

"If you're trying to convince me to let you have your way, you're going about it wrong. How much is it worth?"

"Nine shillings a week."

Mr Delver inhaled again. "Ah."

"What?" Mrs Delver said, looking from one to the other. "I don't get it. Why's it so little?"

Clover pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. This would be the other tricky point. "It's because when I take the job, I'll be going to live in their smial with them."

"No," Mrs Delver said instantly.

"Joy-love—" Mr Delver said.

"No," Mrs Delver said again, backing away from them. "You can't. You need to stay here, with us. We need to stay together." She pressed her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and staring.

Mr Delver stood and wrapped his arms around her. "All right, lass…" He held her close as she whimpered and hid her face in his shoulder.

Clover watched, feeling guilty but unmoved in her resolve.

"I'm all right, Jon," Mrs Delver whispered, leaning out of the hug.

Mr Delver looked at Clover disdainfully. "I thought you had more self-respect than that. You're worth more than nine shillings a week."

Clover's temper twanged like a fiddle string. "So I'm worth sixteen shillings a week. Is that so much of a difference? I'd've thought I was worth more'n any amount of coin."

Mr Delver leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. "I can't believe you. Is nine shillings really the price you put on your dignity?"

Clover stood, unable to contain herself any longer. "What's the good of dignity if our bellies are empty?"

Mr and Mrs Delver glanced at each other. "Our bellies aren't empty," she said quietly.

"And for how much longer? Just because you don't talk about out money troubles in front of us, it don't mean we're blind to it."

"We'll manage," Mrs Delver said. "We always have. You don't need to worry about none of that." She placed gentle hands on Clover's shoulders. "Is that why you've been looking for work elsewhere? You're worried about money?"

Clover stepped out of her mother's grip. "I've been looking for new work because I don't want to spend the rest of my life knee-deep in mud and pig swill. If I don't spend my days cleaning up after whichever dull, gawping lad I wed, I'll end with my body broken, no higher up than I am now. Why's that so difficult to understand?" She got a sinking feeling in her stomach when she looked from her mother's look of distress to her father's stormy expression.

"Nice to know what you really think of us, Clover," he said.

"No, Dad, I din't mean—"

"What's wrong with being a homemaker?" Mrs Delver said.

Clover groaned and covered her face with her hands. "Nothing. Look—"

"I broke my body and wasted my life for you lot," Mr Delver said. "To keep bread on the table. But apparently I shouldn't've bothered."

"That wasn't what I meant," she said, desperation entering her voice despite her best efforts.

"What did you mean, then?" he said. "We'd like to know."

Clover gripped the back of the chair and took a deep breath in an attempt to regain full control over her emotions. "I'm grateful for what you've both done for us. For me." She looked up at them. They needed to know she did really mean this. "And I'm glad you've both got a life you're happy with, on the whole."

"How'd you know we're happy?" Mr Delver said gruffly.

"If you're not you do a good job of hiding it," Clover said, and sighed. This was going to be difficult. "But I'm not happy, and I han't been for a long time. It's not your fault. I don't want to be unhappy, but it is as it is. Something has to change because I don't' know how much longer I can stand to live like this."

"Like what?" Mrs Delver said.

"With the noise," Clover said. "In my ears. In my head."

"Oh, sweetheart," Mrs Delver said, rubbing a hand up and down her back. "Why din't you tell us you was feeling this way?"

Clover shrugged, pointedly staring at the floor. "Talk ain't worth nothing on its own. It's only action that can change."

"Where's this job at?" her mother said gently.

"North Bank Row."

Mrs Delver bit her lip and looked over at her husband. "One less mouth to feed. Plenty younger get sent to whole other villages to work. And with things so uncertain at the farm…"

"Mr Boffin said it was only the indoor staff that'd be losing their positions," Mr Delver said, arms folded. "They'll still need the fields working if they want profit, even if the house is getting shut up."

"But who knows what the new farmer will say?"

His expression had softened a little, but was still unsympathetic. "You think you'll be stepping up by taking an indoor position, Clover? Because you're not."

Clover looked at him defiantly. "Not yet. Lady's maids get more coin, an' they don't have to do as much cleaning, an' they stand above the other servants."

Mr Delver sighed wearily. "Most don't get to rise to that level."

"I could," Clover said firmly. "I have it in me."

Her father raised his eyebrows. "You're an arrogant so-an'-so, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"Nothing like brutal honesty, is there?"

"I reckon I could be a housekeeper one day," Clover said, grinning coldly. "Then I'd be the one doing the hiring, an' I'd have servants waiting on me."

