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While the familiar accounts of the War of the Ring are collected in The Red Book of Westmarch, the happenings in the Shire during that time have not been widely written. One of the unsung heroes of that era was Diamond Cleeveholm, titled Diamond of Long Cleeve, whose daring deeds you can read herein. Please note that while this account begins lightly, there are several dark episodes ere the end. Please continue with discretion; each volume is individually rated, and chapters with sensitive content will open with warnings.

Though Diamond long kept up the resistance against Saruman’s ruffians, her importance was quickly overshadowed by Meriadoc the Magnificent, Peregrin the Great, and Master Samwise. It seems that the hobbits wanted these three to be leaders, whereas they reluctantly accepted Diamond as one.

I came across this collection assembled by Amber Cleeveholm, niece of Diamond, who edited her aunt’s journals and supplemented them with interviews from those who knew Diamond before her death. Many footnotes are from Amber’s very hand, though I have added a few to provide additional cultural context.

Only Elanor Fairbairn’s copy of the Lost Memoirs survived all these years. We may therefore forgive Mr. Tolkien for having missed this tale, for it only resurfaced in the last decade, and I have spent that time transliterating four volumes for modern audiences.

Most of Diamond’s writings about her personal life were done from the years 1416 to 1419 Shire Reckoning (S.R.), and thus I have focused my efforts on relaying that period of her life. I sincerely hope you enjoy discovering Diamond’s story as much as I did.

Zen the Archivist
The Year 2025 of the 7th Age

Prologue: Outlanders

The second week of Forelithe^[1] brought an irresistible piece of gossip to the village of Tuckborough that would keep tongues wagging for weeks: the daughter and grandchildren of Brian Harfoot were due for a visit from Long Cleeve. Saoirse Harfoot had not returned to her birthplace in fifteen years at least. Everyone thought it scandalous that she had run off with that “wild hobbit” thirty-two years ago and kept her children out of the public eye ever since.

“It was a strange, hushed-up business it was,” said Mr. Griffo to a crowd of townsfolk, huddled together in the dimly-lit pub. The grocer was an old friend of Brian’s and knew a thing or two about it. “That Jasper Cleeveholm rolled into town one day, visiting his sister Ruby. I took one look at him and thought, ‘well, there’s trouble.’ He had all the lasses in town swooning, though I could hardly see why. I guess they fancied him handsome, sociable, wealthier than he really was^[2]—but he knew nothing of our customs. Then he saw the finest belle in town—she was already on the brink of marriage, mind you—and Brian just let him up and take her away!”

Folks groaned. Saoirse’s old suitor was very respected. That his broken heart had taken so long to recover from her betrayal made many people boil with indignation.

Someone asked about Long Cleeve, claiming to have never heard of it. This was very likely false, but hobbits love to hear tales retold.

“Well, that’s because it’s hardly worth hearing about.” Mr. Griffo sat back, enjoying the attention of the room. “It lies way out past the Far Downs. Hardly any folk live out there—some descendants of Bandobras Took are among them, I believe—and they be settled among Dwarves.”

“Aye, ’tis a strange thing indeed,” said Adelard, puffing smoke into the cloudy air.

“That’s probably the real reason Jasper came here—not a wife to pick from in that desolate place!” said the miller. Many heads bobbed in agreement.

“I’ve heard that the Dwarves will sometimes take hobbits for wives, as the Dwarven women are scarce,” said Marsha Proudfoot. “Ruby told me about it once.”

“Just unnatural, it is.” Murphy Wellspring shook his head.

“Mr. Griffo, you said Jasper is related to Ruby Hornblower?” piped a young lad.

“Aye. And she’s cracked too, she is—I mean no disrespect, o’ course.” 

Ruby was the widow of a wealthy pipeweed distributor. Some accused her of marrying for money, and most considered her eccentric and reclusive—which were not compliments by hobbit standards. But, her status demanded some amount of respect.

The baker hushed everyone and asked Mr. Griffo what he knew about the grandchildren.

