Meg huffed and put her hands on her hips. "There's not enough."

"It's fine," Mrs Delver said, glancing at the slices of cake Meg had spaced out over the table. "Just cut 'em down the middle."

"I suppose I could." Meg sighed. "Starting to think I shouldn't've made a cake at all." There hadn't been much flour at the grocer's, which had contributed to the small size of her birthday offering just as much as the family's budget.

"Don't be silly," her mother said.

"But will Maizey be all right on her birthday?"

"Don't you be worrying yourself about that. There's two wage-days atween now and then. Don't squirm, Marty, you'll get soap in your eyes."

"I don't like having my hair washed," Martin said, keeping his eyes tight shut as Mrs Delver lathered the soapy water into his roots.

"You'll like it even less when your eyes are stinging."

Meg picked up the knife and started to cut the pieces in half. "I suppose I could've made something out of one of my old skirts."

"That wouldn't've helped no one."

"I give people flowers," Fastad whispered, as though to himself. He was sat at the other side of the table from Meg, quietly pushing a clumsily-carved wooden horse up and down the table top. A towel was draped over his shoulders to protect his shirt from is dripping hair.

"Well, you and Danny were born in the summer, weren't you? There aren't any flowers blooming now." She smiled. "You're lucky. Flowers don't cost nothing."

"Sorry, lass. It wasn't intentional." Mrs Delver smiled over her shoulder. "You've got the right colouring for autumn. Hair like horse-chestnuts."

"Mm." Meg stood back and surveyed her work. "That's still only twelve pieces."

"I can go without if it'll make things easier."

"We're not having that. I'll just have to halve 'em again."

"You don't need that many," Mrs Delver said, and laughed. "Who're you planning on giving 'em to?"

Meg flushed slightly. "Friends. I won't need to halve all of 'em. Just a couple. I think." She frowned as she tried to work the maths out. She lifted her had as the front door opened. "That you, Clove?"

"Aye."

"Did you manage to get your reference in, love?" Mrs Delver said.

Clover came into view, folding her arms and leaning in the doorway. "I did. Got measured for a uniform too." She grimaced.

Mrs Delver smiled. "Reminds me of when I was little. I used to go to the seamstress's and watch the fine ladies getting measured for their gowns."

"It's not quite the same thing, Mum," Clover said.

Meg wasn't listening. Her face was screwed up in concentration as she looked at the pieces of cake. She sighed again as she decided to take the easy road. "Clover, how much is two lots of twelve again—eighteen or twenty-four?"

"Twenty-four."

"So how do I get sixteen pieces?"

Clover went to stand beside her. "You'd cut four pieces in half. D'you see?"

Meg nodded slowly. "I think so… Then the little'uns can have full pieces and I can give the smaller ones to…" She hesitated, going through the list of friends and family in her mind to try and decide who it would be acceptable to give a half-portion to, and couldn't come up with an answer. It seemed unfair no matter who she chose. She leaned on the table and pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. "Ah."

Mrs Delver chuckled as she slowly poured a jug of water over Martin's hair, using her left hand to work the knots out. "You've always been soft."

Meg cast her mother a disgruntled look. "Nothing wrong with soft."

"Never said there was."

Meg picked up the knife. "I'll cut 'em all in half and give what's left over to Mr Tavenner." She grinned. "To apologise for the intrusion."

"Reckon he'll appreciate that. Me an' Widow Stabler reckon his wife's with child again. Heather won't give us a straight answer, of course." She started towelling down Martin's hair. "Don't know how they manage, they've got so many."

Meg and Clover exchanged amused sidelong glances and said nothing.

When Meg had finished halving the cake slices she stood back. "Right. I think I'm done here." She picked up a piece and handed it to Fastad. "Here, lad. You can be the first to try." Fastad took the cake from her. It was so small that he was able to fit the entire piece in his mouth without any trouble. There was a thoughtful expression on his face as he chewed. When it became obvious he wouldn't say anything more without prompting she said, "Nice?"

