For the remainder of the afternoon, Frodo was in the constant company of his cousin, who insisted he call him uncle. After all, it was possible, even likely, that Acron would have claimed him if Bilbo had not spoken first, so why not now? Frodo suspected he was being finessed. It was difficult to care. Acron’s lack of complication was strange.
The broad, sun kissed valley hid no secrets from hobbit feet trodding across the sandy soil. Laughter was a constant companion in the Hornblower household. Miracles awaited discovery behind every dusty shelf and shallow box of wonders traveled there from faraway lands. Dwarven ale in heavy, glass-stone jugs lined the cellar walls. Broad, flat leaves bound with silken string hid clusters of finger sized fairy slipper cakes. Heady smells of exotic spices inspired dreams of saffron light and veils. One evening, Petunia brought out a silver cask the size of a breadbox and placed it in the center of the ‘sittin’ room’ floor. One by one, she snuffed out all lamps in the room until only one candle remained. When she opened the cask, the room was bathed in a soft, sapphire light that stole the edges from every surface. In the center was a gem the size of a robin’s egg bound by a thick, silver chain. Orange pinpoints of light sparked across the surface of the stone like cinders.
“From the gullet of a dragon, or so goes the tale,” Petunia said to Sam and Frodo. “One o’ the Longbeard Clan traded it to Tanta Hornblower for one hundred casks of the finest leaf in the Shire. Now it be the family mathom,” she chuckled. “‘Tis a relic o’ dwarven times in the Grey Mountains.”
“It’s from a cold drake,” Frodo said, looking on in fascination. “Thoren Oakenshield, the dwarf Bilbo traveled with in Erebor, said drakes were thought to remain in the Iron Hills.”
Petunia picked the stone up by the chain. A pale, misty fog trailed along as she dangled it in the air. Frodo opened his hand to feel the cool vapors slip by. The stone brushed against his palm. Icy tendrils spread through up his fingers. “Oh my!”
“We use it to make ice,” Acron laughed. “You dip the stone in water, it skins up right fast.”
“What’s a dragon doin’ with this in its crop?” Petunia said, and then laid the gem back down upon a little rune laced pillow in the center of the cask. The temperature in the room had dropped considerably. Sam thought he saw his breath. Petunia shut the lid then ran her hands briskly over her arms.
“That’s a very good question!” Frodo’s mind spun. “Perhaps, like a bird, the drake grinds food inside its throat prior to digestion. The stone must absorb the cold after a time.”
Sam made a face. “Or ‘tis what remains o’ ground up dwarf.”
“’Care for some dwarf flavored ice cream, then?” Petunia gnashed her teeth and growled.
The Brandywine ran closest to the eastern perimeter of the farm. Past the residence, a long irrigation ditch passed under a bridge then up an incline to the river. A series of locks controlled the flow of water into the fields. The machinery that adjusted the locks was simple. Iron wedges fit into holes made into a large stone disc. A huge wooden peg in the center held the disc in place. An old iron shaft stuck out of the side. Acron got a draft pony from the stable behind the smial to turn the shaft. The wedges kept the disc from slipping off its base. One rotation marked one foot of water.
Acron stacked large burlap sacks full of shreds and scraps from the packinghouse next to the locks. He gave Frodo the reigns to ‘Nan’. Acron slit open one of the sacks with a long, bone handled knife. He turned and nodded to Frodo, who led Nan away from the shaft. Leather straps attached to the horses girdle creaked as she strained forward. Bit by bit, the shaft moved the disc around its base. The main lock raised a fraction, allowing water into the spillway. Acron started throwing double handfuls of leavings into the water. When Acron finished out the sack, Frodo moved Nan back a few paces. The lock slipped down into place, holding back the river.
