Clover had been surprised by how muted the Grubbs' Yuletide celebrations were. In retrospect she wasn't sure if this was an appropriate reaction by her, given how strange the Grubbs were in other ways. But she had always assumed that the wealthy would make as much of Yule as their purses allowed, and instead she had watched the Grubbs withdraw further and further into themselves as the days passed. The close-knit, angry network they usually lived in dissolved slowly as each drifted away from the others. The exception was Young Mrs Grubb, whose usual air of calm authority had frayed at the edges as she tried to keep her children together.

The overall effect was oddly tranquil, as none of the members of the family seemed to have the energy to argue with each other, even when they weren't cloistered away in their separate chambers.

The melancholy atmosphere had come to a head today. When Clover had helped Old Mrs Grubb out of bed that morning she had been despondent, completely drained of her usual mettle. Clover helped her into a dreary black gown, as per her request. Afterwards she had asked to take her breakfast alone in her chamber and Clover left her looking very frail and alone as she went to serve the rest of the family in the dining room.

Young Mrs Grubb, Dalgo and Monno were also dressed in black. They didn't speak as they ate. In particular none of them alluded to Abelia's conspicuous absence. Clover couldn't stand it.

Eventually she became aware of Abelia's light footsteps along the main passage. She burst through the door to the dining room, moving breezily and wearing a frilly yellow dress; unseasonal in normal circumstances, but completely bizarre in comparison to the dark attire of the other Grubbs.

"Good morning," she said airily, taking her place at the table where she enthusiastically helped herself to toast and eggs.

All the colour had gone from Dalgo's face but far from looking weak, all of his strength seemed have been summoned to keep back the white-hot rage.

"What are you doing?" he said.

"Having breakfast, dear brother." She looked around at her family with a sunny smile. Only a very slight curve of her eyebrows gave away that there was anything disingenuous about her seeming good humour. "Whatever is the matter? You all look so sad."

"You know what," Dalgo said in a low voice. The tone showed that he was close to snapping.

"Do I?" she said, dropping the smile along with any illusion of ignorance. "It's a day, Dalgo, the same as any other."

All of Dalgo's blood seemed to rush to his face and he looked about ready to scream his own lungs out.

"Dalgo," Young Mrs Grubb said steadily, "don't lose your head. Leave the room if you can't stay civil. Abelia, I'm not going to force you to wear black, or do or feel anything you don't wish to, but don't goad him."

"Why?" Abelia said, raising her head. "Can't I speak the truth in my own home?"

"Not when you're intentionally trying to rile your brother up by feigning ignorance, which I know you are."

Monno suddenly became much more interested in his breakfast, taking his toast like he was in a race.

"I'm not riling him up, he's being pig-headed, just like Father was!"

"Don't you talk about him like that!" Dalgo said, rising to his feet. "Not today!"

"I don't care!" she shrieked, standing up too. "He didn't love me and I don't care that he's dead!"

"Perhaps if you had been better behaved he would have been more able to show his love!"

Abelia gave a cry of frustration, rage and pain; and flew from the room. Her mother followed with soothing cries as she tried to placate her. Dalgo seated himself back down. He looked blankly at the table top, dazed, as though even he was surprised by what he had said. Monno hadn't reacted to the argument at all. Finishing his breakfast, he quietly thanked Clover before disappearing from the room. Clover stood in the corner, hands clasped in her usual pose of subservience, trying to work out with a disarrayed mind what exactly the appropriate thing to do was.

She didn't have to wait long. A few seconds later Young Mrs Grubb was stood in the doorway, her chest riding and falling heavily.

"Go and see to Victoria, Clover," Young Mrs Grubb said, staring poisonously at her son. "I need a word with Dalgo."

The use of first names showed something was deeply wrong and Clover left the room without comment. Old Mrs Grubb had finished her breakfast now and Clover reluctantly returned the dirty plate to the kitchen. Through the door to the dining room she could clearly hear the words being exchanged.