He nodded, and swallowed.

"Good." Meg smiled sadly. "Mayhap anything tastes nice when it's been weeks since your last sweet."

"Had some shortbread on Friday," he said.

"Fastad!" Martin said, sitting forward and jerking his head away the towel. "You weren't supposed to tell."

"Is that right?" Mrs Delver said, putting one hand on her waist and scowling down at Martin. "Where'd you get the shortbread from, Fastad?"

"Don't!" Martin said.

"Hush." She put a hand on Martin's shoulder. "Fastad?"

"Rob gave it us," he said quietly. "Said we weren't to tell you."

"Just you two?"

"Me, Danny, Myrtle and Martin."

Meg and Mrs Delver exchanged glances.

"Didn't pinch 'em, did he?" Clover said.

"No," Mrs Delver said firmly. "Rob's a good lad."

"I think Farmer Westcott might have something to say to you about that," Clover said.

Mrs Delver sniffed and went back to drying Martin's hair. "That wasn't his fault."

"It takes two."

"Chastity Westcott is misnamed, and that's all I'm saying about that." She snapped her fingers. "I know. That bloody Took."

"Steady on, Mum, it's not that bad. Here, have some cake," Meg said, handing her a slice.

"Can I have some?" Martin said, making to get up from the seat.

Mrs Delver put a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him in place. "Let me see your hands."

"You din't ask to see Fastad's hands."

"Don't get clever with me, I'm not in the mood." She took one of his hands, turning it over to inspect it. "Go to the wash stand, they're filthy."

"But, Mum—"

"I don't care. Wash your hands."

Martin groaned and went to wash the wash stand as Mrs Delver put the towel around his shoulders.

"I might have to have a word with the little'uns," she said. "If Rob's going to chase a Took, I'd rather the whole village didn't know of it."

Meg smiled as she began to wrap the slices of cake with brown paper and string, and putting them into a basket. "It's not that bad is it, Mum?"

"It's what's best. Keep everything quiet, an' then when it goes sour no one else need know of it."

"Mahap it won't go sour," Clover said as she started to help Meg with the wrapping. "Mayhap you'll find yourself with a Took daughter."

Mrs Delver wrinkled her nose. "On Friday the first."

"How many are we taking?" Clover said, glancing over at Meg.

"Need to leave enough for the little'uns. Not Fastad. Or Martin," she said as the youngest Delver took his own piece. "That's what?"

"Five, if we're counting Hender and Poppy as little'uns."

"We are. So all the rest we're taking with us to the Dragon."

"Here, I'll give you a hand," Mrs Delver said, tearing off a piece of the paper and looked at Meg with a melancholy fondness. "Still can't believe you're thirty-three. Don't seem like five minutes since I was coming of age myself. I couldn't sleep that night—your father and me were going to go down the registrar's first thing to arrange the wedding. I thought they might be able to wed us there an' then…"

Clover noticed that Meg's lips were very tightly pursed. Mrs Delver didn't seemed to have noticed, though, as she continued, "It'll be Jonson next year. Then Jack the year after that. Then you." She glanced at Clover.

"One day it'll be Martin," Clover said.

Meg shuddered.

The front door opened, followed by the sound of heavy footfall, and Rob appeared in the doorway. "Thought you might've already set off," he said.

"No. You're just in time," Meg said, smiling at him.

"Hello, Bordon," Mrs Delver said in a tight voice. "Nice of you to treat the little'uns."

His expression went blank. "What?"

"Anything you'd like to tell me?"

"Uh…"

"Well, that's us finished," Meg said quickly, lifting the basket up.

"Come on, lad," Clover said, practically shoving Rob towards the front door.

"What was she talking about?" he said when all three were outside.

"Nothing important," Meg said, pulling the door to. "Let's head off."