They led Nan back to her paddock where Sally, and another pony, Trevor, awaited. Frodo and Acron oiled the tack then replaced it on the paddock shelter wall. They filled up the hay rick with sweet alfalfa and then watched as the ponies fed and whickered contentedly. At lunchtime, Petunia brought out a large tray of sandwiches and ice-cold sweet tea. Sam joined them for a while before getting on with the laundry. After lunch, Petunia went to go pick strawberries for teatime, while Sam went down into the tile lined larder to fetch milk and cream for later on. Acron and Frodo took a break.
Both pulled out pipes and packed them full with a mild, honey flavored blend that smelled vaguely of oranges as it burned. This was a new mix Acron hoped to sell at market that fall. The citrus blended with the dark, sweet taste to create something Frodo thought unique. He told Acron it reminded him of summer.
“I been meanin’ to tell you somethin’,” Acron said, and then pulled a rag out of his pocket to wipe at his brow. He was direct in his ways, and as Frodo was discovering, not one to bite back words. He liked that. He didn’t have to play guessing games with Acron. With Bilbo, riddles were a sport, but Bilbo was mad. Frodo leaned up against the paddock rails and blew smoke rings into the sky, confident that when Acron was ready, he would say what was on his mind.
“All that business to do with Bilbo, that party, and all the misery it caused. You done well.”
Frodo looked up curiously. That was strangely close to the mark. How did Acron know Bilbo was in his thoughts? But this was obvious, just a coincidence; Bilbo was always in his thoughts. The party had sealed it for him. Everything stopped the day that party took place and propelled him into this life. Why was he always being pushed places against his will?
Acron walked over, and with no hesitation, gathered Frodo up in his burly arms then squeezed with everything he had. All breath shot out of the slender body in a rush. Acron pressed his cheek next to Frodo’s ear and said with all the tenderness he could summon, “I’m proud of you, Frodo-lad. Well done. You done good.”
Trapped in a fierce embrace, a warm, loving embrace, one thing echoed over and over until Frodo stopped thinking and felt it. He had done well. He could let it go. It was done. Something heavy and black he’d not even realized was pulling at the corner of his thoughts, went away. His body relaxed, the sky opened up and light bored into him. It took him a few moments to realize he was happy, and that he could stay this way if he wanted now, because all roads ahead were his. He had done the best he could, and that was enough.
At the end of the week, Acron mentioned he was closer to giving Frodo an answer. He wanted to talk to the leaf council first and hear their thoughts on the idea. With luck, the council would encourage selling proven crops on speculation, so the money could be used to start a second planting. Frodo explained that it might be possible to get two harvests in one year, if no one had to wait until fall to sell the first one. Leaf grew quickly in the valley, cured fast beneath the tin roofs of the drying sheds. While one crop was curing, another could be growing. During winter, the second crop would season in the sheds, and then be ready for processing in early spring.
“Ain’t none never tried curin’ leaf in the winter,” Acron told him. “But it’s possible. So long as the airs stays dry, the leaf will mellow up. Some says frost bites away the bitter, and tenders up the stalks, makin’ it faster to sort.”
“You could use heat to cure it.” Frodo said. He’d been watching Acron build smoky fires with piles of herbs and thick resins to add flavor to the reserve stock hanging in the sheds. Part of each harvest was kept back for an extra year of curing. Rich, umber brown, and powerfully fragrant, the smooth, silky leaves oozed dark resin. On a day when the breeze flowed out of the east, the scent of ‘Old Toby’s Black Reserve’ filled the smial with a lavish aroma. Frodo could smell it lingering in the sheets, in his clothes, in his hair. The smell marked everything it touched with a memory of hope, peace; the things he’d come to know in the valley.
Acron considered this. “Heat and leaf are tricky. Too much, it dries to dust. Too little, it rots in the sheds. The valley’s humid, more so right here. Old Toby picked this spot with good reason.”
“The Brandywine,” Frodo agreed. “The moisture from the river, and the ditches…”
“S’not matterin’ no how, lest I get some more hands. Can’t says there’s enough for one harvest, much less two…”
Sadness rippled through Frodo. Acron turned his eyes back towards the smial. Such a little thing for so many seemed impossible for him. That would not do.