"She is thirteen years younger than you! I know you're hurt and I have tried to be sympathetic, but you need to start taking responsibility for your actions. I was younger than you when I lost my father, I know it's difficult."

"Mother—"

"Don't. If you cannot be the adult and control your temper around Abelia I'm… I'm going to have to consider your future living in this smial."

There was a knock at the front door. Clover rushed to answer it and was grateful to see the client to Monno's study. She went about her work that day quietly and quickly, putting all her hopes against another explosion.

Even from the stables Tiger Lily could hear the chatter and laughter coming from inside the Ivy Bush. All she could think of was the number of people it would take to make that noise. The idea of going to a tavern was frightening enough but the reality of it was world-endingly terrifying and she wondered why she had ever agreed to a meeting in the first place. It was strange, she wasn't this frightened when she went with—

Sango realised she wasn't following him and turned back. "You don't have to go in," he said.

"I want to," she murmured, staring at the door. "Or I need to. I don't…" Her voice cracked and she couldn't finish the sentence. She wasn't sure what words she would have used anyway.

Sango walked back to meet her, hands in pockets. How did he manage to be so at ease all the time?

"I've asked Jesco to be the one to accompany you. You've met him before, so speaking to him won't be too difficult." He slipped one of his hands into hers. Smooth skin; a poet's hand. "I'll look after you."

Tiger Lily looked into his eyes—cinnamon brown—and did her best to smile. "You always have."

Abelia had left the smial in the morning and stayed out for most of the day, while the other Grubbs remained largely in their own quarters. Due to the food shortages, Young Mrs Grubb had reduced the number of meals to just three a day, and Dalgo took his lunch alone in his study and retired to his bedchamber as soon as business hours were over. Old Mrs Grubb never emerged from the lethargic state she had awoken in and Clover didn't try to entertain her with her usual prattle—this was bigger than she was. At last the old lady decided to retire early and Clover found herself wandering the dark, silent smial. She found no candles were lit in the parlour and didn't both lighting any herself when she went through and started tidying up the used teacups and discarded books.

"Ah, the cuckoo."

She whirled around to see who had spoken, heart beating madly. She had taken the parlour to be empty and in the dark hadn't seen Monno sat in a high-backed armchair, a glass of brandy in his hand.

"Forgive me, sir, I didn't mean to disturb."

"It was two years ago today that Father died," Monno said. "But I'm sure you already suspected something like that. You're so very clever, or so I've been told."

"I suspected nothing of the sort, sir," Clover said coolly.

"Clever," Monno said again, setting his glass down on an end table beside the chair.

He didn't seem to want to speak again so Clover took the small pile of books she had amassed from various surfaces and started placing them back on the shelves.

"You must be wondering what sort of situation you've landed yourself in," he said.

"Not at all, sir," she said, not looking around at him. "The late Mr Grubb must have been a person of great character, to inspire such strong feelings so long after his passing. Begging your pardon, sir."

Monno scoffed; such an unexpected reaction that Clover instinctively turned around to look at him.

"In a manner of speaking. Father…" He hesitated, picked the glass up again and drained it.

"Father had been ill for a long time. Since Abbie was little. But back in 1416 he got worse faster than any of us expected. I don't know what the others thought, but for myself… even though I knew he was in poor health, I never thought he'd actually die. I just assumed that because he had managed to carry on for as long as he had, he would keep carrying on forever." He smiled grimly. "It seems naïve now."

"No," Clover said.

Monno didn't react to this. He was lost, though where and to what exactly Clover couldn't tell.