"What's the plan for when we get there?" Rob said, putting his hands in his pockets as they walked.

"How'd you mean?" Meg said.

"Paying for drinks."

"Think Mr Tavenner'll accept payment in cake?" Clover said with a wry smile.

"He won't need to," Meg said. She stopped in the road and brought something out of her pocket. In the moonlight Clover could see the glint of coins.

"I wasn't sure what to do with 'em," Meg said absently. "But Lavender bought me a drink the night after harvest… I don't want to rely on the kindness of others."

Clover tried to make out Meg's expression, but her face was turned away from her, staring down at the money in her hand. "Where'd you get 'em from, Meg?" she asked quietly.

Meg seemed to snap out of whatever trance she had been in, and put the coins back in her pocket. "Picked 'em up from the ground." She started to walk again. Her voice was light and breezy. "I know Mum an' Dad wouldn't approve, but I don't see the harm in it. It's only a few coppers."

Clover followed slowly. She could see by his face that Rob didn't understand. He was looking at her as though he was waiting for her to explain it to him. She turned away, focussing on Meg who was gaining ground ahead of them, and resigned herself to the evening.

Meg stepped into the Green Dragon with a basket on the crook of her arm. She glanced around the inn Clover and Rob followed her. "There's a lot in tonight," she said, scanning the crowd. "I guess Lavender put the word round. There's Jonson, look." She pointed to the group of musicians at the side of the room. Their argument was being drowned out by the general chatter of the patrons. Jonson was among them, a riddle drum under his arm, and was busy making his feelings known. Meg didn't have time to approach before Lavender appeared from the crowd, practically glowing with enthusiasm.

"Happy birthday, Meg," she said, laughing and pulling Meg into a hug, surprising her.

"Thank you," Meg said, smiling in bemusement and detaching her. "Already been celebrating, have you?"

"I'm only tipsy."

"Here, I've got something for you." She gave Lavender one of the small packages in the basket.

"Thank'ee. Sango!" she said, and waved off into the crowd. "Over here!"

Meg heard Clover groan as they saw Sango Boffin making his way towards them. She watched her from the corner of her eye. "Be nice."

Sango's smile was similarly drink-addled and he embraced Lavender from behind when he reached the group. "Hello, Delvers. Happy coming of age, Nutmeg."

"Thank you, sir," she said, smiling as best she could. This situation was too strange for her to be comfortable. She hoped vaguely that Lavender's next lad wouldn't be an employer or a Delver. "Making merry yourself?"

"Oh dear, is it that obvious?" he said with a snicker. "What's the point of being alive if you can't make a fool of yourself occasionally?"

"Right you are, sir."

Music started up, the band having apparently dealt with their differences for the time being. Lavender stuffed the cake in her mouth and started to drag Sango towards them. Whatever she was saying was incomprehensible through the crumbs.

"You hold him down, I'll find a cudgel," Clover said.

"Shh!" Meg started to lead them through the crowd towards a free table. "He's a nice lad."

"I can't be doing with people like him, Meg."

"Mayhap he can't be doing with people like you. I wonder where Dad is…"

There was something odd in the atmosphere. The male Hobbits were gathered in small groups, having tense conversations around tables; engaged in tense, quick conversations. But there was something else, something more tangible. She turned her face up to Rob. "There's no smoke," she said.

"Can't get no leaf. No one can."

"Still?" Clover said.

"Aye. Thought I might be able to borrow some here," he said, looking miserably over the scene as they gathered around the table. "Suppose not."

"It'll be all right," Meg said. "Probably just a bad harvest. It's been a bit patchy for a while; they'll get more in soon enough."

"Guess so," Rob said, sitting down. "Not sure if folk'll wait that long. Some of the lads down the farm was talking about making a fuss with old Seller."

Mr Seller ran the grocer's from which most of the working Hobbits of Bywater bought their pipe-weed.

