A/N: Dear Guest Reviewer, reading that you felt 'infestestimaly' sorry for Sango made me laugh on an otherwise unpleasant day, so thank you. I'm also glad you're enjoy the Clover plot, even if it's not playing out quite as you'd hoped. Thank you for your kind words :)

It feels like apologising for late updates is becoming redundant now because they're happening so frequently but I feel I should offer an explanation anyway. The short of it is that I've had a fairly major life change and am struggling to get into a new routine where I have less free time. That coupled with some necessary-but-inconvenient disruptions, pandemic-related stress and having to restructure this chapter several times have meant it needed to be delayed.

I am very sorry that this has been happening so frequently and while I'm going to try and keep to the monthly schedule I don't want to make any promises I can't keep. There aren't many people reading this fic so I'm very grateful for those of you who are and don't want to leave you hanging. Thank you for your support and I'm sorry again for the patchy update schedule. See you again in a month's time (hopefully).

"And… and ask the Mayor to come quick, 'cus my little brothers and sisters are hungry. Can you tell him that?" Meg said, twisting her fingers together. She didn't have to dictate letters often, never mind to someone as important as the Mayor, and wasn't sure if she was doing it right. She was also aware of the growing line behind her in the post office; all people wanting to contact friends and relatives and all waiting for her to finish.

The scribe behind the counter didn't look at her as he copied down her message, but made a disinterested mumbling noise.

"And tell him thank you," Meg said. "And sign it however you're meant to sign a letter to the Mayor."

"All right."

"From Nutmeg Delver. Miss."

"That's tuppence postage."

Meg handed the coins over the counter, thanked him quickly and left the post office into the ankle-deep snow.

Normally, the snowfall would have been a nice novelty, in so far as any novelty could be considered nice by a Hobbit. But in the current state of affairs it felt oppressive, like even the Elder King himself wished to suffocate the Shire and its inhabitants under a heavy mesh of ice.

It wasn't long after the snow arrived that the Water had started to change. The day the river turned black Clover had gone for a walk upstream to see where it was coming from and found that the source of the dirty water was the new mill, just south of Hobbiton. The mill had been completed not long after the New Year; a great, ugly stone thing straddling the river. The water behind it ran clear as any river in the Shire but once it had passed through the mill it was contaminated with greasy muck.

Clover had watched for a while and listened to the industrial clanking from within, willing herself the strength to tear down iron and stone. Then she had turned away. There was nothing she could do there.

The other Hobbits had also noticed the change in the Water and there was a tension in the market today. When the Water had first taken its inky hue there had been murmurings of it being to do with the snow; maybe it had mixed with something dirty and was melting upstream somewhere. But now there was no doubt that the cause was Lotho Sackville-Baggins, as most things were these days. Some people even thought he was to blame for the snow, though Clover knew the absurdity of this.

"I can't be doing with this anymore," Mrs Hobble said while she and Clover were waiting in line for the baker. There was so little bread these days that most visits to the baker's seemed to consist of more waiting than buying. Clover wasn't sure what would go numb first: her feet or her ears.

"The worst Yule there's ever been in my lifetime," Mrs Hobble went on. "No feast, no presents; it's the children I feel sorry for. And where's all the harvest gone? That's what I'd like to know."

"Mmm." Clover didn't like small talk but did her best to tolerate it for the sake of appearing vaguely normal.

"You know they say the Mayor's coming to—"

"So I've heard."

Mrs Hobble opened her mouth to say something else but closed it again sharpish. Silence was rippling out over the market. Clover looked around, curious to see what force of nature could have silenced Mrs Hobble.

Lotho Sackville-Baggins passed through the market like a galleon; a solitary golden head amongst the brown, black and red. Two of the Big Folk walked either side of him. The effect was instant, like he was sucking all the noise out of the air as he went. All watched him, though few were prepared to meet his eyes. Mothers did their best to shush their children to avoid drawing any attention.

Lotho didn't seem to notice this reaction, strolling along the road like this was completely usual, occasionally stopping to peruse the contents of a market stall. His brightly embroidered waistcoat and gold buttons struck a contrast to the meagre offerings on display; half-rotten apples and browning mushrooms. People were hungry and even food that was on the way out was better than nothing.