“Well, there’s three lads and two lasses, most of them in their tweens.^[3] Brian claims they are the handsomest fellas and most beautiful girls you ever saw, and every one of them a wit and a lark. Don’t know a thing about it meself, though.”

“Remember last time they were in town, Marsha?” May Proudfoot nudged her sister. “That child—Diamond I think was her name—insisted that the stars spoke to her! It was ridiculous, even if she was only five at the time.”

“I’d not imagine they’re very well-behaved, growing up out in the wilderness,” huffed Mrs. Tunnelly. “Especially with parents as devious as that.”

“They’ll be sure troublemakers, or I’m ten feet tall.”

Just then, Thain Paladin Took entered the pub with Pippin and a few others, and they joined the circle to see what everyone was gabbing about.

“What’s the craic?”

“We were just discussing the newcomers, Paladin,” Mr. Griffo said.

“Aye, Brian’s family.” The Thain nodded. “He told me he expects them any day now.”

“Maybe after we see them, we can judge if the grandchildren would make a good match for anyone in town!” Adamanta laughed, like the idea was tantalizing but absurd.

“The girls would have to be the prettiest things in the world for a’body to be interested in them,” an elderly gaffer guffawed.

“Aye, who’d want to have a Dwarf for an in-law?” Murphy snickered.

“Bah, stop talking nonsense!” Paladin rolled his eyes. “Brian is a good man. He’s not been this happy since before poor Daisy died. They’ll be a sensible, respectable family no doubt—my wife always liked Saoirse—so be welcoming, for heaven’s sake.”

“Why has it taken them so long to pay their respects to Daisy?” asked the miller.

“Brian lost a few weeks grieving before he sent them word, and they only get the mail once a month out that way.”

“You seem to know a good deal,” Pippin said, surprized. “How long will they be here?”

“Cannae say for sure, but probably the rest of the summer.”

“Well, I look forward to the visit,” said the blacksmith. “Either way, they’ll bring some excitement to the town. I can’t wait to see all the mischief.”

Adelard laughed. “And they’ll be just in time for the Midsummer festival. You lot can gawk and scare them away faster than a rabbit runs from a foxhole! The Shire help them.”

“Aye, I’m getting curiouser and curiouser to see what they’re about,” Mr. Griffo added. Paladin just said, “Bah!” dismissing them all, and left to get a mug of ale.

Chapter Text

Fire consumed me from the inside, and the flames cast shadows of tall figures all around. Smoke stung my eyes. Embers drifted down like tattered paper from the sky. Screams; the ring of steel; the panic of stock; the cawing of crows—I saw this vision in my sleep that first night I was in Tuckborough, back in Forelithe of 1416. It was a wholly new terror that would haunt my dreams frequently and, as you know, eventually did come to be.

 

—Diamond Cleeveholm in a letter to Juniper Chubb, circa 1419

As soon as the rose sky peeks through the curtains and kisses me awake, I’m uneasy. The smell of smoke lingers in my nostrils from a nightmare, and though my sister sleeps beside me, our room is all wrong. I’m used to square walls, sharp corners, staircases built by Dwarves and hobbits alike. Here, everything but the floor is round.

I heave myself off the mattress, pulling baby hairs out of my mouth. Bleary-eyed, I stumble past two open trunks toward the window, fold my arms and rest my chin on the sill. The fields of Granddad’s small farm appear. Promising vegetable stems break through damp soil, and the tidy Green Hill Country rolls between the border of the farm and the South Farthing beyond. I unlatch the window and inhale.

Sunrise is my second-favorite time to daydream. I wish I could prolong the minutes and savor my life like I do my favorite stories. Last night, I fell asleep before I could write down the last leg of our journey from Long Cleeve, so I try to relive how smoothly the buggy rode over Shirish roads, how the curated hedgerows appeared with every stem in its place, and the relief in Granddad’s smile when we pulled up the lane. I think of my brothers with their bracing hugs and wet cheeks as we said our farewells five mornings ago. I summon to mind the earthy smell of Papa’s pipe tobacco, when our family would sit on the porch after dinner, singing songs and listening to the stars. I pine for the curve of my Dwarven harp with its sharp strings; yearn for my agile pony, who must miss galloping along the cliffs as much as I do; recall the buzz of too much ale at my last birthday, when I first noticed Khamíd’s fine dark eyes watching me dance—

I scan the timid horizon. I don’t fit into this portrait. I ache too much for the purposeful, intimate belonging of Long Cleeve. 