"That's a bit unfair, ain't it?" Meg said. "He can't help if he's got none in."

"They want to know what the matter is."

"You a mind to join 'em?" Clover said.

"Not sure. They asked me to."

"Don't. You'll get yourself into trouble," Meg said.

Clover shrugged. "But if it's what he needs to do…"

"But it's not just about him. Mum'd be beside herself."

"It don't concern Mum."

"I'll make my mind up when the time comes," Rob said with a steady conviction.

Clover scowled. "But—"

"That's enough now," Meg said, taking a package out of the basket and untying the string. "Open your mouth."

Clover retained her usual look of being unimpressed with the world in general, and held a hand out.

Meg smiled ruefully and pressed the cake into her hand. "Too dignified for that?"

"Aye. As anyone should be."

Meg looked at Rob. "What about you?"

Rob gave a small, amused smile and opened his mouth. Meg popped the cake in.

"All right, lad?"

"Mmm." He covered his mouth with his hand. "Cheers, Meg."

"Jack's here," Clover said, picking at the cake.

Meg turned her head towards the door. Jack was just entering the inn with Nickon and a third lad in tow. She smiled and bit her bottom lip. "Here," she said, putting a few coins on the table. "Get yourselves a drink." Without waiting for a reply she started to weave her way between the tables towards the lads, her heart feeling lighter with each step. "You made it, Nick," she said.

"Charming," Jack muttered. "Don't mind me, I'm only your brother."

Meg smiled and handed him a piece of cake. "Bless. Din't know you cared so much." She returned her eyes to Nickon. "Here." She handed another to him.

He smiled confusedly at her, raising one eyebrow. "I wasn't expecting nothing, lass. Not like we see much of each other."

Meg laughed. "Well, you're a family friend. Mum always says she don't know where we'd be if not for your mum and dad. Let me buy you a drink."

He chuckled and looked over at Jack. "You coming?"

"Oh." Her heart sunk. As she was about to follow Nickon and Jack her attention was momentarily drawn to the third lad, who had said nothing since he had arrived. His face was pale and nervous, and his eyes darted away as she looked at him. There was a shock of red curls on his head. "You not getting a drink with us?"

The red-haired lad coloured with embarrassment and held up a battered wooden fiddle case. "I need to get over to the band."

Without even thinking she reached into the basket and handed him a piece of cake. "Would you like some?"

Meg had to bite back laughter at his stricken expression. He looked as though she'd suggested they see how angry they could make Farmer Westcott's prized bull.

"We don't know each other," he said.

She did laugh now. "Don't be silly—there's more than enough. Enjoy it." With that she pushed the package into his hand and followed Nickon and Jack to the bar.

"You'll die penniless," Jack said.

"But he looked so miserable. I had to do something." She looked over her shoulder at the red-haired lad, who was being dragged towards the other musicians by Jonson.

"You're over soft, lass," Nickon said.

She looked back at him, and smiled her brightest smile. "You're the second person to tell me that today. But I think there's worst things to be, don't you?" Her attention was caught by the gaffer behind the bar. "Hello, Mr Tavenner."

Clover sighed and looked over at Rob, who was looking at her with a face that said: What do we do now?

"I don't know," Clover said.

Rob drew his eyebrows together in confusion. "Eh?"

Clover didn't reply, but cast her gaze over the crowd. Her attention rested on a table surrounded by old gaffers, her father and Mr Hobble among them. She could just about make out the word 'pipe-weed'. She rose from her seat, not looking at Rob as she did. "I'm going to listen in."

"But—"

"Go and play with the other lads."

The table was presided over by Farmer Cotton. Venerable and with an inherent air of authority about him, he was the unofficial leader amongst the working Hobbits or Bywater. Clover hovered by the table, listening intently.

"It's not the worst thing—I've never been much of a smoker," Farmer Westcott said.

"It's not about the leaf," Farmer Cotton said, tapping his finger against his mug. "It's the principle."

