Meg caught the wheat in the basket, watching as the chaff blew away on the wind. There was a gentle breeze today; good for winnowing. She tossed the wheat up again and caught it easily. After a few more tosses there was no more chaff and she poured the remaining grain into the open sack that stood by the barn door. The contents of her basket filled it, and she tied it closed.

"Maize," she said, looking at Maizey, who was winnowing her own basket, "help me get it on the cart."

The lasses heaved the sack onto the handcart. Each took a handle, and they started to pull it towards the granary.

"They've gone," Maizey said, craning her neck to look at the east field.

"Who?"

"The Big Folk."

Even more Men had been arriving in Bywater over the last few days and a group of them had made camp in the east field. They had churned up the mud with their waggons and chopped down the oak tree. The field, which had been a vibrant green a few days before, was now a dull, washed-out brown.

"They'll not be gone long," Meg said. "They've left their waggons."

"Weren't there three before?" Maizey said. "What happened to the other?"

Eventually they reached the granary. Usually the lads and gaffers who worked on the farm would be milling around. They were still building the new granary, under the instruction of a carpenter from Hobbiton. Today they were all stood around awkwardly and silently. Towering among them were three Men, who walked between the Hobbits as though they weren't there.

They were talking among themselves in a language Meg had trouble keeping track of. It was Hobbitish, but not Hobbitish. Between them there was a large waggon, heavy with bags of wheat. Leaning against one of the wheels was Ted Sandyman, looking completely at ease with himself and joining in with the Men's conversation.

"I reckon I know where the third waggon went," Maizey said under her breath.

Without asking one of the Men came over and took the bags Meg and Maizey had brought, and loaded them on their own waggon.

Maizey's face went red and Meg touched her arm to try and placate her. "Don't say anything."

Maizey glared at Meg; a savage, freckled face framed with dishevelled brown curls. "But where're they taking it?" she said in a harsh whisper.

"You throwing a fit won't help matters," Meg replied in the same tone.

Mr Delver saw them and walked slowly over, eyeing the Men the entire time, as though he were trying to go quietly to avoid their attention.

"You two head back to the barn," he said as he started lifting the remaining sacks out of the waggon.

"Careful of your back, Dad," Meg said, grabbing the other side of the bag.

"Don't mind that. Get yourself an' your sister away. I don't want you around these."

"But, Dad, where're they taking—" Maizey began.

"It's not worth asking." He and Meg heaved the last bag off the cart.

"Right," one of the Men said. His voice was loud and rough. "We need some to help with removing the tree stumps down by the road. There's building to be done there."

"Sorry, sir, but that won't be possible," Old Granger said, stepping forward with an air of understated authority. His own assurance that he was in charge was enough that he didn't have to raise his voice. Mr Sackville-Baggins still hadn't shown himself on the farm yet, instead relaying his orders through Granger. "No one here works for you. They work for Mr Sackville-Baggins, an' I'm the one who represents him here. Unless I'm given leave by the farmer, none of these are going with you."

One of the Men smiled. It wasn't a nice smile; there was no admiration there. "Brave little Halfling, ain't you?"

"It's all good work, Mr Granger," Sandyman said, walking leisurely towards them with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. "An' it's all work Mr Lotho wants done."

Granger smiled at him. "With respect, Mr Sandyman, you're not in charge here. I'm not letting any of these go unless Mr Sackville-Baggins tells me in his own words that he wants that work doing."

They stared hard at each other for a while, neither wanting to be the one that gave in.

Eventually Sandyman turned away and nodded at Jack. "That one looks useful."

Mr Delver looked back at Meg. His expression was one of cultivated calm, but his eyes were panicked. "Take your sister back to the barn. Now. Don't let Poppy come up here without you. When the little'uns come back from collecting wood keep them with you."

What Meg really wanted was to tell him she was scared. Scared of what exactly, she wasn't sure, and somehow that made her rising dread all the worse. It was like her world was trickling away from her, slowly. She wasn't sure what would be left when it was gone completely.

But none of that mattered. There were more important things to do. She took Maizey's arm and firmly but gently walked her back the way they'd come. Maizey raised her voice in protest, demanding to be allowed back but Meg wasn't listening. It was her job to protect her siblings and she wasn't going to fail them.