Without prior warning a snowball flew out from across the market and hit Lotho squarely in the shoulder. He stopped and touched his neck where some of the fragments had landed. Removing his hand, he stared at his wet fingers as though unable to fathom how this had happened to him. He turned to one of the Men that was escorting him.

"Did you see who threw that?"

"No, Boss."

Brushing the white crystals away from his coat, Lotho glared around at the assembled Hobbits. "Who was that?"

There was an awkwardness as people turned away and tried to avoid looking at Lotho or the Men. Clover stared squarely at him, wanting to work him out like a puzzle box. Who was this person who had granted himself such reach without anyone noticing; who now seemed to have more control over the Shire than anyone had ever had?

Lotho reached into his coat and brought out a coin that glinted in the faint sun.

"This for whoever tells me who threw it."

There was silence still, but glancing around Clover saw several people eyeing the coin hungrily. Times were hard. Clover had never lived in such times before and doubted the resilience of hungry Hobbits.

No one came forward. Lotho silently put the coin back into his coat and continued out of the market at a determined pace. In his absence the hum of conversation slowly rose up again but Clover noted Farmer Westcott turning to follow Lotho. What would he be prepared to do out of the sight of his friends and neighbours?

Clover left the bakery with two small half-loaves. It seemed unfair that the Grubbs were able to buy two when poorer families were struggling to get one. But Young Mrs Grubb had given her instructions and money to buy two. What else was she supposed to do?

Clover wandered through the market at a leisurely pace. The Grubbs weren't expecting her back for a while and being away from the very specific tension in their smial was a welcome reprieve. At the very least this kind of tension was different. Everyone was nervous, in case they needed to be ready to run at a second's notice.

As she walked Mr Warren fell into step beside her. He didn't say anything and Clover decided not to give him the dignity of asking him how he was. If he wanted to talk to her he would have to be the one to start.

"Your family well?" he said.

"Aye. Yours?"

"Don't have one. You still fancy making a change?"

Clover kept her eyes ahead on the road, aware of the people around them and the looks on their faces when they saw the coin.

"Depends."

"I reckon there's going to be a real change this time," he said in a hushed voice. "We've been going up to Bag End to make our feelings known."

"That's nice."

"We need as many people as possible on the right side of things. So since you probably walk in different circles to me, Cotton and the rest, I was thinking you could help muster up support among young'uns and ladies."

Clover stopped by a fruit stall. She picked up a questionable-looking apple and cast her eye over it. "Mayhap I could. But I won't be seeing my dad until next Friday so you'll have to wait 'til next week. I couldn't possibly help you without speaking to him first." She picked up a different apple and looked hard at Warren to make it clear that this arrangement was neither negotiable, true, nor one she actually believed to be necessary.

"There's no time for that," he pressed. "It's got to be now. People're angry now, we don't know how they'll be next week. We've been sending letters to the Mayor to ask him to—"

"Using scribes, I'm guessing."

His brow creased. "Aye, what of it?"

"And do you know for a fact," Clover said as she replaced the apple on the stand, "that they've been writing exactly what you bid them?"

From the look on his face, this wasn't even a possibility that Warren had considered. "Why would they not?"

"I don't know. Mayhap Lotho's paid 'em to remove any complaint against him. Or mayhap, they didn't think your letter was worth writing."

Mr Warren looked long at her. "I thought you understood how important this is. Don't you want things to get better—"

"But they won't be getting better, will they?" said Clover. "What you want is to get everything back to how it was before. It won't be better for you and it definitely won't be better for me."

"You like living like this, do you?" Warren said, folding his arms.

"I didn't like how we were living before. Why should I help you when you've got no intention of helping me?" Clover said.

"It's for the greater good."

"It's not for my good!"

"You're being selfish!"

"I have to be selfish; no one else cares about me. How much longer do I need to wait afore things change for me?" She paused, realising she'd become riled up. She tried to reel herself back, to draw the veil back over her emotions. "You wouldn't let me join you when it din't suit you, so I have no reason to help you now. Good afternoon, Mr Warren."