I hug my elbows, smoothing the cotton smock that Nana Daisy made for me last Yule. She’d had to alter it after, grumbling that I’d grown too tall for a girl and too shapely for my age. My fingers brush the aster she embroidered at the wrist. She always loved Long Cleeve asters. And like them, she was so healthy, so sturdy even into her age, that news of her sudden passing shook us to the core. Mamma and Papa had fought for the first time in a long time, deciding which of us would come, which of us would stay. It was selfish of Nana to die and make us split up.

I take a shaky breath, blinking fast. It’s hardly her fault. She was over a hundred. I’m not actually mad—I just miss her. I miss home. But I just need to make it to the end of harvest, when Granddad will move with us to Long Cleeve, and everything will go back to normal.

Until then, Mamma said that surviving Tuckborough’s social scene would not be easy. She spent the whole journey lecturing us on the different Shirish customs. I hardly listened, being preoccupied with Nana and our abrupt removal from Long Cleeve. I think she said not to mention much about the Dwarves, how we live, or our plans to return there forevermore. I can’t take her seriously. Long Cleeve is perfect in every way—why should I hide my love for it?

Opal rustles the sheets and murmurs a “g’mornin Di,” as she rises from her slumber.

“Sleeping in, are we?” I tease. The sun is barely above the horizon. I don’t look, but I know she’s smiling and shaking her head. 

“Don’t get lost in the clouds. Mamma needs you on earth today!” 

She dresses, washes her copper face in the basin, braids her vibrant brown curls in two strands from the top of her scalp—such a sweet and perfect Little Bird. If only my hair was as nice.

Though I’m two years her senior, Opal is much more responsible. She always acts as she’s supposed to, remembers every special date, is polite and deferential, timidly enjoys her chores, thinks of everyone before herself. She is invaluable to Mamma, whose mind will now be overfull managing Granddad’s farm. I wish I was more like her, but Papa always says—half proud and half exasperated—that I am adamantly myself. At least I can boast more mature looks. “My daffodil and sunflower,” Mamma says—meaning me as the early and Opal as the late bloomer.

I fix my eyes on the fields, searching for anything that feels familiar. A raven alights to the ground. I cock my head, smiling. It mimics me. I mimic its gurgle. The bird grunts. I shift my elbow to lean out the window—a sharp piece of wood pokes me, and I flinch straight into another. 

“Och!”

Opal hurries over. “Oy, what’d you do now?”

“Splinter.” I suck on my finger, but she pries it from my mouth. “Sha, this place is really run-down, don’t you think? Someone needs to sand and repaint all the windowsills…”

“Don’t say that too loud, or we’ll have to do it.” She expertly squeezes out the sliver. “I’m sure Mamma knows already, but Granddad doesn’t need to feel more ashamed about letting the place go.”

“I just don’t understand.” I shake my head as she leads me to the basin to wash my sore. “Why haven’t his friends and neighbors helped more as he aged?”

“I think the field manager, Seamus, has been too busy with the crops—and remember how Mamma said people usually look after themselves around here? Something about the humiliation of charity.”

I scrunch my face. She wraps a small bandage around my forefinger. “I already think this place is very odd. Too… curated, you know? Every house is like a little island.”

“I agree,” she sighs. “I’m just glad you’re taking the visitors today.”

“I am?”

“Sha, didn’t you listen to anything Mamma said on our trip?”

“As if you listened to everything. You’d think she was presenting vagrants to the royal family of Khôrun Luin,^[4] not bringing her children to her hometown, the way she rambled on!”