Better to die than allow that.

"But what I'm saying," Dalgo said as he leaned forward in his seat and pressed his hands together, "is that power must be inherently abhorrent."

"Power is only as abhorrent as the one who wields it," Monno said dismissively, sipping his brandy. "It's a tool like any other."

At the writing desk in the corner Clover was going over a children's book Abelia had found in some dusty toy box. It only had one sentence on each page, with a black-and-white illustration inexpertly printed above depicting the scene.

Johnny likes his hoop and stick.

Jenny likes her apple.

Johnny takes Jenny's apple.

Clover smiled to herself as she listened to Dalgo and Monno's conversation. Somehow discussions on the nature of power were more appealing than Johnny's exploits, not least of all because Johnny needed a good smack around the head.

"You're not paying attention," Abelia hissed.

Clover sighed as she went back to the reading, going over each syllable carefully. But she kept one ear on Dalgo and Monno's conversation.

"Jenny… st-ah-ruh…"

"Starts," Abelia said.

"Starts to cr-ee."

"Cry."

Clover massaged her forehead. "Couldn't we try something else?"

"This book's easy," Abelia said. "If you can't manage this you're not going to be able to read anything else."

"The intent of the individual doesn't matter," Dalgo said, pressing on with his case. "It's the potential for damage that's the root of the problem."

"So you would call, say, a pen inherently abhorrent simply because it could be used to write abhorrent things?"

Abelia threw her head back and groaned. "You two are so dreary. Can't you just decide who's right?"

"What do you think, Clover?" Dalgo said, turning his lofty head towards her.

Clover did her best to rein in the smile that was threatening to slip out. Their interactions had been few since their confrontation a little over a week ago, and never venturing beyond the professional. But Dalgo's tone had been more courteous than before (though in practice this just meant he had moved from open disdain to a detached indifference). "Why would you think I have anything valuable to say, sir?" she said, making sure to look him in the eyes.

"Are you not a person?" he said. "Do you not have a mind to think with, just as I do, just as anyone does?"

They only broke eye contact when Monno was suddenly taken by a coughing fit.

"Are you all right?" Abelia said, watching him worriedly.

"I'm fine," he said. "Some brandy went down the wrong way." But he cast Dalgo look of concern. "Could you get me some water, Clover?"

Clover stiffened. Young Mrs Grubb had relieved her of her duties for the day, meaning she was technically a free Hobbit and not obliged to serve him.

The question was whether or not she had the impudence to point this out.

"Yes, sir," she said and left the room to get him a glass from the kitchen. When she returned she handed it to Monno a bit too abruptly, spilling a little on his breeches.

"Sorry, sir," she said.

"It's nothing," he said, clearing his throat. "Thank you."

"So what do you think?" Dalgo said, bringing the conversation back to the topic of interest.

Clover returned to her seat at Abelia's side. "I think the comparison Mr Monno made atween pens and power is a bit…" She tried to find a word that would make her distaste for the metaphor plain, while also making it clear that she would never dream of undermining someone whose intellect and good breeding was so obviously superior to her own. "…Not perfect."

Monno's posture changed as he rested his glass on a nearby end table. "How so?" His voice was clipped in a way that suggested he felt affronted but really didn't want anyone else to know.

Clover shifted on her seat to better face the brothers. "To my mind a pen ain't powerful in itself. It only acts as a…" She sought for a word to match her thoughts. There was nothing more frustrating that being without the language to give your ideas form. "A path? A sort of a path for it to use…"

"A channel," Dalgo said.

"Yes."

"But the skill to use a pen is power," Monno said, visibly agitated.

"It is," Clover said as her hackles rose. "But it's only really power in proportion to the Hobbit, ain't it? A landlord can write an eviction notice for a family of ten, but if a Hobbit like myself was to put a pen to use what could they do? Write letters to their prenticed son? Keep their master's books? A pen's only as powerful as the person what holds it." She drew a deep breath. "Begging your pardon, sir." She flickered her eyes towards Dalgo, who was looking at her intently.