"So it's all right if people go without bread, just as long as you can save face?" he called after her. "You're a snake in the grass, Delver, an' no good'll come of you."

Clover kept walking, refusing to give him the victory of looking back and praying that no one was staring. These were hard times. All the more reason to seek the safety the Grubbs could offer.

Meg huffed, trying to dislodge a strand of damp hair that was stuck to her forehead. The steam rising up from the washtub had covered her face in an unpleasant layer of sweat and water. She wrung out the shift she had been washing and started to run it through the mangle. Outside she could hear the crunch of Rob shovelling snow off of the garden path.

"I don't like sitting here while you two do all this work," Widow Stabler said. She was ensconced in a corner of the kitchen with a cup of tea while her cat glowered down at Meg from the top of the dresser.

"It's no trouble. I like doing the washing."

"I wish I had some sweets or something to give you," Mrs Stabler said, shifting in her chair. "But it's been a bit hard to get out of late."

"I reckon indoors is the best place to be at the moment," Meg said, starting to peg the washing up on the indoor line. This wasn't the time to point out that Mrs Stabler hadn't been able to get further than the end of the lane for the last fortnight.

"I know. If I was a younger Hobbit I would've driven all them Big Folk out myself by now. It's not right, making people afeared and forcing lasses to work on them high buildings."

Meg smiled and said nothing. The blow she had received from the Man on the building site had come up in a blotchy bruise. She had told Mrs Stabler that it had come from an accident at work, which was sort of true.

She heard the front door open and even from the kitchen she could feel the spike of cold air coming in.

"That'll be Rob. I'll go see how he's doing," Meg said, going into the hallway to meet him.

Rob's face was largely obscured by a scarf, hat and the turned up collar of his great coat. He had left the snow-covered spade outside.

"The path all clear?"

"Aye," he said, tugging the scarf away from his mouth. "Anything I can do with the washing?"

"I can manage," Meg said, wiping her brow with her forearm. When she saw his despondent expression she sighed and leaned against the wall. "You're still feeling low, aren't you? I wish I knew what to suggest, lad."

"How'd you manage after Winden?" he said.

She scoffed. "Not well. Don't do any of the things I did."

"That's something Mum would say."

"Aye?" Meg admired her mother more than anyone else, but this sentence struck her with a fear she didn't know the name of. She pushed it away for possible inspection later. "Why don't you go home and look after the little'uns for a bit. Danny's probably climbing up the walls."

"They don't need much looking after."

"They can look after you then."

"You two going to stand there braying or are you going to let an old lady pass through?" a cracked voice said.

Rob started and half-stumbled out of the doorway in his eagerness to let the Pellar past. "Aye, Mrs Wormwood. Sorry, Mrs Wormwood."

"Good. Mrs Stabler's in the kitchen, is she?" the Pellar said, looking at Meg.

"Aye, mistress."

"Good good."

She walked through to the kitchen, greeting Mrs Stabler with all the warmth that had been lacking in her greeting of the Delvers. "Afternoon, Nettle. Good to see you've got your helpers here."

"I'll be off then, Meg," Rob said.

The look in his eyes said, You'll have to do this one alone. Sorry. He'd always been a bit scared of the Pellar.

"Good. If you take the little'uns out, make sure they wrap up warm," Meg said, closing the door as he made his thankful escape.

Meg was called to help the Pellar walk Mrs Stabler to the parlour so they could speak in private. While Mrs Stabler had been ill the Pellar had been paying regular visits, but Meg had been careful to make sure she was only looking after the widow on days the Pellar wouldn't be visiting.

While the gammers talked Meg returned to hanging up the washing while trying not to think too much. Eventually the sound of young laughter drifted in from outside.

Meg went to the window to see what was going on. She winced when she saw Rob holding Martin under the arms, spinning him around as the children squealed. But Rob looked happy and the little'uns had a moment to forget about all the ways the world had changed.