“Anyway,” she rolls her eyes, “guests are your job while we’re in the Shire, since you’re the oldest daughter, and Mamma doesn’t want to entertain strangers any more than I do. I daresay, I’d embarrass myself to no end, not knowing the customs here.”

“You could never embarrass yourself—unless you are mortified by being sweet,” I laugh. “But how bad could it be? I like meeting people. Mamma is just dramatic sometimes.”

“Da, that’s where you get it.” She sticks her tongue out and skips away to start breakfast. I chuckle and turn back to the sunrise. 

More birds are trilling now. A goat bleats, cattle bells jingle, and I exhale a little easier. I know those sounds well. Tuckborough is quite beautiful—it’s lush and temperate, even if a bit cosy. I don’t know how I’ll get on for five months here—just the thought of missing everyone at home takes the breath out of me—but with Opal, Jaden, and Mamma, I can at least survive until winter.

When the smell of frying bacon reaches me, I sigh. Hardy as thistles and asters. It’s time to face this new chapter like a Cleeveholm.

~

“Granddad, I was thinking of walking those woods behind your farm today,” I chirp, half chewing the last of my eggs. “Are they inspiring, or do they just have a remarkable personality?”

“Aye, Diamond,” he chuckles, worn smile lines painting his face. “There’s a creek that plays a nice tune, and an old stone wall to sit upon—but the woods across the road, boarding Great Smials,^[5] have more trails than your furry feet could wander; and those trees are older and wilder.”

“Diamond,” Mamma says, brushing a stray coil out of her face. She never wears her hair up like this, but her curls are still as impossible to tame as she is. “I’ll not have you running off when I need you to help us get settled here. There’s unpacking to do, and plenty else that needs to get done straight away.”

Granddad mutters something about her bossy tone, and Opal automatically gathers the plates and utensils. “Mamma, if Diamond needs a break, we could take turns—”

“No covering for our flighty lass. I need everyone contributing this week,” Mamma says. Opal nods obediently and leaves to wash dishes.

“I’m sorry, Mamma,” I mutter, deflating. I guess she really meant it when she said we’d have more chores for a few months. “It’s just my way of settling in.”

“I know dear. You’ll get your chance, but not this week.”

“How can we help?” asks Jaden, my younger brother.

As Mamma rattles off her to-do list, he rests his chin on his hand and bounces his knee. Jaden is a dutiful child, but he typically follows me as I shepherd, or Papa, our brothers and neighbors as they labor in the fields—he’s just too energetic for domestic chores. He was the only one of us excited to come to the Shire, sure that it would be a grand adventure. Must be sorry now, thinking how he could be spending time with the brothers he idolizes.

Mamma pairs us up for morning chores and managing the guests, lapsing into another lecture about Shirish etiquette. “No doubt your Granddad spread the word of our extended stay all over town.” 

Apparently it’s customary in these parts for neighbors to visit newcomers with little gifts and friendly blether. Folks will be especially curious about us, venturing the ninety-odd miles from Long Cleeve—which lies past the Far Downs,^[6] closer to the Blue Mountain Dwarves than the Shire’s western border. According to Mamma, Shire-folk say the hobbits out our way are “as bad as foreigners” and don’t consider us “proper hobbits.” I wouldn’t know. Only one Shirish postman ventures our way each month (when the weather holds), and postage is expensive—but he seems nice enough.

Mamma always said that when Papa first came to Tuckborough, everyone eyed him with distrust—except for Granddad, who invited him to Harfoot Hollow. Before long, Papa and Mamma fell in love and he took her back west. Folks were furious that an outsider would “steal away one of their own” to a land that they assumed was barely habitable. Mamma hated their ignorance. She hated coming back.

“People are kind and generous—dinnae let your mother make you fret with all her stories,” Granddad says under his breath. “Just mind your manners, and if you cannae win someone over with your insolence, serenade them.”

“I’m not afraid,” I giggle. “But what will poor Jaden do if I sing? He’s so shy with his pipes, and still hasn’t found his true instrument.”