"To answer your question, sir; yes, I agree that power is wicked in itself, because people aren't perfect."

It took him a moment to respond, and when he did it was only with a silent nod. When he turned to Monno he had an oddly smug expression on his face.

Clover twisted around to return to the book beside the dumbfounded Abelia.

Johnny tells Jenny he's sorry.

Johnny and Jenny are friends again.

"I'm surprised," Monno said, pouring himself another brandy, "that you are bothering with your studies, given that you have such a low opinion of them." A smile appeared on his face, but his tone remained tellingly bitter. "I hope Abbie isn't wasting her time."

Clover watched over her shoulder, vaguely curious as to how far she could push it. "I'm not learning for power, sir. I'm learning because Miss Abelia kindly offered me, as an act of friendship." She smiled sweetly at Abelia, "Who am I to refuse such a kindness? I'm only a servant, after all."

"Either way you've squandered your lesson," Abelia said, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner. "Didn't you say something about meeting your friends?"

"Aye. I did," Clover said as her stomach sank. She had nearly forgotten. She wished she had. "I suppose I'd best be going, then, miss." She rose and curtseyed, but hesitated where she stood. Dalgo and Monno had gone back to their respective books while Abelia was getting out her water colours.

Clover left the room, shutting the door behind her. She could hear the muffled tones of the family as they resumed their conversation without her. She had thought they might ask her to stay.

But then she had realised that was foolishness.

She was, after all, only a servant.

"They allowed to do that?" Lavender said. "Just turn up on the land?"

Meg shrugged. "Seems so. It's Mr Baggins's land, an' if he says they can, then they can."

"They got aught to pay?"

"Don't know. Wasn't really in a position to ask."

Meg, Clover, Maizey and the Hobble sisters had made themselves comfortable around a table in the Green Dragon. Lavender and Primrose were the only ones with drinks, though Mr Tavenner was only selling halves at the moment anyway (apparently his delivery from the malt-house had been delayed). Primrose had been nursing hers with the skill of someone who knew it had to last all evening.

Meg had told them about what'd happened on the farm. The argument between Granger, Sandyman and the Men had ended with Jonson, Jack, Rob and a couple of other lads being taken away. Granger had gone with them to keep an eye.

"I don't like them. The Men, I mean," Lavender said. "They're building something down by Bywater Road."

"Building what?"

"Don't know."

"Be interesting to find out," Maizey said.

"No it bloody won't." Lavender shuddered. "I've not had peace since they arrived."

"So where'd they take the wheat?" Clover said, leaning forward in her eagerness to listen. Coming out tonight was worth it for this.

"Dad said not to ask," Meg said.

"But it's on the orders on Lotho Sackville-Baggins, right?"

"Don't know. It's not my place to know," Meg said primly.

"But—"

"You heard anything about Chastity Westcott and Artie Cropper?" Meg said.

"All I know," Lavender said steadily. "Is that Artie ain't allowed to work on Mr Westcott's farm no more. But Tansy was livid when last I saw her."

"But she and our Jonson—"

"I know, but it was Artie that ended it, an' she said he told her that he didn't have time for courting, with his mother being ill an'…"

Clover looked forlornly over the inn. She didn't want to be here. She couldn't even try to want to be here; it was too far removed from everything she longed for. Maizey didn't look impressed, either. It was impossible to tell what Primrose was thinking; she was staring blankly at a spot at the centre of the table.

Meg realised it had been a while since Clover last said anything. She smiled and said, "Good day?"

"Aye."

"How're you finding working indoors?"

Clover was coming to the realisation that she wasn't really suited to being in service, but couldn't bring herself to admit it to anyone (especially Meg) after she had been so adamant that it was what she wanted. Her father would be so disgustingly smug about it.

"Fine," she said.

"Don't know why you left," Maizey muttered. "Think you're too good for outdoor work?"

"Han't you ever wanted to be something else? Something different from what our parents were?" Clover said desperately. She was only met with confused faces that stared back at her with wide, innocent eyes.

"No," Meg said truthfully.

Clover sat back limply in her chair, defeated. They really hadn't.

"How're… how're you finding the family?" Primrose said. She had apparently roused herself for long enough to hear what was being said.