"He wasn't the easiest of Hobbits to get along with," Monno said. "He wasn't a bad person, but he had something of a temper and the pain he was in only made it worse. On his bad days he could turn on you for breathing too loudly. Poor Abbie got the worst of it because she would try and bite back. I'd just avoid him as best I could until the pain subsided enough for him to be tolerable. But Dalgo… He worshiped Father. He didn't seem to even realise that there was a problem. He didn't get it as badly as the rest of us, he always was the favourite." Here Clover noted a slight look of bitterness cross Monno's face as he sniffed. It was only a brief glimpse past the armour, but it was there. "And when he died Abelia refused to go into mourning and that made everything worse. She and Dalgo would shout the smial down and Mother would do her best to mediate between everyone and Grandmother would just scream. So." He toyed with the brandy glass between his fingers. "I suppose you'll be giving your notice in the morning."

"You mistake me, sir," Clover said. "My only wish is to serve."

"I don't doubt it," he said, setting his empty glass on the table again and raising himself from the chair. "I only wonder whom."

Clover smiled at him as he left the parlour. She heard the front door open and close and went about the rest of her tidying in peace. After some deliberation she decided to call on Dalgo's door. When she knocked she received a mumbled permission to enter. Dalgo was lying flat over his quilt, his spectacles discarded on the bedside table and his eyes closed, black eyelashes pressed against dark skin.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she said, folding her arms and leaning against the doorway.

"It was two years ago today that he died," Dalgo said, not moving or opening his eyes.

"Yes, sir. Did you want to talk about it?"

"I'm a bad person."

"You should make better choices."

"I know."

"You know you should and you want to but you don't. You're lazy."

He propped himself up on his elbows and scowled at her. "When did you become so free with your opinions?"

"When was I not?"

He groaned, lay back on the bed and closed his eyes again.

"Did you apologise to Miss Abelia?" Clover said.

"I haven't seen her."

"You need to apologise."

"I know!" He got up and walked to the window, playing with the arms of his spectacles. "I haven't been to his grave. I promised I would."

"Who?"

"Him. Or me. I don't remember."

There was nothing Clover could add to this, so she decided to change the subject. "Your mother wouldn't evict you. It's your smial."

"Being head of the household is a courtesy title. The smial still belongs to Grandmother."

Clover inhaled. She'd never had a perfect understanding of the headship of families. She understood that the responsibilities and privileges were shared between a married couple but wasn't sure if the ownership of smials worked the same way. Useful to know.

"Then you need to stop being lazy and take action to improve yourself instead of just talking about it. You're very good with words, you could probably become good with action as well."

Slowly Dalgo raised his hands and slipped the spectacles onto his face. He turned to look at Clover. "Will you go to his grave with me?" he said.

Clover didn't make her surprise known when she replied, "If you wish."

This was how Clover Delver, the fourth child of a farmhand, found herself stood with the eldest son of an old family at the grave of his father.

Hobbit graveyards mostly took the form of unkempt meadows scattered with squat, rough stones. Before Clover was one such stone, on which was carved only two words along with the dates of birth and death. Clover slowly went over the letters in her head and deciphered the name Dorso Grubb.

You've got a lot to answer for, she thought.

Dalgo hadn't said anything since they'd arrived and was looking drawn and pensive. His hands were hanging limply by his side. Clover brushed her fingers against his to see what would happen. His hand tensed only momentarily before wrapping his cold fingers around hers.

"I'm glad you're here," he said.

The clouds were gathering overhead and it was colder than Primrose Hobble had ever known it. She was shivering under her cloak as she waited for Monno beneath an ash tree. She'd never seen a sky that looked quite like this one before; so grey and clouded that you couldn't even tell there was a sky anymore. She didn't doubt that Monno would arrive soon. Everything else changed but Monno was a constant. Too constant in some ways. But at least she could rely on him to keep their meetings. That was more than you could say for most lads. Perhaps that was why she was still by his side.

When he finally arrived she stood and brushed some dead leaves off her skirt.

"There you are. I thought you might have been taken on an adventure."

He didn't speak but immediately pulled her into a hug.

"What's wrong?" she said.