Meg would never say anything, but she was secretly very pleased that things had ended between Rob and The Took Lass. Rob wasn't quite old enough to understand yet but this temporary heartbreak was far better than whatever would come from keeping company with their kind. One day he'd have a nice, respectable wife and lots of children and he'd laugh about the time he thought he'd been in love with a Took. In that future he was safe and happy. If he'd stuck with a Took then anything could have happened…

The Pellar came back into the kitchen grim-faced. Feeling guilty at having taken a break, Meg returned to the washing basket, moving to hang the items twice as quickly as before.

The Pellar was a gammer in her seventies. There was nothing overtly unusual in her appearance, but there were a number of small oddities that added up to an appearance of otherness. Her clothes were of roughly the same style and cut of other older ladies of the labouring class but with little to no regard to neatness or fashion. She always carried a leather bag over her shoulder that, according to local legend, no one had ever seen the inside of. She kept her grey hair back with a headscarf, though several strands usually surrounded her head like a mist. The Pellar had never married, though when people referred to her by name they still called her Mrs Wormwood out of respect. Her cottage smelled of rotting reeds and the walls were hung with herbs only she knew the names of. She wasn't someone you associated with if you wanted to be respectable, but at the same time she was someone that everyone in the village knew by sight.

"How's she doing?" Meg said.

"Resting. Remind me where her sons live."

"One's in Needlehole. T'others in Frogmorton, I think. We sent 'em letters when she first had her fall," Meg said as anxiety struck her in the stomach. "You don't think we should send for 'em, do you?"

"Not quite yet. But it's something to keep in mind."

"How soon?"

"She'll last a few months mayhap. But she won't see another summer."

Meg tried to think of a word that she could use to reply, but lacking one with the necessary enormity she said, "Oh."

Mrs Wormwood scowled at Meg, setting her bag on the dining table. "I told you to come an' see me after I gave you that draught."

Meg sighed like a child being brought to task for misbehaviour. She turned her back to the Pellar and pinned another damp shift on the line. "Aye, Mrs Wormwood."

"I assume it worked, seeing as you're still thin as anything."

"Aye, Mrs Wormwood."

"Don't take that tone with me, lass, I'm trying to help you."

"I din't have time to see you, that's all."

"For three months?"

Meg pushed a chair out of her way with a loud thud to show she wasn't in the mood for this. It didn't help that she had no excuse other than stubbornness.

"Did you have any problems?" the Pellar continued, unperturbed.

"Other than it being bloody painful? No."

"I told you it would hurt. Confinements always do, no matter when they happen. How are you in yourself?"

"You mean other than how we're all starving and surrounded by ruffians and Mrs Stabler's dying?"

Mrs Wormwood softened slightly. She sighed as she lowered herself into a chair. "Sorry. I meant in specific to the matter you saw me for."

"I don't regret getting rid of it but I still wish he'd married me," Meg said, throwing the peg bag down into the empty washing basket. "There, is that enough?"

Mrs Wormwood regarded her a moment, sharp blue eyes studying Meg's expression, though for what Meg couldn't be sure.

"What happened to your face?" she said eventually

Meg absentmindedly ran her fingers through her hair. The locks that had been tucked behind her ear fell forward to half-cover the bruising. "Accident at work."

"Let me see."

"You're not here for me," Meg said, turning away to hide that side of her face.

Mrs Wormwood tutted. "Stubborn. You'd make a good pellar if your mind turned that way."

"No thank you," Meg said with disdain. Pellars were strange old ladies who lived in cottages that smelled of dried herbs. They weren't respectable matrons with husbands and children. Meg wasn't a pellar.

Mrs Wormwood didn't intrude on Meg's life any further, and after imparting strict instructions on how Mrs Stabler was to be cared for, left the smial without bothering with anything as untidy as a goodbye. Meg stayed until her mother arrived to relieve her of duty and then returned home, not knowing where else to go. When she got in Mr Delver was sat in the kitchen with Clover, Hender and Martin, playing cards.

At least when she was looking after Widow Stabler Meg only had to worry about her, not the whole rest of the Shire. But now she was back in the real world and there was work to be done. She just didn't know which parts of it were for her.

"Din't know you was visiting us today, Clove," Meg said.

"Thought I'd give you all a treat," Clover said, placing down a card.