"No, you couldn't," Mr Delver said bluntly. "Housekeepers need to know their letters and numbers so's they can do the books."

Clover's expression didn't change. "I'll find a way." He still didn't look convinced. "Please, Dad. I'll send you all my wages. Every farthing."

Mr Delver covered his eyes with his hand. "I always thought you was the only lass what took after me. But you don't at all, do you?" He sighed again and put both hands in his pockets. "Well, you're old enough to make your own mistakes. Do as you will."

Clover smiled. It wasn't a cold or cynical smile. "Thank'ee, Dad."

"Don't thank me. I'm not proud of myself, an' I'm certainly not proud of you."

Mrs Delver let out a sigh and plastered on a smile. "Well. That's that, then. Well done, Clove. An' since you two lasses're here you can help me get started on dinner."

Meg hadn't said a word since Clover had given her news. She was standing perfectly still, facing away from the others. Her left arm hung limply at her side, while the other gripped the mop uselessly.

"You all right, lass?" Mr Delver said.

Meg looked over her shoulder at them. Her eyes were vacant. "Yes… Course I am."

He opened his mouth again, but was interrupted by a crash in the parlour, followed by a yelp from Danny.

"Oh, lawks," Mrs Delver said, rushing from the room. She reappeared in the doorway a moment later. "He's put his foot through the upholstery again."

Mr Delver rolled his eyes and followed her through to the parlour. "For goodness sake, Danny, what've we told you about climbing on the furniture?"

Clover turned back to Meg. She was staring at the floor again. "What's up with you?"

Meg looked at her with wide eyes. Her face was pale and she was swaying slightly where she stood. "You can't go."

Clover rolled her eyes and picked up a dish rag that was lying over the back of a chair. "That ain't up to you."

"No." Meg rushed over to her. "I know you've been unhappy, an' I know I've been a bit distracted since…" She closed her eyes and swallowed. "…Of late. But, but, that don't mean you have to go." She grasped Clover's arm. "I'll try and do better, I'll listen to you, an' I'll do my best to understand."

Clover jerked her arm out of Meg's grip. "It's not about you."

"But you can't go," Meg said desperately. "You're too young."

Clover scowled at she went to wipe down the sideboard. "How is it that you're worse than Mum?"

"What's wrong with Mum?" Meg cried.

"Nothing."

"She raised us."

"I know." Clover looked steadily at her sister. "I know."

Meg blinked at her through deep blue eyes. "Why?" she said.

Clover folded her arms. "Life ain't fair. I'm just doing what I can to set it right."

"For yourself."

"That's as much as I can do."

"But why go about it in secret?" Meg said desperately. "I don't understand."

"It's a puzzle," Clover said. "It's not as though anyone's gotten into a state over nothing."

"But…" Meg covered her face with her hands. "I could've helped you."

"I'm the one best placed to help myself. Pull yourself together, you're not a faunt."

Meg had sat down heavily at the table and was staring into space.

Clover sighed. A slightly softer approach was needed. "You'd rather I stayed unhappy, would you?"

This seemed to bring Meg back to her usual self. "Course I don't." She got to her feet. "Oh, Clove, I'm sorry."

She went to hug her, but Clover held out a hand to stop her. "Don't."

Meg hung back, looking lost. She started wringing her fingers. Clover turned away and went back to wiping down the sideboard. She was painfully aware of Meg watching her, but purposely avoided looking at her.

"I remember when we was little," Meg said. Clover could hear the anxiety as she tried to laugh. "You was always afeared when we went out to play with other children. I had to look after you. Now you're going out finding your own way in the world, an' I'm still here."

"People change," Clover said, hazarding a glance up. "I suppose you'll leave the nest soon enough, by one means or another."

"Mm." Meg swallowed, and sniffed. "I think I'll see how they're doing with freeing Danny." She left the room, but her footsteps took her past the parlour door, to the lasses' room. Clover slung the cloth over her shoulder and went to fill the firebox.

She turned her head to the door as Mrs Delver bustled back in. "I swear that lad'll be the death of me. Oh, good, you're filling the stove." She walked over to the sideboard and started unwrapping the packet of sausages she'd bought at the market that morning. She glanced around the room. "Where's Meg gotten to?"

Clover shrugged. "Don't know." She hadn't been surprised that Meg had gone to the lasses' room. Poppy and Myrtle had gone out right after lunch, and with Maizey out as well that meant it would be empty. Meg never could stand others seeing her cry.