One of the gaffers noticed Clover and pulled his chair back. "Can I help you, lass?" His tone wasn't hostile or patronising, at least not intentionally. This was a genuine inquiry.

"What's up with the pipe-weed?" she said.

He looked her up and down. "You're a smoker, are you?"

Clover drew herself up to her full height, such as it was. "No. Don't mean I han't noticed what's going on."

He frowned further. "I know you. Ain't she one of your litter, Jon?"

Farmer Westcott snickered.

Her father looked at him witheringly. "I don't like your phrasing, Warren." He turned his eyes towards Clover. "Not sure you'll be wanting to listen to this, lass, since you're so keen on the uppers these days."

"Why? What does it have to do with the uppers?"

"This ain't the sort of thing you need to worry yourself about," Mr Warren said.

She resisted responding to this and pulled up a chair and sat down, keeping her expression stern. "I've had a long day of work an' I'd like to know what's up with the pipe-weed if that's all right."

"Let her listen, Eldon," Mr Hobble said. "Sharp as a nail, this one." He amiably smiled at her.

Clover nodded to him. "Thank you." She looked back at the assembled gaffers. "Could someone please tell me what's up with the pipe-weed?"

"Well," Mr Warren said, laying down his tankard and leaning forward conspiratorially, "my lad works down in the South Farthing. An' according to him the crop this year was the best he's seen."

Clover studied the table top as she thought. "So they're storing it up?" she said. "Making it seem scarce to… to make us pay more?"

"Mayhap," Mr Warren said, leaning back. "But according to my lad, they've been sending carts down south."

"Where?"

"Out of the Shire," Farmer Cotton said.

Clover frowned. Out? This was unfathomable. She knew, in theory, that there were places outside of the Shire, but anything beyond Buckland felt only slightly more real than whatever had existed before the world was made. "Why? Where?"

"Coin," her father said. "If you're ever wondering why something is, my lass, the answer's usually coin."

"But there's nothing out there," Clover said. "Who's there to sell to?"

"I don't know, an' I don't care neither," Farmer Cotton said. "All I know is that our lads—and lasses—are working them fields, and their toilings are being sent out for the pleasure of others."

"Well, that's how it works, ain't it?" her father said. "We grow the wheat an' then we're sold it back in bread. Elbereth knows I'm not growing rich on my toilings."

"That's just the way of things," Mr Hobble said. "How would you have it?" He winced. "Actually, don't answer that. We'll be here all night if we get you started."

"Very funny, Fendad."

Clover had only been half-listening to all this. The other half of her mind was somewhere in the South Farthing. "Why would they all band together like that?"

Farmer Westcott looked at her questioningly. "You what?"

She looked back up at the gaffers around the table. "Just one plantation wouldn't make all that difference, would it? So it's a lot of plantation owners all doing it together."

"If they've all got wind that there's money to be made in the wilderness, it's no surprise," Farmer Cotton said.

"But who owns the plantations?"

"You think we know that?" Mr Warren said with a scoff.

Mr Hobble leaned forward. "Hornblowers mostly. Sackvilles… The odd Banks."

Her father rolled his eyes. "Why do you know that?"

"Some of us like to taken an interest in these things, lad."

Mr Delver sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I wish you'd stop calling me that." He scowled at Mr Hobble. "Forgetting your place won't earn you their respect."

"Don't talk ill to your elders. 'Specially not about knowing my place, when you've never had regard for yours."

"What is my bloody place, then? I'm sure you'd love to tell me."

Mr Warren buried his head in his hands. "Sweet Elbereth, here we go…"

"No respect!" Mr Hobble said, slamming his tankard down on the table. "That's always been your trouble. After all me and my Heather have done for your lot, even with you being—"

"Being what, Fendad?" Mr Delver said. There was a strange, manic madness in his eyes.

Mr Hobble simmered, taking a sip from his tankard. "From out of the village."