"Jack still up in Hobbiton with the protestors?" Meg said, turning to their father.

"As far as I know. Leastways he's not come home yet," Mr Delver said. "You want to join in with the next game?"

"No, thank'ee, Dad." She thought about Jack and the others up under the Hill on their own. The thought of how cold they must be made her wince. She made a decision and started filling the stove with wood.

"What're you doing?" Martin said.

"I'm making tea to take up to Jack an' the others. They'll be in need of it."

"It's their choice to be there," Clover said.

"So we need to do what we can to help 'em," Meg said, looking over her shoulder at her sister. "I'm surprised you're not up there with 'em, Clove. This is just your sort of thing."

"It won't make no difference."

"But it's the right thing. Isn't that what you were always interested in?"

Clover went silent, looking uncharacteristically regretful.

The tea was weak (the Delvers had been reusing tealeaves to save on money) but it was warm, which was the most important thing. After distilling it into a flask Meg bid goodbye to the family and left after bundling herself up in a cloak and scarf. She had reached the garden gate when Clover's voice called, "Wait!" behind her.

Meg waited as Clover wrestled herself into her own cloak and stumbled out of the door.

"I thought it wouldn't make any difference," Meg said.

"It won't," Clover muttered as they started off down the lane together. "No matter how many protests, how many stupid letters they send to the Mayor—"

"I sent a letter to the Mayor."

"You did?" Clover said, looking surprised.

"Had a spare tuppence. Thought I might as well."

"Why?"

"I can't turn all the Big Folk out of the Shire but I can send a letter."

"Even if they get rid of Lotho it won't do nothing."

"But he's the reason the Big Folk're here, isn't he?" It occurred to Meg that maybe Clover knew something she didn't (not an infrequent occurrence) and panicked. "He is, isn't he?"

"Probably. But even if they go…" Clover sighed. "How do you know what's right, Meg? Do you never think of yourself?"

"I'm not important."

"You're as important as anyone."

"I just try to be kind," Meg said. "I can't sit around thinking what's really right, I'd never get anything done."

Clover sighed, like Meg had said something wrong, but she gave no explanation. Meg opened her mouth to ask, but closed it again. Clover would tell her if she was ready.

They met Jack at the bottom of the Hill, sat on a fence between Nickon and a red-haired lad.

"Din't realise there was so many up here," Meg said, looking around at the straggle of Hobbits at the bottom of Bagshot Row. There was at least two score and most of them were people she recognised from Hobbiton, Bywater and Overhill.

"People're angry," Jack said, shrugging. "Why're you here? I'm guessing it's not to make yourself heard."

"I've brought tea. Thought you must be cold." She brought the flask out of her basket along with three teacups. She handed one to each of the lads and poured the tea out, thick steam rising up.

Nickon sighed with relief as he cupped his hands around the cup. "You're a good maid," he said.

Meg couldn't bring herself to respond properly so said, "I would've brought buns or something but we don't have any flour to spare."

"Which is why we're here," Jack said.

"Why aren't you further up the Hill?" Clover said, folding her arms.

"This is as far as the ruffians around Bag End will let us go," the red-haired lad said.

"But what's gathering all the way down here going to do?" Clover said to Jack, ignoring the other lad. "He probably can't even see you from up there."

"At least we're here. I thought I would've seen you up here sooner, runt," Jack said, nudging Clover with his foot. "You used to be so angry about all this."

"I'm angry about a lot of things," Clover said. "But I just came to make sure Meg got here safe. Are we done, Meg?"

Meg looked over the faces of the Hobbits around the Hill. Grim, determined and hopeful. "I think I'll stay," she said, pulling herself up onto the fence beside the red-haired lad.

Clover looked at her with something bordering on despair.

"You could stay too," Meg said.

Clover looked at the road back to Bywater with longing. She inhaled deeply, her arms tight and straight at her sides. "I can't," she said eventually. "Sorry."

Meg watched her turn and start the walk back down to Bywater, her head bowed against the wind. "But who'll make sure you get home safe?"

"I don't need anyone for that," Clover called back.