“Well, he can stand on his head while you recite something backwards, and I’m sure you’ll not be the worse as far as Saoirse is concerned.”

Mamma rolls her eyes and says that we should all start on our tasks. Sighing, Granddad stands to make for the fields, but sends Jaden and I a wink and wish of good luck before he goes. We reluctantly follow his lead.

We start with the goats. Jaden is only fifteen, so I remind him to keep an eye on the hooves and watch the animals for agitation.

“I’ve done this a hundred times before,” he moans. “I bet I could milk the goats twice as fast as you can.”

I grin. “And I’ve done this a thousand times. Plus, remember when that goat kicked you in the side?”

“That was forever ago when I was a wee babe!”

“It was hardly last year.”

“Wheesht—it wasn’t my fault!”

I snort. “You jumped up from your milking stool and stood right behind the beast.”

“Si said he was doing a backflip, and I couldn’t see past the goat!”

“And you thought he was serious? How gullible of you.” 

He tries not to let the corners of his mouth creep up, blowing a puff of air up at his golden-brown curls. 

“Just don’t be careless!” I laugh, double checking that the goat’s lead is secure before moving to set up my own stool.

“Readysetgo!”

“Oy—not fair!” I hurry to catch up.

~

By the time we start unpacking the trunks, it’s time for visitors. Katie Farfield arrives early with her two tykes and a basket of freshly baked tea cakes. Her husband Seamus is Granddad’s foreman, and they live in the field manager’s cottage. I give her a welcoming hug. She seems rather surprised, but pats my back politely before pulling away. 

“I’ve ne’er heard much about your homeland, Miss Diamond,” she says. “Can you tell me about it?”

“Oh yes!” I clap eagerly. “It’s small—more livestock than people, you know. Fewer than three dozen families live there, and less than half of them are Dwarves. There’s only one eatery, and our house serves as a meeting place for town functions—though, a Dwarven city isn’t too far, and that can provide some excitement. But the high cliffs of the Tower Hills and wild Blue Mountains to the west are the real treasures of Long Cleeve. It is picturesque.”

“Ah, sounds lovely,” she says civilly.

“You should visit! Then you’ll know real natural beauty.” 

She just nods and changes the subject.

Liam Goodbody, handsome heir to the Shire’s best furniture company, brings us an oak cutting board inlaid with cherry wood. He bows as we introduce ourselves—but furrows his dark brow at my outstretched arm.

“Don’t Shire folks have manners?” I chuckle. “You’re supposed to kiss my hand.” 

“Oh?” He laughs uncomfortably. “I defer to my parents and ladies as a rule—but I’ve, ah, never kissed the hand of a lass I just met.” 

We settle for a handshake.

Aunt Ruby asks us to tea next week, but soon after Mamma comes in to greet her, she dashes out the door exclaiming she “forgot to brush her rabbit chair!” Countless other guests bring food, invite us to reciprocate their visit, and worst of all, comment endlessly on our accents. They are fascinated by our “unusual” inflections, strong consonants and rolled “r’s” characteristic of the Broadbeam Dwarves.

“They’re the ones with accents,” Jaden whispers. “Lilting and all, like Mamma and Granddad.”

A few neighbors who are tenants of the Proudfoots seem familiar from when we were here fifteen years ago. Mr. Griffo makes dull witticisms and gets offended when I tease him. Miss Camilla awkwardly receives my embrace, but claims I’m “quite a beauty.” Mrs. Banks winks and tries to make me promise to behave when she introduces me to her sons later—whatever that means. 

When the Proudfoot sisters themselves come, they are quick to gossip about people I’ve never heard of, pinch Jaden’s cheeks, gawk at how tall I’ve grown, and marvel that my hair falls to my hips. 

“Locks like her father’s—hardly a curl to be seen,” May tuts. I furrow my brow. “Is that why you have braids pulling it out of your face in such a strange fashion? No texture or volume to it otherwise?”

“Look May—she could weave a basket from her hair!” Marsha reaches for the place where two plaits meet at the back of my head.