“You have so much to offer here, not just for myself, but for all those children who might miss their chance for life in the country with two loving, dear hobbits to look after them.” Frodo said, willing his words to sink down into that hollow place he could feel inside Acron. “I can think of no finer path, for anyone. For while life in Brandy Hall is in truth, no hardship, love is a hard thing to find when so few are spread so thin. Master Saradoc is no fool. There is better comfort here than even he can afford for so many.” He backed up mentally, looked at his words. He thought hard on what Saradoc’s reality was, surrounded by hundreds of needy, restless mouths, so many relations and nameless children all crammed into a warren of confusing spaces. “He will be grateful,” Frodo said, and knew it to be the truth.
Acron’s face softened, and Frodo thought he felt the center of him fill with a hope. In a moment, it was gone, but the kind, leathered face remained open to him. For as long as he could remember, the only person Frodo had comforted was Bilbo, and that was necessary, a requirement even, because the old hobbit was having problems caring for himself. There was nothing wrong with Acron, and yet Frodo had given him hope. It was odd to be so useful.
“You have my word. It will be done,” Frodo said, and the confidence with which he spoke the words surprised him.
Sam was sitting on a plump little foot stool. Petunia sat on another stool opposite. Between them was a wide lipped brass jug that wasn’t a jug. Sam had never seen anything close to it. He was chewing on a ‘plug’ of what Petunia referred to a ‘chaw’, which was some sort of minty tasting leaf. Slightly gooey, the sweet stale taste was different, but not unpleasant. Chewing on it made the blood rush around in his head and saliva burst into his mouth.
“Like this!” Petunia said, and then spat a long, darkish brown gob into the jug. It was the most disgusting thing Samwise had ever watched a lady do. He giggled, drew his cheeks together then leaned forward so as not to miss the jug entirely.
Petunia clapped her hands. “Yer getting’ it!”
Sam wasn’t sure what the point was. With a wink, Petunia stood then backed up a few paces. She churned her jaws, working up a great gob of spit. She inhaled deeply through her nose then spat a thin stream of juice directly into the jug. The spit made a ‘tinging’ sound when it spattered against the sides.
Petunia bobbed her head fiercely, pleased with herself. “An’ that, dear lad, is how we rinse chaw in polite company. Mind, when yer on yer own, don’t be lettin’ it out where any might trod. ‘Tis nasty then.”
Sam thought it was nasty now, but fun just the same.
A lot of little jugs like that were scattered about the smial. As Petunia went about getting supper ready, she would periodically bend over and spit into one. The chaw was making Sam hasty – he could feel blood swimming up his arms. As he helped her set the table, energy was flashing all through his brain.
“Ye suck on chaw for harvest here abouts,” Petunia explained. “Keeps the wind in ye, long past when it shouldn’t. Be easy with it, for you’ll find yerself cravin’ it all the while. Like me!” she laughed recklessly. “Master Hornblower thinks it a filthy habit. Prolly ‘cause he’s prefferin’ that dirty weed.”
“And now you’ve gone and subverted another to you’re evil ways.” A booming voice said from the entryway. “Mistress Hornblower, you are positively wicked.”
Petunia squeaked and tossed down the dish towel she’d been carrying then dashed into her husband’s warm arms. She threatened him with sooty kisses as he danced away lightly.
“You’d threaten yer love with dragon’s breath!” Acron yelled as he skipped backward and stumbled. Petunia was on him in a snap, nibbling ferociously at the narrow tips of his ears until he cried out for mercy.
“Go get them fancy knickers on,” Acron purred into her ear.
Sam’s face went slack. Frodo grinned. “Uncle tells me there’s a party planned in town this evening.”