"Fancy some gossip, do you?" Lavender said.

"No," Primrose said, a little too quickly. "I was just asking. They sounded quite… colourful, from what you said about the interview."

"They're all right, if you know how to deal with them," Clover said, allowing herself a small smile of satisfaction.

"The mistress— I mean the younger Mrs Grubb… She's not too harsh is she?"

"Not any more'n she needs to be."

Primrose nodded, and exhaled. "And, um…" She toyed with a lock of hair as she tried too hard to look disinterested. "And the sons?"

Clover raised an eyebrow at this show of indifference. "Nothing special. A bit up themselves."

"Aren't they all?" Lavender said with a wry smile.

"Who?"

"Well-born lads."

"You're courting one."

Lavender laughed. "Aye. That's how I know it's true."

"Not all well-born lads are like that," Primrose said, turning on her sister defensively.

"What's up with you?" Maizey said, laughing.

"Nothing." She downed the remainder of her drink in one. "You was saying about the family, Clover?"

"Uh…" Clover tried to gather her thoughts after that odd interlude. "There's not much more to say." She frowned. "It's odd, though. They have all that money and space, but they fight twice as often as we do."

"Money don't buy happiness," Meg said.

"No." But Clover found her mind drawn automatically back to the Grubbs' smial. The grandfather clocks, and the paintings, and the books—leather-bound with gold inlay and an infinite number of words between the covers. "But I reckon I'd always be a bit miserable, no matter how I lived. I think I'd rather be rich and miserable than poor and miserable."

An uncomfortable silence crept over them.

"Good luck to you," Lavender muttered, taking a draw from her mug.

"Just don't get too attached to 'em," Primrose said to Clover. "Sometimes I think their kind don't see us as real Hobbits at all. Just things, as exist for their own convenience. That they can't understand we have eyes to see, and feel things just as strong as them." Her voice was cracking as she spoke, as though she were going to cry.

Lavender reached across to touch her hand. "Are you all right?" she said seriously. "You said you wanted to come out."

"I am." She looked at the Delvers and sighed. "Yesterday me and Mum had to tend a lass who'd been in trouble and taken something to bring her blood on, and it'd made her ill."

A sickly silence hung over the table. Meg went pale and her hands started twitching.

"Did it work?" Clover said.

"Aye." Primrose closed her eyes. "But the lass didn't get better."

The other four lasses looked at each other, all painfully aware that there was nothing but good fortune between them and the fate of that lass.

"Who?" Maizey said quietly.

Meg winced at Maizey asking such a question, though it had only been echoing her own thoughts.

"I can't say. Mum said I'd feel better for going out, but I think I'm going to head off. Sorry for all that."

"You want me to go with you?" Lavender said.

"No. I think I'd like to be alone awhile."

After the goodbyes the remaining lasses said nothing until Primrose had left.

"I wish I was a lad," Maizey said

"I wish you'd stop saying that," Clover said.

"But it's such a horrible way to die."

"It's easily avoided," Clover said.

"It's not that simple as that, Clove," Meg said quietly. "Let's talk about something else."

Maizey cradled her head in her hands, her hair tumbling down to hide her face. "I need a drink."

"I know," Meg said, putting a hand on her back. "Things'll get better in the new year."

"You've not been picking up any more coins, then?" Clover said.

Meg's face was blank with a complete lack of understanding. "What?"

"It was how you paid for the drinks on your birthday."

Meg immediately went red and her muscles stiffened. It was like watching a pinecone close up to protect itself from the rain. "Oh. Aye."

"If you're going to lie, Meg, at least remember what the lie was," Clover said, unsurprised by either reaction.

Meg glowered at her. Her gaze could have lit a match and for a moment Clover wavered, not sure if she'd gone too far.

"What're you talking about?" Maizey said.

"Nothing," Meg said quickly, composing herself, though her complexion was still ruddy. She turned to Lavender, who had wisely chosen to stay out of it. "How's your Nick?"

"Really, Meg?" Lavender said as she checked Primrose's mug for any dregs.

"What?"

Lavender turned to Clover. "Our Nick's half of what she talks about these days. She's getting to be obsessed, if you ask me."