Mr Delver inhaled audibly. He'd obviously decided he'd won. Now all he needed to do was convince Mr Hobble to agree. "I was born here, Fendad. My Joy wasn't, I'll grant you. But to my mind, with a name like 'Hobble' I'd fancy your family was from, I don't know, Hobbiton?"

"Hobbiton don't count!"

Clover rose from the table and slipped away silently, deciding that any potential for intelligent conversation had ceased for the time being. Rob had moved from where she'd left him, and had joined Egeld Piper and Nibs Cotton in a corner. Her heart died a little as she caught wind of their discussion.

"You could get some good planting there, if someone was to use it."

"Mm." Rob sipped from his tankard. "Soil's good. Proper loamy stuff."

Can't you think of anything better to talk about than dirt?

She stood beside Rob and prodded him in the side to get his attention. The lads silenced as Rob blinked down at her with his usual expression of blank cluelessness.

"Rob, when you see your Took next could you find out if she knows anyone in pipe-weed?" she said. "I'd like names, preferably."

Rob frowned. "Wh—"

"I want to find out what's going on. I think it might be bigger than pipe-weed."

"But I don't—"

"Just ask. You don't know unless you ask."

"But how—"

"Just use your natural wit an' charm," she said, slapping him on the back and walking away. She had spotted Rose at the other end of the inn.

"But…" Rob trailed off and slowly turned back to Egeld and Nibs, who were watching him with raise eyebrows. He cleared his throat and took another draw of beer. "Anyway…"

Meg was watching her father and Mr Hobble across the inn, but she couldn't hear what they were saying over the noise of the band. Everyone knew the words, and all the Hobbits sat on that side of the inn were singing along, beating their tankards on the tables in time to the music. Meg wasn't joining in. She hated this song.

'Bout nine months after harvest,

A fine wee baby came,

Fair Jenny waited patiently,

To see Young Drake again.

Singing, 'O my love is gone away,

Across the seas of green.

But he'll come home,

With the sea foam,

And marry me one day.'

That was the final verse, and you never found out whether or not Young Drake came back. That was why Meg hated the song. What she really wanted to know was if there was a wedding, all nice and proper.

"Worse'n tweenagers, ain't they?" Nickon said, sitting next to her and nodding at their fathers, who had both gotten to their feet at this point. Mr Hobble was red in the face.

Meg glanced at him and forced herself to smile. "At least the young'uns are making a better go of it."

He grinned. "I'll drink to that."

She sipped her beer as Nickon took a long draw from his "So how're you finding being of age?" he said. "Scary as you thought?"

Meg kept her smile and hoped Nickon wouldn't be able to read any of what she was actually feeling. "Sorry?"

"Jack said you wasn't looking forward to it." He rested the side of his head on his hand. "It ain't that bad. Honestly."

"I know. It's not like I thought I'd wake up feeling any different. It's just…" She sighed and smiled wryly. "Lamenting my lost youth." She drank from her tankard.

Nickon chuckled. "If you've lost your youth what does that say about me?"

Meg looked at the floor. She held her tankard in her lap. "Don't you ever wish time would just stop? That everything could just stay as it is…" She looked back up at Nickon and found he was watching her. He looked so pitying. She hated it.

"Are you all right, lass?" he said seriously. "Jack said you han't been well."

"No. I don't want to talk about that, actually." Nickon flinched back at her sharp tone. Meg realised what she had done and panicked. "I'm sorry, Nick," she said. "That weren't called for."

He shrugged and glanced over at the band. "Don't bother yourself. I guess it must be a bit of an odd time."

"'Cus I was meant to be getting wed, you mean?" Meg said. She smiled kindly at him when she saw his discomfort. "I don't mind talking about Winden. I'm not nursing a broken heart."

"Mmm." He drank from his tankard. "How long was you and he courting for, again?"