“We’re goin’ dancin!” Petunia squealed and spun out of Acron’s arms. “Oh! Wait wait wait…the lads…”
Acron looked at Sam and Frodo. Sam and Frodo looked back. “They look fine! Don’t be gussy’in’ up what’s good to begin with, Pet!”
Frodo regarded the rough felt breeches and over sized peasant shirt Acron loaned him for work. Sam, as always, was wearing homespun. As an afterthought, Frodo said to him, “Don’t you think you might wish to change into something less… abrasive?”
Sam started chewing on something wedged in his cheek. “I’m no made o’ chafey stuff, thank you very much,” he said, then spit something dark and awful into a big jug by his feet.
Frodo’s eyes grew wide. Petunia made a hawking sound, and spit out a mass that followed Sam’s. The metal side of the jug sounded a double ‘ting’. Whatever Frodo was about to say flew straight out of his mind.
Acron laughed until his sides ached. When he recovered, he said, “’Tis not a crowd for finery. Yer both right as you are…” then stopped as his wife picked up her skirts then dashed down the hallway. “Pet! Hey now!”
“Hush, you!” came the reply from behind a door. “Or I’ll tell of how much time ye use ‘ta spend in a mirror or two a’fore a dance, puttin’ that smelly grease all in yer hair and whatnot, and leavin’ no less than four buttons loose on that lovely chest. Hah!” A door banged open, then shut. Petunia swore politely, then banged on something else.
“Grease…for hair? Is that right?” Frodo said, wondering why anyone would do that.
“Gaffer did that when he were courtin’ me mam.” Sam looked at Acron. “You’re not havin’ any?”
Acron shook his head. “Don’t ask me, lad. I just live here.”
Petunia emerged from the hallway with a fine linen shirt folded over each arm. She held one up against Sam’s chest, liked what she saw, and then handed it to him along with a set of braces. The other shirt she gave to Frodo.
Frodo shook the shirt out lengthwise before him. The peasant blouse was exquisite, the color of growing wheat, with fine embroidery circling the long, loose sleeves. The cuffs were edged in stiff, cotton facing that enabled the sleeves to flow gently with the slightest movement. The throat was just a low enough to be inviting, but was far from salacious. There were no buttons, only wide, soft buttery leather laces that crossed loosely across the front. There were no braces, for surely, Frodo didn’t need any. The shirt was meant to be tucked loosely into tight breeks. The fawn colored set he arrived in was more than appropriate.
Sam’s shirt was of the same fine linen, and pale against his sun bronzed flesh. The throat was cut daringly low. His wide, firm chest could support the greater opening. With a little tingle of glee, Sam realized it was very similar to his clever nightshirt, but with elegant, thin strips of embroidery that highlighted the opening, rather than concealing it. His braces were of a deep, pine green, as were the clasps. The color quicked the hazel in his eyes, and the broad straps hugged the smooth contours of his chest. His rough, dun colored breeks lent him a roguish air beneath the loose fabric of the shirt.
Petunia dug down in her skirt pockets, and produced four matching velvet garters; two of a lush, midnight blue, and two of a darker green that complimented Sam’s braces.
“Oh, stars,” Acron groaned. Petunia shooed him away to go wash up.
“Yer wearin’ ‘em here,” she said, and then tied one around the top of her arm. “If a lassie finds ye charmin’ enough, she’ll set a flower in ‘yer garter…”
“What are these?” Frodo said as he took the blue set for himself.
“Yer no’ married, aye?” Petunia chuckled. “All who’s not spoken for dances with those alike. Keep’s things a might civil. Jus’ an old country custom.”
“What’s the flower mean?” Sam was suddenly nervous.
Petunia laughed so hard she nearly swallowed her plug. “Nothin’, Gamwich. Nothin’ more than a wish to dance. Whatever do they get up to in Hobbiton I’m wonderin’?”
“Nothing so touching, and honest,” Frodo said as he twisted the garter around his hand.