"I'm not obsessed."

Lavender shrugged a shoulder. "Little bit obsessed."

Clover silenced her ears to the bickering that ensued and started absentmindedly tracing out letters on the table. The inn door opened and Mr Warren walked in. He got a drink and sat down, alone and grim faced. Clover hadn't seen him since the evening he'd refused to let her go with him to Bag End. Lavender and Meg were still sniping at each other. Without warning Clover found her temper flaring up. Why would anyone want to talk about anything other than the Men? What was gossip about thick-headed tweenagers when there was something huge and terrible lying over the horizon? Could they not see it?

"Did you really drag me out here so I could listen to you mooning over a lad?" Clover snapped.

Meg and Lavender silenced abruptly.

"Drag you out?" Meg said, her eyes wide with anxious perplexity.

Maizey snickered. "What're you talking about, Clove? You chose to come, it was your idea."

"Aye. An' now I'm choosing to take my leave," Clover said, rising from her chair. "You keep talking about nothing."

"Clover!" Meg cried, but she was already walking away.

"This was supposed to make up for her missing your birthday," Meg growled. "I get that she was embarrassed when we went to meet her, but this was supposed to be for you."

"Why is it that you care more than I do?" Maizey said. She was resting her chin on her hands, and looked completely disengaged from the situation. "I'm honestly not that bothered, Meg. She's only my third favourite sister."

"Family's the most important," Meg said firmly.

"But is it?" Lavender said, in a tone of voice that made it clear she didn't think it was.

"Well, it is to me!"

"Aye?" Maizey said, with a wicked grin on her face. "Not Nickon Hobble?"

Lavender snorted.

"That's it!" Meg stood, fuming. "I've had it!"

"I was only joking," Maizey said.

"I'm not a joke."

She shut the door of the inn behind her with a slam. The hum of conversation lulled momentarily before rising up again.

"What just happened?" Maizey said.

Lavender only sighed and hung her head in her hands.

Maizey tilted her head back to look at the ceiling. "Ever get the feeling you're the only sensible person you know?"

"So what now?" Clover said, standing over Mr Warren with her arms folded.

He looked up to see who was there, only to swear and sag back over his tankard, giving in further to his despair. "It's you."

Clover decided this wasn't important enough to react to, and pulled up a chair to sit beside him. "You tried making a fuss with Sackville-Baggins an' it's made no difference. What now?"

"Naught."

This was the only answer Clover hadn't been expecting, and it took her too long to recover her wits. "What?"

"We complained and then he brought Men here. We made it worse."

"So then there's ways to do it better, right?" Clover said. Mr Warren didn't respond, still staring into the misty surface of his beer. "They're taking wheat. We need to figure out if it's going down south with the leaf, an' who getting it once it arrives."

"Lass," he said wearily, "you need to learn when to leave off."

She couldn't believe this. Last time they met it had seemed like he was the only other person who realised something needed to be done. "But they're taking wheat an' treating people rough. How can you be content to sit by and do nothing?"

"I'm not content. But for now I don't know what else there is to do but wait an' see. We complain again it'll get worse again. An' now he's got half a dozen of the Big Folk around his smial I don't reckon we'd be able to get to complain to him."

The injustice of this boiled inside Clover. There was nowhere for the steam to escape. She tightened her hands into fists. "But you can't just do nothing!"

Mr Warren didn't respond. Clover cast her eyes around the inn and settled on Ted Sandyman, sat alone. Mr Warren was still lost a haze of apathy; he wasn't any use for the time being. Clover rose and made her way towards Sandyman without saying goodbye to Warren. As she pulled up a chair to sit beside the miller she glanced into his mug to gauge how much he'd want to talk.

"Why're you helping the Men?"

He watched her with suspicious eyes as he took a draw from his mug. "And you would be…?"

"I'm no one."

The corner of his mouth curled into a devious smile. "Why would I talk to no one?"

"Jenny Brown," Clover said. "Why've you started helping 'em, Mr Sandyman? Or were you made to help 'em?"

"Not made."

"What do you get, then?"

"Ah." He tapped the side of his nose. "Mr Lotho's got plans, see."