Meg drew in a deep breath. "Three years." She laughed when Nickon let out a whistle. Most Hobbits only courted for a year or so before getting married, unless they were tweens who couldn't get their parent's permission. "It's not a long as some. My mum an' dad courted for… ten years, I think."

Nickon shook his head. His expression was blank. "I can't even imagine that. Not sure I've ever courted a lass for more'n three weeks, never mind years."

"You must've. Surely."

Nick looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "No… Don't think so…"

Meg couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. "Don't think I can imagine that. Don't you want to get wed one day?"

He shrugged. "Mayhap. One day. There's time for that later, at any rate."

"Oh." Meg looked into her tankard, feeling adrift. She turned her head towards Nickon as she heard his chair scrape. He had edged closer to her. But he was looking out into the crowd. She followed his gaze but found nothing of note. Just a little cluster of Hobbits drinking and talking together. Primrose, Master Sango, Jack… She turned back to Nickon and found he was looking directly into her eyes. He was smiling.

"Still, I guess it's not too early to start," he said.

"And then what?"

"She said my getting the position weren't her doing and that…" Clover smiled to herself. She was walking a little ahead of the others as she recounted her visit to the Grubb's earlier that day; in particular the less-than-warm reception she'd received from Young Mrs Grubb. "That if I said one word out of turn I'd be out of the smial afore I could think to say a second."

Lavender's head lolled forward as she snorted with laughter.

Meg grimaced. "Good luck with that one."

"I suppose it must be difficult. Being a widow," Primrose said. She was having to walk arm-in-arm with Lavender to prevent her from veering off the path.

Clover glanced over her shoulder at her. "How'd you know that?"

"Well, you said it was the son what was sat in at the interview. That means he's the master of the smial, don't it?"

"I thought so. Din't like to ask."

"It's not too late to change your mind, if you think Mrs Grubb won't be fair to you," Meg said.

"No," Clover said firmly. "She don't scare me."

"Do you think Master Boffin will get home all right?" Primrose said, glancing back at the Dragon. Its windows stood out as little golden circles against the dark landscape. "He was also quite… besotted." She looked at Lavender.

Lavender snorted. "He'll be fine. What's there to be afraid of?"

"There's the river," Meg said.

"He's a grown lad, he'll be fine," Lavender said.

"It ain't our job to look after him," Clover said. "If he wants to drink himself stupid that's up to him."

"He's your lad," Primrose said, looking at her sister. "Shouldn't you be the one fretting?"

"What do you know about having a lad? Haven't seen you look at a lad since… For a long time. When was it again…?" She trailed off.

Clover turned her face towards the sky and exhaled. "Silence. Beautiful."

Meg grinned. "Treasure it. It won't last long."

Lavender snickered. "When I come of age I'm going to have the biggest party Bywater's ever seen. It'll make Mad Baggins's birthday look like… like nothing."

"Don't let Dad hear you say that," Primrose said. "He'll have a fit."

"He'll be dead by then anyway, so it won't matter."

"Don't say that."

"What? I'm only joking," Lavender said, laughing. "Oh, I know! It was that posh lad what painted Dad's new sign for him, couple of years back."

"What?"

"You was giving him looks all day. Elbereth…" She pressed a hand to her forehead. "What was his name?"

"I don't remember," Primrose said primly. "And don't swear. Tonight weren't about me, it was about Meg." She looked at the byrding and smiled. "Have you had a good birthday?"

Meg looked over her shoulder at her as they walked, smiling contentedly. "I did. Thank you."

"It's good to see you happy," Clover said quietly.

"I am. Feeling a lot better." Meg pursed her lips. She couldn't resist. "Reckon I've got my eye on a new lad."

Clover turned her head towards her sharply.

"Really?" Primrose said, her expression lifting in delight. "I'm glad for you. Who?"

"You know him," Meg said.

"Don't be coy," Clover said. "If you din't want to tell us who it was, you wouldn't've brought it up in the first place. I hate it when people do that."