“Well, tonight me bonny laddies, yer both Princes o’ the Longbottom, and the pride of Ol’ Toby’s kin. May all the blessin’s o’ the Mother rain down on ye, for make no mistake, ‘yer both the best thing these lassie’s seen in while…” she paused to consider something as she gazed into Frodo’s pale, sapphire eyes,“…mebee, ever.” This seemed to satisfy her.
Petunia and Acron led the processional to the party field in Longbottom. Both wore a measure of finery that humbled Frodo’s natty traveling coat. Petunia wore a flouncy dress of peach watered silk that opened at her wrists to reveal a second layer of cream-colored lace beneath. More lace was twined into her hair in that curious manner southern ladies favored. Just enough russet curls peeked through to be enticing, just enough were covered to lend mystery. Across her throat she wore a string of matched pearls, creamy and white, each the size of a thumbnail. Acron was permitted to find the ‘hair ‘fixin’ grease’ and apply it to his own chestnut curls. His clothes were simple, but tailored and made of the finest milled cotton and sleek, heavily embroidered suede. His wore a delicate gold chain across his weskit that led to an elaborate pocket watch on his breast. He checked it from time to time, and Frodo thought he did it to enjoy the filigreed cover sliding against the thick calluses on his hands.
Petunia dressed Sam and Frodo’s hair with just a whisper of scented grease. The slippery stuff picked up the rich luster of Frodo’s dark curls, drew out the sun in Sam’s. They walked together across the fields, through brief stands of pine, enjoying their progress down a narrow forest path. Frodo remembered that this was how the gray elves often traveled, in happy silences broken only by song as they drifted across the woody end, on their way to glorious gatherings beneath the sacred light of stars.
When they reached the edge of the party field, bonfires were already burning, and long tables were set up all along the perimeter. Carts and horses stood nearby an assortment of colorful tents. The Longbottom was filled with stock traders and herds, all down for the early spring markets. All the Southfarthing traders had spilled over for the party, bringing the best of their wares with them. The aroma of roasted lamb was thick around the tents, suckling pigs turned on skewers over communal pits, and rows of pies, tarts, and all manner of baked wonder lined the dining area where many hobbits had already gathered. Kegs of ale, homebrews, spring wines and beer sat atop stones stationed close by. Hundreds of hobbits, at least ten score or better, milled busily in the field, with more carts trundling in from the nearby town.
Acron squired Petunia on his arm, and proudly led the group past the tables. Leaf farmers and their families looked on with skeptical curiosity at Sam and Frodo. Strangers from outside the valley were usually well vetted before appearing in public. Acron swelled with pride as he showed off his guests. His presence did much to relax the others, for he was well trusted.
Sam felt and looked like a true prince. He didn’t look anything different from Frodo, not even age-wise. Frodo was a full seven years older than he was, and so much more cultured, experienced, and confident around folk he didn’t know. Now they looked just the same, like two lads from different families, surely, but there was no way anyone would mistake that high born face for one of Sam’s brothers or cousins. Suddenly, Sam didn’t think it was right like this. He shouldn’t be lying to others about who he was by wearing such nice clothes, and walking with such fine folk like he was one of them.
Petunia seemed to catch his thoughts. “None’s carin’ what yer qualities is above what they can see,” she said. “An’ you’ll be wise to let it rest at that, laddie. Be easy an’ have yer fun.”
Frodo nodded encouragingly. “Please?”
Sam was so happy he squeaked.
They found a table over by some of the visiting traders. In no time, they had heaped it high with delicious foods from every part of the gathering. Acron brought out a pouch of his infamous ‘special blend’ and laid it on the table. Much to his consternation, no one touched it. Frodo was reluctant to even look at it.
As the sky darkened and the fires grew high, a stout hobbit approached the table with a monstrous barrel. Easily the girth of three hobbits, and nearly as tall, the thing had wheels attached to its bottom, which made it possible to push across the uneven ground.