Meg took a few steps to follow her but hesitated. Fighting off her instincts she forced herself to put a hand out to grip the fence and practically pulled herself back to Jack and the others. Clover didn't need her. No matter how much she believed she did, she knew in her most sensible mind that it wasn't true.

This was work that needed doing. This was something she could do.

Tiger Lily trailed behind the others as they hiked their way up the snow-laden hill. Ahead of her were Sango and Rico, Bandobold, Opal, Buffo Bunce, Abelia Grubb and Balbus Boffin. They were all wrapped in heavy fur-lined cloaks and mufflers and the others were laughing amongst themselves. Bandobold had managed to find an old pair of dwarven boots their father had somehow acquired. They were far too big for him but he had insisted on wearing them out in the snow, to Tiger Lily's mortification. There had been a second pair but she had refused them. Now, ankle-deep in the freezing wet, she was almost regretting it.

When they had all reached the top of the hill Sango plopped a large tray down on the ground with a satisfying crunch.

"Lads against lasses or Boffins against Tooks?" he said.

"It had better be lasses against lads because I am not participating," Opal said firmly, wrapping her cloak closer about her. "We're just here to make sure none of you children get killed."

"Very wise, my dear," Buffo said, putting an arm through hers before putting his hands further into his greatcoat. "I'll wait with you."

"I expect no less," Opal said.

She wasn't sure if it was the weather or the unpleasantness of the excursion but Tiger Lily's feelings towards Buffo were worse than usual. Why was he here? He didn't need to be here, especially if he wasn't going to be joining in. Why couldn't he just go away?

She huffed as Balbus Boffin laid another tray down on the snow. "I don't understand why you're doing this," he said. "What's the point?"

"We tried sledging once when we were visiting Aunt Aspen in the North Farthing; years ago," Sango said. "It never snows enough to go sledging down here. When are we going to get to do it again?"

"But if there's no good in doing it in the first place that's neither here nor there."

"But if we never try it we won't know whether or not there's any good in it."

Tiger Lily listened to this exchange wearily. She hadn't wanted to come but her mother had insisted it would be good for her to go. So Tiger Lily had gone along with them without complaint.

"Are we all happy with lads against lasses?" Sango said.

"Lads against lasses isn't fair," Abelia said. "There's only two of us if Opal's sitting out."

"Tooks against Boffins then."

"I'm neither of those," Abelia said.

"And I'm both," Balbus added.

"You're wrong there," Sango said. "I was at your name day and I distinctly remember Uncle Vigo saying your name was Balbus Boffin. But unless Abelia is willing to become an honorary Took—"

"I'm not."

"—then I'm happy to be an honorary lass for the purposes to sledging."

"You make an ugly lass, Rowley," Abelia said as Rico laughed. "But if you let me rouge your cheeks a little, you could at least be presentable."

"I'm sure the cold will do a good enough job of that," Sango said, rubbing his cheeks. "What do you think, Tills? Will I do?"

Tiger Lily only smiled in reply. There were too many people there for her to speak out loud.

"Who wants to go first?" Sango said.

"Me!" Bandobold said, jiggling up and down.

"Who else? Tiger Lily?" Rico said, grinning. "We'll be sure to give you a good push."

Tiger Lily tried to speak but the awareness of so many listeners stole her voice away. She was supposed to be enjoying this. Ladies were supposed to be good at being in company. Why wasn't she? She closed her mouth and shook her head before the silence became too embarrassing.

"Perhaps Miss Tiger Lily would prefer to wait with me and Opal," said Buffo.

"No, thank you," Tiger Lily said, surprised at being able to speak again, albeit quietly.

Tiger Lily wandered away from the group to look out over the landscape, eager to get as far away from Buffo as she could. From this height you could see both Bywater and Hobbiton. The barren branches of the trees were heavy with snow. The landscape had become taller over the last few months, with several grey chimneys looming over the smials and cottages. Wreathes of smoke were carried through the air as silent spectres, staining the snow black. The tallest of these chimneys were built beside Bag End, visible on its perch atop the Hill. The small gatherings that had been there on and off over the last few weeks had expanded so that Hobbits surrounded the Hill like ants. There was a large carriage coming along Bywater Road towards them, but they wouldn't be able to see it yet. What if she could tell them it was there?