"We will get married one day and we'll have children and a house with roses around the door. Far away from all this."

Unaccustomed to outbursts of this sort, Primrose stroked his hair uncertainly. "Yes, of course we will."

Monno sniffed and pulled away. "Sorry. Trying day."

"Every day's trying," she murmured. "You don't need to apologise for that."

She pressed a light kiss on his forehead and, sighing, looked up at the sky again.

"The weather's changing," she said.

The noises in the tavern had all blended into one and become incomprehensible. Around the table were sat a number of young gentlehobbits, some of whom Tiger Lily recognised from the Boffins' farewell party. Sango and Lavender were sat across from her. Lavender was the only other lass present and the two of them had shared a number of sympathetic glances throughout the evening that said 'I have an ally in you'.

They had all met in the Ivy Bush for logistical reasons, that being the inn that was the most accessible for Sango's Overhill, Hobbiton and Bywater friends. Jesco was sat to Tiger Lily's immediate right, but Master Brownlock seemed to be more interested in talking to the other lads than to her. He was a few years older than her, not bad looking, but she was struggling to convince herself that she liked him.

The inn was too warm and a sickly sheen of sweat had formed over Tiger Lily's skin. The smell of stale beer was overpowering.

"So what do you do for fun, then?" Jesco said, turning to Tiger Lily for the first time in half an hour.

"I sew and practice my music. I read. I ride a little."

"Fascinating," he said, turning back to the group and smirking as though he and they were in on some private joke.

Did he realise she could see him, or did he think she wouldn't understand that she was being made fun of? These were the appropriate pastimes for a young lady, what else was she supposed to say? Why was she isolated when she fell outside of expectations and then dismissed as boring when she didn't? Tiger Lily gripped her skirt with steel-tight fingers as the only way to relieve her frustration. How was she to earn their acceptance?

And the beer kept arriving and their talk kept going back to so-and-so had made an ass out of himself and how dreary it was that food and drink had been running low. Even with the innkeeper restricting patron to half-pints each, Sango had managed to take in more than was good for him. Maybe everything else would be bearable if he wasn't drowning his senses, but as it was she had very few friends in the room and the one best placed to help her was reducing himself to a giggling mess. He had promised to look after her.

"I wish old Flourdumpling would do something about it," Rico said, leaning back in his chair.

"I know, I can't take the dullness," Jesco said. "You're all too boring when you're sober."

There was an uproar of indignant laughter from the table.

"Speak for yourself," Sango said.

"You're worst of all. Come on, Boffin," Jesco said, tilting Sango's head back and bringing the mug to his lips. Sango gulped the beer down, the excess running down his chin. Tiger Lily watched from between her fingers, feeling a bit sick. He took the tankard from Jesco without stopping and tipped it back to reach the dregs. The lads cheered as Sango slammed the tankard down on the table in triumph, laughing. He stood unsteadily, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "I'll get the next round."

Tiger Lily went to join him while he waited for the landlord's attention at the bar.

"Rowley," she said, tugging his sleeve. "I want to go home."

He snorted into his elbow and started laughing. "Why?"

"Because Master Brownlock doesn't like me and I'm tired and I don't like…"

"You don't like him?"

She had been going to say 'I don't like who you are when you're with them,' but couldn't manage it.

"I need some air," she mumbled and left the inn where she sat on a bench at the front. Outside it was painfully cold but being out there, shivering and alone, was still better than watching Sango debase himself. She kept trying to convince herself to go back inside, but couldn't lift her heavy limbs.

The grass in front of the door flooded with light as someone opened the tavern door.

"I'm not staying," Lavender's voice was saying. "I'm not."

She stormed out onto the grass, arms folded resolutely across her chest, as if this was enough to protect her from the cold.

"We're just having fun," Sango said. He walked a few visibly uncertain steps and settled for leaning against a nearby tree trunk. "They're my friends, we're not doing anything wrong."