“Oy!” Jaden cries in my defense.

“Excuse me!” I scoff, flinching away.

“My word, child—it’s only hair,” May says, taken aback.

Anger and confusion curdle in my belly. Jaden widens his eyes, equally exasperated. “My hair is my own. I only let my intimate friends handle it.”

“Well… my apologies, if you feel that strongly about it,” Marsha mutters.

“Very odd,” May says. As they leave, they advise that we ought to stay in Tuckborough “if our mother has any sense at all.” 

Morning blooms into afternoon. Between the stream of callers, Jaden and I lazily pull books and sheets and clothing out of the trunks. 

“Haven’t had a knock in nearly an hour,” says Jaden hopefully. “Maybe that’s it for today!” 

Immediately, a tap at the door and a high pitched “Yoo-hoo!” float through the open window. 

“Your fault, you jinx.” I set my tongue between my teeth, but secretly yearn to be done with the awkward interactions. Mamma was right—I don’t expect we’ll ever belong here.

I open the door to two striking young ladies. The younger, perhaps thirty years old, has a strong chin, a frizzy cayenne mane, and wears a friendly smile. The older is a real beauty with her voluminous figure, perfect auburn curls, and radiant glee. Youthful freckles dapple their noses, showing no signs of fading. I straighten my posture and smile wider.

“Oh! Hello!” sings the elder sister. “My, you must be one of Mr. Brian’s granddaughters! I’m Pimpernel Bracegirdle—but of course, everyone calls me Pim—and this is my sister Pervinca Took. Our father is Thain^[7] Paladin of Great Smials—but you see, I’m recently married!” She lifts her left hand to display a huge sapphire ring, whispering, “It’s Dwarven make. I feel like such a princess! Well, it’s lovely to finally meet you and welcome you to town!”

Pervinca presses a bright bouquet of delphiniums and lupins into my hands. 

So these are two daughters of one of the Shire’s most important families? Rather more open than I expected—and more determined to be pleased by me than the others. I’m surprised and gratified. But, Mamma did say Shire folk are practiced actors.

“Da, I’m Diamond, Brian’s eldest granddaughter, and this is my brother Jaden!” I mirror Pim’s enthusiasm instinctively, and they already look delighted. “It is very nice to make your acquaintance, congratulations on your marriage—what a lovely ring by the way—and thank you for the kind words and flowers. Please, won’t you come in?” I beckon them inside, offering tea as I hand the bouquet to Jaden. He eagerly makes his escape to find a vase.

“I daresay we have time for a spot, right Vinca?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing: “It’s been too long since we’ve visited Harfoot Hollow. Your Brian and Daisy—rest her soul, the poor dear—usually would call on us!”

“I had no idea your whole family were on such friendly terms with them.” I bring the tea tray to the table and pour two cups. “Thank you for the honor of calling on us.”

“La! No need for such formality, dear—our father has known Mr. Brian for many years. And we adore the man too, don’t we, Vinca?” 

“He’s always quoting the loveliest verses,” Pervinca says tranquilly. My eyebrows shoot up. I never knew people outside my family who recognized his skill. “I wish I remembered poetry better.”

“Granddad has the heart of a poet,” I say proudly. He didn’t learn to read until he purchased Harfoot Hollow from his employer, but he’s always had an ear for rhymes. He made sure Mamma and her sister learned to read, and was delighted when Mamma married an educated man. “He taught me everything I know about the art. My Nana even had a book of love notes that he composed for her.”

“How darling!” “How romantic!” the sisters swoon. 

“So tell me Di—may I call you Di?” Pim sings. “Is all your family here, how was your home when you left it, and how long can we keep you all?”

“We don’t expect to stay beyond Blotmath.^[8] My father and older brothers—Malachite and Obsidian—are still in Long Cleeve. Papa is responsible for a good deal of land and beasts, which our town and the nearby Dwarf settlements rely on, so he is needed there.”