"There are so many of them today," Balbus said from her side. "They must be freezing."

That's how important it is to them, Tiger Lily thought. That they're willing to freeze themselves just in case it will change things. What am I freezing myself for?

Balbus turned back to the others. Rico was helping Abelia settle on the sled while Bandobold was sat, impatiently twitching in the other.

"Will Cousin Lotho be all right?" Balbus said.

"Don't worry about him," Sango said. "He's good at looking after himself. Tills? Are you joining in?"

Tiger Lily reluctantly turned away from the Hill and the crowd and the carriage. This was her life. This was where she was supposed to be.

I will marry a gentlehobbit. We will have children. I will give everything I am to please them and I will be happy. I'll have to be happy.

Meg stood when she heard the sound of ponies. She could see the carriage struggling along through the snow and stood back from the road to let it pass. "What's going on?" she said, turning to Jack and the others.

"Reckon we'll find out when it gets here," Jack said, hopping down from the fence. "They won't be able to get that thing up the Hill, not with the road covered in slush."

The carriage was being driven by two Shirriffs. When it stopped at the bottom of the Hill a large, stately gentlehobbit stepped out to sudden applause from the crowd.

"Who's that?" Meg whispered.

"It's Old Flourdumpling," Nickon said.

Hope swelled in Meg without her meaning it to, more intensely than she had ever expected. This was it. They had sent their messages to the Mayor, begging for rescue, and he had heard them. He was going to get their wheat and land back and no one would have to be afraid again. Everything was going to be all right.

By now the cheering had attracted the attention of the Men around Bag End and half a dozen were coming down Bagshot Row.

"You need to move that cart," one of them said, gesturing with his club. "The Boss don't hold with having his road blocked off."

Mayor Whitfoot looked at the Man like he was something unpleasant he'd found in the woodshed. "It's your… 'Boss' I've come to see, sir. So if you'd kindly step aside so I can go up to meet him I would be most obliged."

"I'm afraid the Boss ain't having no visitors at the moment," the Man said, a sneer showing the true feeling behind the seemingly benign words. "So you'll have to turn your cart around and go back the way you came."

Mayor Whitfoot put his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and drew himself up to his full height, which didn't amount to much next to the Men. "Mr Sackville-Baggins cannot stop a person from walking down a public road, no matter how rich he is. Let me pass."

"I work for the Boss, not for you, Master Halfling," the Man said. "And he's told me not to let anyone stop here, so you're going to have to move."

"The rest of you ratlings can clear off and all," another Man said, gesturing his club at the crowd threateningly.

A twinge of pain went through Meg's cheek in remembrance of what those clubs felt like. Everyone had been so incensed before the Men appeared that she had been expecting them to stand strong, but the collected Hobbits flinched away from the threat and turned their heads down.

The second man turned away from them and spat onto the ground. "Bloody vermin," he said.

Mayor Whitfoot puffed his chest out, his face reddening. "I am Wiland Whitfoot, Mayor of Michel Delving as elected by the free people of the Shire and I order you to stand aside."

"Well I'm Degen, son of Wulfen," the first Man said. "And I'm being paid good coin to make sure no one goes up this hill. That includes you, Master Rat."

The Man shoved Whitfoot back with the end of his club. The Mayor didn't fall, but his hat was knocked off and the Men laughed when he bent down to pick it up. The Mayor's face was beet red now and he was trembling in anger.

One of Shirriffs stepped forward, but was far too afraid to pose a threat. "N-now see here…" he said uncertainly. "This is the Mayor of Michel Delving—"

"He'd best go back there then," the Man said, eliciting more laughter from his comrades.

The faces of the protesters were uncertain now. They had been convinced that the Mayor would be the one to bring an end to the troubles. But now that was seeming less and less likely by the moment. What could he actually do against people twice his size who refused to do as he asked? The Shirriffs weren't even armed.

"You ungracious brutes!" the Mayor said, jamming the muddy had on his head. "Have you no respect for basic decency?"