"All right. If you insist." She stopped walking and turned to face the Hobble sisters, grinning. "I reckon Nick's got a taking for me."

Silence. Primrose and Lavender's faces were frozen in shock. Though, Clover realised, Lavender's face had been a bit grim, even before Nick's name had been mentioned.

Lavender laughed uncertainly. "Nick? Our Nick?"

"Aye."

"Not any other Nick?"

"No."

"You what?"

"Lavender!" Primrose said in a hushed voice.

Lavender ignored her sister, shouldering her aside. "Really, Meg?"

"What's wrong with that?" Meg said defensively.

"Well… ain't it a bit soon after Winden and—"

"And what, Lavender?"

There was a strange look in Meg's eyes that Clover had never seen before, visible even in the all-encompassing dark. There was anger there, and fear. And grief. A chill went down Clover's spine.

Lavender's eyes darted from Meg to Clover, and then to Primrose. She swallowed. "And I din't think you'd be wanting to walk out with a lad so soon."

Meg scoffed. "You can talk. You set your sights on Master Sango the day you broke with our Jonson."

"That's different."

"Why?" Meg said, glowering at Lavender.

"Because you're not me." There was defeat in her voice. "Meg, I really don't think Nick is the lad for you."

Meg sighed. She looked over at Primrose and realised she was smiling in the politest way possible. She groaned. "Not you too, Rose."

"Sorry. It's just that you've been talking about getting wed an' having little'uns since you were a teenager," Primrose said in a panicky voice. "An' I'm not sure Nick can give you what you need. But that don't mean you never have to look his way…"

"It's late," Meg said. "We should get going. Come on, Clover."

She brushed past her sister, taking the path back to their smial. Clover cast an apologetic glance at the Hobble sisters. "You all right getting her home, Rose?"

"I can hear you," Lavender said.

"We'll be fine." Primrose's eyebrows were drawn together with concern. "Is Meg all right?" she whispered.

Clover shrugged and turned away. Meg was tall for a lass, and it took Clover too much time and effort to catch up to her.

"Don't say anything," Meg said. Her voice was tight.

"I wasn't going to."

"But you were thinking. You're always thinking."

"You can't stop me from thinking, Meg."

Meg's face was screwed up with discomfort. "I'm fine. Why won't everyone just listen when I say I'm fine?"

"Keep saying it. The more you do the more rational you sound."

"Be quiet."

They took a left, bringing them onto East Warren Lane.

Clover pursed her lips. There was something niggling her. "What was Lavender going to say?"

"What?"

"She said it was too soon after—"

"It's not too soon."

"That she thought it was too soon after Winden, and something else. What else, Meg?" She watched her sister's face carefully.

"Nothing," Meg said.

Clover kept her gaze focussed on her. "You're lying."

"No, I'm not."

"You did it again."

"By the—" Meg stopped where she stood and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You're tight-lipped for such a busybody."

"I could say just the same of you," Meg snapped and marched off.

"You could," Clover said, following her.

"I bloody hate arguing with you. You always just agree with whatever anyone calls you."

"I know I'm not a nice person, Meg."

Meg didn't reply, and Clover decided not to keep stirring things up. She didn't really want to argue with her sister, especially not on her birthday. Even if Meg was being hard-headed. It was Clover that reached home first, but when she turned to hold the door open for Meg she found her elder sister lingering by the gate.

"You are a good person, Clove," she said quietly.

Clover shrugged, unconcerned. "Never said I wasn't. Nice and good ain't the same thing."

Meg sagged forward on the fence post. "I've only been an adult for a day, an' I've already made a mess of it."

Clover sighed, and decided to have pity. "There's always tomorrow. Please come in; it's bloody cold."

Meg smiled a sad smile, and followed her sister inside. For her, things always seemed better when she was home. Nothing truly bad could reach you when you were at home.