“That is fascinating!” The sisters regard me with awe and envy. I’m impressed with their interest, amazed that they have no backhanded comments, and thrilled when they don’t let the subject drop. I eagerly tell them all about the unique blended society we enjoy in Long Cleeve. Their attention puffs up my pride and lowers my suspicions.

“It is good Mr. Brian has more support for the summer,” Pervinca says sympathetically. “It can’t have been easy since Mrs. Daisy—”

“We were so shocked when she died. Stunned!” Pim gesticulates with fervor. Her sister quirks an eyebrow. “If ever a hobbit were to live forever, we would’ve thought it would be Daisy.”

“Thank you.” My throat tightens. Only two months ago, Nana was still full of sarcasm and vigor. The sisters take my hands—the first real comforting touch since we arrived. I blink away tears.

“It’s a shame,” Vinca says. “He really seems much younger than he looks. Such a lively conversationalist, and very witty.”

“You said you don’t plan to stay past the new year, though?” Pim asks. “What will Brian do when you leave?”

“Well…” I hesitate, but these girls seem safer than most. I should put them to the test. “Between you and me, my mother wants him to sell or lease Harfoot Hollow, and move to Long Cleeve with us. It’s just a question of how long it will take to convince him.”

The sisters blink in disbelief. “But Mr. Brian has lived in Tuckborough his whole life!”

“I didn’t say he would go without a fight, but it would be easier for everyone to be together, I think.” 

I lower my eyes, uncomfortable with the silence. The sisters exchange a glance. Pervinca nods almost imperceptibly.

“No… you are right,” says Pim. “That is a sensible plan. Much of our extended family lives together at Great Smials—dozens of relatives, in fact—so we enjoy all the benefits of togetherness! And, there’s enough space to avoid someone for weeks if you’ve a mind to.”

My eyebrows shoot up, and I relax into my seat. Maybe their friendliness is not contrived after all. “I’ve heard about the Great Smials… how large is it really?”

“It’s a mansion. A maze. The Great Hall alone can host most of the town for our winter festival!”

“I doubt any of us have explored all the passages,” adds Vinca, “except perhaps our brother.”

“It sounds spectacular. I would love to see it someday,” I say dreamily before my hand jumps to cover my mouth.

“And you shall!” exclaims Pim. I beam at them.

Pim is talking passionately and coaxing our mirth into the open when Jaden finally returns with the bouquet in a stone vase. He must have been stalling with Opal in the kitchen. 

“What do you think, misses?” he asks. “Is this jar fine enough for your flowers?”

“Lovely, my dear!” Pim sings. As Jaden sets the flowers on the mantle, she pretends to whisper, “You have a fine brother! Good manners and good taste. Our little brother was such a menace at that age. We simply cannot let them meet, or Jaden will be ruined!”

I snort, but Vinca nearly chokes on her tea from laughing so hard.

“And what are your pleasures when you’re not tending boring ladies like us?” Pim asks.

Jaden plops onto the sofa beside me. “I’m an entomologist.”

“Dear me, and what in the Shire is that?”

“Someone who studies bugs,” he gushes. “I like to collect them, draw them—and read about them, too! How they interact with plants and animals and things.”

We all laugh at the look of exaggerated distaste on Pim’s face. 

“Well, your enthusiasm is heartening... Just don't put them in anyone’s hair, as our brother did.” Pim shudders. “The cause of soooo many nightmares!” She winks, a signal that it’s safe to laugh.

“Jaden,” says Vinca, “I’m certain our family’s library has volumes on entomology.”

“Really?” His eyes light up.

“Of course!” Pim says, cutting off her sister. Vinca rolls her eyes, then smirks at me as if to say, ‘Can you believe her?’ I snicker. “And you both are welcome to borrow some whenever you please.”

“That is very generous,” I say, taken aback. “We will be sure not to take advantage of it.”

“La, don’t worry about that! No one reads those anyway. I’m sure Father will repeat the offer once he meets you.”

When it’s time for the sisters to leave, I walk them to the door. Pim brushes my shoulder.