"'Brutes' is it?" Degen said, looming over the Mayor like one of the dark chimneys. His hand tightened around the handle of his club. "I hate you uppish little rats."

"Now, now," a silky voice said. "Let's not antagonise our guest."

The Men parted and Lotho Sackville-Baggins came into view. For someone who was the target of so much hatred, he was remarkably relaxed. He was stood with his hands in the pockets of his breeches and surveyed the scene with complete disinterest, as though this was something that happened every day.

"You look a little tired, Will," he said. "I hope you haven't had a bad journey."

Whitfoot tugged at his waistcoat to straighten it out. "Sir! I have come to Hobbiton to discuss your outrageous conduct over these last few months. I have received numerous complaints regarding your business practices as well as your associates." He glared at the Men.

Lotho sighed wistfully, like this was a minor inconvenience and not the end of all his works.

He knows we can't hurt him, Meg thought. He knows he doesn't have to be afraid.

"I appreciate that you've travelled all this way, Will," he said. "However I must decline your request for an audience as I'm rather busy at the moment. Now I really must ask you to leave."

"It was not a request," Whitfoot said. "I am your mayor and you will show me the respect I'm due."

"You are the mayor of Michel Delving, therefore not mine and I do not need to justify my business decisions to you. Good day." He said this with his own feet planted firmly on the ground.

"My people are suffering because of your actions and I shan't leave until you've been held accountable for them."

Lotho cast him a venomous look but kept his voice in the same quiet control as always. "If you do not leave of your own volition I shall have to force you to."

"You upstart whelp!" Whitfoot lunged at Lotho but didn't make it. One of the Men caught him a blow to the stomach that left him sprawled on the ground. There was a collected gasp from the crowd as Will Whitfoot was suddenly transformed from the most powerful person in the Shire to a feeble old gaffer.

As Will struggled onto his elbows one of the Men landed another blow across his head. When Will fell this time there was no attempt to get back up. There was deathly quiet over the crowd. The Man raised his club again.

"No more," Lotho said, putting his hand on the Man's arm to stay him. Even he looked shocked by what had just happened. Evidently this hadn't been planned. "He is alive, isn't he?"

"He's breathing," one of the Men said, giving Will a prod with his foot.

"Good. Good…" He seemed to be trying to work out what to do now, staring at the prone Mayor unblinkingly.

"What do you want us to do with him, Boss?" Degen said.

"Uh… put him in one of your houses, I think. I can work out what to do with him later. Make sure you tie him up so he doesn't cause any trouble."

The Men bound Will's unresisting hands together. He was awake now, but too weak to fight them.

"Anyone else want to try anything?" another of the Men said, raising his club threateningly.

The Hobbits shied away. Even Mr Warren couldn't meet his eyes.

The Men pulled Whitfoot up and dragged him forward by his collar. Will moved with clumsy, tottering steps.

Lotho watched as Will was bundled into one of the Men's stone houses that was built in the garden of Bag End.

"Right," he said, straightening his waistcoat. "There are going to be a few adjustments in the near future. Those who object must be prepared to face the consequences." He turned to the two Shirriffs who were looking lost, like they were still trying to understand what was going on. The Mayor was the official head of the Watch. If he was gone then who did they answer to?

"Why don't you come up to Bag End with me, sirs?" Lotho said. "And we can discuss your futures. You look like enterprising young lads. I'm sure you'd like to be on the right side of things."

The Shirriffs looked at each other silently, as though each waiting for the other to make the decision for both of them. Slowly one of them put one foot in front of the other and began to follow Lotho up the Hill. The other quickly joined him and soon all three had disappeared into Bag End.

The remaining Hobbits were silent, not sure what to do. Slowly they began to trickle away back to their homes. Meg was still processing what had just happened. Although the Mayor of Michel Delving was largely a ceremonial position, it was the only one the Shire had. What were they without it? She looked to Jack to see how she should be feeling. He was cleverer than she was and would understand the full implications better than she did.

Jack's eyes were wide and staring. For the first time since he was a child he looked honestly terrified. Not even Clover could have foreseen this.

"What now?" Meg said.