"What sort of plans?"

"The sort that's going to make life better for all." He said this with such a sharp, earnest expression that Clover was momentarily stunned.

"We've got no bread," she said eventually.

"It'll be better once the new mill's here.

Clover didn't think the current absence of a mill was the only reason for the lack of bread, but she was curious as to why the old mill had been taken down and what there was to gain by it.

"Do you know aught about the new mill?" Clover said with genuine interest. "What'll make it different from the old one?"

"You'll see. It'll grind wheat twice as fast."

"But how long 'til it's working? An' what're we to do afore then?"

Sandyman hesitated in bringing his mug to his lips. "It don't matter. People need to make sacrifices for progress."

"But it's not right!" Clover said, surprised by the volume of her own voice.

Sandyman's shoulders shook with rough laughter. "You're talking about what's right like everything was right last month, or the month before that. You look like a sharp lass. We both know nothing's ever been right."

"We've got no bread," Clover said again.

Sandyman flitted his eyes over her washed out and many-mended clothes. "Your family never struggled for bread before?"

Clover glared at him, but didn't dare open her mouth in case of what might happen if she did.

The devious smile returned. "Aye. Things're going to change. People will be able to get on in life if they've got the stomach for it. It won't matter what their name is. An' really, lass," he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "the old ways never did us any good, so we might as well try something new. Could it really get any worse of us?"

Clover still didn't speak, partly to see what he would do next.

Sandyman turned away from her and set his mug down heavily. "Garn… If you are sharp you'll be able to find something in it for yourself."

This seemed to signal that their conversation was at an end. Clover rose with a rustle of her skirt and walked away as quietly as she could. She wasn't in the mood to sit back with Lavender and Maizey so she left into the inky night, her mind turning like a millstone.

It had started drizzling not long after Meg left the inn. By the time she reached the Hobbles' house her hair hung limply, dripping onto her shoulders.

It was Mrs Hobble who answered the door.

"Meg," she said, surprised. "Our Rose's just got back herself, but I'm not sure she's up to visitors at the moment."

"Actually, Mrs Hobble, I was wondering if Nick was there, please."

"He is," Mrs Hobble said, raising an eyebrow. "You want to come in?"

"I'm all right out here. Thank'ee," Meg said, looking up. There was a small shelf above the doorway which provided reasonable shelter from the rain.

Mrs Hobble nodded and disappeared inside. Meg was slightly regretting coming here. In particular she regretted the way she'd spoken to the others. She would have to apologise to them later.

The door opened wider and there was Nick—bemused and slightly rumpled. "You all right, lass?" he said.

"D'you want to court me?" Meg blurted.

He blinked in surprise. Noiseless words formed on his lips as he tried to find his response.

"Only I've seen nothing of you since we went gathering nettles an' you kissed me, an' even then you was acting odd. I thought it might have meaning but mayhap I was mistook, which is no one's fault but mine, if that's the case." She took a breath and kept her voice level as she continued. "I've been trying to make sense of it, an' I can't. So I'd like you to tell me plain: do you want to court me or not?"

An amused smiled had grown on his mouth while she'd spoken. "Very direct," he said.

"Unlike you. Don't avoid the question"

Nickon carefully closed the door behind him and came to join her on the step. He folded his broad arms. "Why're you chasing someone as inconstant as me?"

Meg huffed a sigh and tried to wipe some of the water off her face. "I don't know. Probably I'm mad."

"That'll probably be it."

"Aye. You still haven't answered me. Do you want to court me?"

Meg could tell by his eyes—by the subtle way he had brought his eyebrows together—that he was thinking. This odd, tense moment seemed to go on for a very long time. The look in his eyes shifted to something like regret before fading again. He put his hands in his pockets.

"Aye. I do."

Meg blinked up at him. She had been building this confrontation up in her mind as she walked and waited. She had expected it to be explosive, but instead it was this strange, quiet little thing.

"Right. Good." She smiled and put her hands on his chest. "And you're going to call on us this week or we're having words."

"Yes, madam!"

Meg drew herself up and placed a hesitant kiss on his cheek.

It wouldn't be for several weeks that she'd wonder why it was hesitant.