“’Mast’uh Hornblower,” the hobbit said with a wide grin. Frodo had problems placing his accent. “This here is one of those ‘monster casks’ you were wanting’ made up for export to Bree. Mast’uh Faircloth heard tell of how big they is, and ordered some to salt pork in. I saw you settin’ here with Miss Petunia and your guests,” he bowed his head respectfully. “and suh, I just had to show you one all done up and finished.”
“Aye!” Acron jumped up and inspected the cooper’s barrel, running his hand across the fine oak slats. “’Tis perfect.”
The cooper kicked a latch somewhere near the bottom, locking the wheels in place. The two fell into a flurry of gestures and strange, drawling words. Frodo listened, but could only catch half the meaning. Petunia drummed her fingers on the table. “He always says, ‘Pet, no business. None a’tall’. An’ here we be, ‘an what happens? Hah. Well, comes the dancin’ in a bit.” Something sparked her interest. She placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder, then shouted, “Look over yonder. Them’s the Wainwrights!” Petunia placed two fingers in her mouth and whistled so loud that Frodo had to clap his hands over his ears.
A head perked up in the distance and smiled knowingly. In a few moments, a robust, well-dressed matron wearing a long, scarlet shawl came over to the table. A wide, loose bun of satiny yellow curls was pinned to the top of her head by a cameo. A square of cream lace draped across her hair and shoulders, and her full cheeks were ruddy in the fading light.
“Well I do declare, if it isn’t Miss Petunia Hornblower!” She kissed Petunia on both cheeks, then nodded to Acron. He slipped her a wink, before returning to his dealings with the cooper.
“Violet Wainright! I ain’t seen hide nor hair o’ you since Yule at Fairy Dingle.” Petunia gestured to her guests. “This be Acron’s nephew by way o’ Hobbiton, Master Frodo Baggins, and his friend, Master Samwise Gamgee.”
Frodo stood and bowed his head politely. “At your service, Ma’am.” Sam followed with a similar greeting of his own.
Violet’s eyes perked up a notch. “Well now, young suh, you’re a Bucklander if I’m not mistaken, and you there,” she tilted her head at Samwise, “that’s Gamwich in your face as I live and breath.”
There was an elegant poetry to her words that sounded like music to Sam. “Yes’m.”
Violet sat next to Petunia then smiled wide at Frodo. “Sugar, have I got someone special for you. I have two daughters, both cute as buttons and sweeter than apple blossoms in the rain. And wouldn’t you know, neither one is spoken for?” She looked at Sam. “Both are of that special age when fancy leads a path past reason. Whatever is a poor mother to do? Two lovely girls so full of life, why, they’d just go out dancing every night if they could.” She shook her head in mock consternation.
Frodo smiled politely, remembering the garters tied around his arms. Well why not? This was certainly turning out to be more comfortable than that mess of a party in Hobbiton. He could use a night of dancing and laughter, as could Sam.
Sam looked over at him, wondering if he had any idea what he was in for. No matter. He’d do fine, as Frodo did with all things. However, southern girls were just a tiny bit more forward than he thought Frodo was used to. They were certainly wilder than what Sam was used to, but that didn’t matter to him now. Well, not much. It was nice to have someone smile at him that way, as Missus Wainwright was smiling at him now, like she was wondering if he would end the night with one of her daughters? Sam knew he wouldn’t – his heart was firmly spoken for, but being flirted with was nice. No one here cared that he was just a common laborer without a copper to his name. But what if Frodo didn’t take it that way? Would he grow jealous if he danced too close with one of the lasses, or flirted back with one or two?
Frodo’s looked at him. ‘You do anything you want, Sam. You have all the fun you want’ his eyes seemed to say. Sam relaxed, and felt the anticipation start to beat faster in his blood. There were so many of them, and he looked so fine…
“Now, Violet, the lads is jus’ here for the dancin’. Nothin’ more.”