"So bawdy talk and making pigs of yourselves is fine but coupling's wrong?"

"It's not the same," he said, closing his eyes and leaning his head against his arm. "It's not the same…"

"Fine friends," she said. "One of 'em kept putting his hand on my leg."

Sango didn't say anything. He was still leaning against the tree with his eyes closed and breathing heavily.

"Did you hear me?" she said.

There was a few more seconds of silence and then Sango bent forward, retching onto the ground.

Lavender turned away in disgust. "One of the others can help you get home. I can't look at you right now."

She walked away while he was still heaving. Tiger Lily stayed where she was, stuck between helping Sango and pursuing Lavender. She ran to him but hesitated and turned towards Lavender.

"I'm sorry," she said as loudly as she could. Her voice echoed slightly over the hills.

Lavender stopped and turned to look back at her. "We're in Hell and all they can do is drink 'emselves stupid," she said.

"The Mayor's going to fix it," Tiger Lily said. "Everyone says so. So it must be true."

Lavender looked at her hard. She laughed but it was cold and sardonic. "You're so frustrating to be around sometimes."

Sango coughed again and Tiger Lily went to him, putting her arm around his shoulders. When she looked up Lavender was walking away.

"He needs help," Tiger Lily said.

"I ain't responsible for him," Lavender snapped. "And neither should you be."

Tiger Lily let her go without any further pleas. She held Sango's floppy hair away from his face, and absentmindedly kissed the top of his head. "I love you," she whispered. "But I wish you wouldn't drink so much."

Sango took several deep breaths and mumbled something indistinct.

Tiger Lily helped him straighten up. "What was that?"

"Me too," he said hoarsely. "Sometimes." He grasped one of her hands that rested on his shoulder. "You're the best thing I have, you know. I wish… I wish you weren't so sad."

Tiger Lily swallowed back the sudden bout of tears that threatened to breach the dam. "That can't be helped. You're not going to be sick again, are you?"

He shook his head and Tiger Lily pulled his arm over her shoulders and started guiding him, step by step, back to The Rookery. The process was slow, and when she looked back at the inn ten minutes into their journey and saw how little they had travelled she felt a hopelessness she'd never experienced. Only one of Tiger Lily's arms being free meant she couldn't wrap her cloak around herself properly. Her nose and fingers were numb, but there was nothing but to keep going. As she walked she felt something wet and acutely cold on the back of her neck. Soon the air was thick with fat, white flakes, flitting through the air like a swarm of flies.

The inn was at least out of sight now, but there was still a long way to The Rookery and a dusting of white ice was collecting on the banks. Sango didn't say anything else. His head stayed bent and it wasn't clear if he was even aware of the snow.

From behind there was the sound of chattering and laughter. The lads from the inn walked past, telling bawdy jokes and holding their hands out to catch the flakes, apparently oblivious to her presence. She could pick Rico out from among them and tried to get his attention, but couldn't quite make herself loud enough.

"Uh… excuse me…"

None of them even glanced at her as they passed. Overwhelmed with desperation and fatigue she cried out pathetically, "Rico!"

Rico turned around as the group came to an uncertain halt. When he saw Tiger Lily, and the limp Sango hung over her shoulders he rolled his eyes and said something to the group. The lads continued on their way without him while he approached Tiger Lily. He took Sango's free arm and hung it over his own shoulders.

"He needs to learn when to stop," he sighed. "Are you all right to walk home on your own?"

"Yes."

He nodded, and turning around awkwardly, began to follow the other lads home.

Tiger Lily stood alone and watched them go. There were ice crystals clinging to her curls. She turned up towards the sky and let the snowflakes fall and melt on her face, each one soft as a kiss and sharp as a pin-prick. She knew that the Northfarthing often had snow in the winter, but she had only ever seen the thin sleet the West was prone to. It had always sounded very pretty. But now, here in the dark, so desolate and in such a changed world, it felt like an omen.