“They haven’t seen my Pansy, or my sweet Goldie Bell,” she winked, and then fell to chatting with Petunia.
Across the clearing, hobbits shuffled back into groups. A band of musicians set up a platform on the opposite side of the bonfires. Nearer to the center, a hobbit wearing a wide brimmed straw hat climbed up a set of steps to an elevated podium. All around the clearing the crowds began to cheer.
“Get up, get up, it’s fixin’ to start!” Mrs. Wainwright said as she pushed Sam up from the seat. “Get where they all can see you.”
The hobbit on the podium raised his arms and sang out a wild, keening note that was answered with yips and yaws from the crowd. Petunia stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled for all she was worth. Several whistles floated back to her.
“Come and get your Paaaarrrtneers!” the hobbit yelled, and then the field bust into a motion.
Petunia tugged on the back of Frodo’s shirt. “That’s the caller. Yer doin’ whatever he says. Now both o’ you, wait until a lass sticks a flower in yer garter.”
Sam waited. Frodo looked around impatiently. A great swarm of girls jumped up from tables all around the field, and scattered. Petticoats and lace fairly flew into the air then settled into an orderly row. The girls formed a line, and then one by one, walked slowly past each table.
One girl separated herself from the line. A startled hush went up from the crowd.
“Oh, blast,” Petunia said, worried.
“Is that who I think it is?” Violet added.
The girl walked diagonally across the field, past the bonfires, in violation of the rules of the gathering. She appeared headed for the Hornblower's table. Acron looked up to see the source of the commotion. He laughed, then went back to talking to the cooper, with whom he’d nearly reached agreement.
“Yes it is,” Petunia said with a sigh. “An’ quite naturally, she’s comin’ to call on us.”
“Like her mother did,” Violet nodded.
“’Afore I scrapped wi’ her a time or two,” Petunia growled. “That cured it, right fast.”
The girl was tall and proud. She wore a tea length white gown that accented the peculiar paleness of her legs. Frodo squinted in the dim light. When she drew close enough for him to focus, he saw that she bore no fur on the tops of her feet. He’d never seen such a thing before, and it left him strangely fascinated. She noticed him watching her. A soft blue lace fan snapped open in front of her face. It fluttered prettily as she peeked over the edge.
She stood before the table, one pale green eye tilting over lace. A crown of white gardenias was woven into her thick, black hair.
“Well, hello there, Petunia, Violet.” Her voice was a rich contralto, filled with a strange music that sent a flutter through Sam’s belly.
“Diamond Split Toe,” Petunia answered. “What brings you here abouts?” She sounded like she was talking about a particularly vile smell.
“Oh, nothing much,” said the voice behind the fan. “I said to myself, ‘Diamond, it’s just too hot to sleep’, and then I thought, ‘there’s a dance down in the party field tonight, and that just might cool you off ’.” The fan pointed at Frodo. “It’s very warm for such a lovely spring night, don’t you think?”
“Now that you mention it, I suppose it is rather warm.” He smiled, and made sure that his cheeks crinkled up just enough to show off the cleft in his chin.
Sam managed a nod.
Diamond shut the fan with a ‘snick’, then looped the cord around her wrist. Her face was heart shaped, and the hand that plucked the gardenia from her hair was smooth and pale. She slipped the flower into Frodo’s garter.
“Well now,” her laugh was sultry. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name.” This was a jibe at Petunia, who had not said a word.
“Frodo Baggins, at your pleasure.”
Sam heard the change in Frodo’s voice. This was the voice he used for important things, like speeches, or when Sam wished to hear it on nights when fire rushed under his skin. Diamond understood that voice. Missus Hornblower did too; he could see it in her eyes. Sam felt something turn over in his heart. That voice belonged to him, and only him. But that wasn’t true, it couldn’t be, no more than Sam could put a flower into Frodo’s garter and then dance with him alone, all night.
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