“Di, my dear, the Lithe^[9] festival starts tomorrow. Your family must make an appearance, obviously, but we will absolutely die if you cannot slip away to spend the evening with us!”

Will Mamma even let us go? She would probably hate it, insisting we’d get disdainful looks from every direction. I shiver. But, if I remember anything from her lectures on the Shire, it’s that refusing an invitation without a reason is unforgivable.

“I will be inconsolable if my mother won’t spare me!” I set my tongue between my teeth, and they laugh aloud. I can’t help but take their hands to give them a grateful squeeze. Pim and Pervinca exchange a nod. 

“Oooh this is too delightful!” Pim squeals. “We’ve not had a new lass come to town in so long. We’ll get you all the best food and drink, and introduce you to lots of new friends, and you’ll have a long list of beaus^[10] by the night's end!”

My belly tightens. A long list of beaus?

They’re teasing me, I tell myself. Besides, Khamíd and I aren’t really… officially… I should be grateful for Pim and Pervinca’s eager friendship. Even so, I protest through laughter. “Wheesht! My mother will string you up for that kind of talk. She says twenty-one^[11] is too young for a beau.”

“Well, you’re a tad younger than I thought, but still only ten years behind Vinca. And as a married woman, it is my job and my pleasure to find you as many admirers as possible. Vinca won’t let me match her with anyone, so I demand you let me have my fun!”

If anything in life is certain, it’s that there is no denying Pim her fun.

Chapter Text

Echoes of cheers, laughter, and music reach us as we round the final bend. The afternoon is warm and the sun is bright. Even Mamma looks excited. But my siblings and I aren’t prepared for the sight on the other side of the hill.

The shallow valley on Tuckborough’s south side is filled with hundreds of hobbits, colorful tents staged in perfect rows, curated wagons brimming with yellow roses and gorse, and lanterns strung across the field. A well-rehearsed band performs on a stage near the back of the park, and people of all ages dance and clap before them. Food is piled high as hills; ale flows like rivers. Old hobbits argue, children run amok, and folks pass pipes between them. Then, the smell of fried dough and potatoes wafts our way, making my mouth water.

A banner hangs above the main road leading into the park which reads, Lithe 1416, Tuckborough. The town flag flies beside it—a perfect imitation of a yellow rose against a field as green as the rolling Hill Country. It’s the second-largest Midyear festival in the Shire—and even grander since it’s a leap year. 

I’m struck still. Never have I seen such a spectacular sight. 

“Mamma, Granddad—how could you keep such a secret?” Opal gasps. Long Cleeve’s festivals are lovely, but even Papa’s Yule^[12] party isn’t anywhere near this extravagant. “We had no idea Shirish parties rivaled those in Khôrun Luin!”

“Da, why haven’t we ever visited Tuckborough for Lithe?” Jaden whines.

“Don't look at me!” Granddad grumbles. “We tried for ages to get ye here for a gaff.”

“Midyear is a busy season,” Mamma sighs. “We could never get away spring to fall, and we have our own Yule ball in the winter. I do remember the festivals were wonderful growing up, but Eglantine Took has really stepped things up since I left.”

“Well, thank Elbereth^[13] we made it this year!” I laugh and twirl my way down the hill.

~

Pim and Pervinca find us near the banner, and I introduce them to Mamma and Opal. The sisters warmly shake hands and make expert small talk before asking to steal me away for the night. 

“Only if you take Opal with ye,” Mamma says. 

Eager for a night of independence, we hurry off with our new friends.

“You two look lovely,” Pim says sweetly. “Are these, ah, your best dresses?”

“These?” I glance down. “Eh—yes, aside from our winter things.”

“La, very good!” She nods rapidly. “Yes, always wear your best to these sorts of events.”

“And you did well to fix your hair nicely, too,” Vinca adds. Opal wears her usual two braids, while the top half of my locks are pulled back into a basket weave. “The care you took will make a good impression.”

We thank them, and my chest swells—pleased we did well without trying.

“First we drink,” Pim declares. She buys four mugs at the nearest tent, and the barman fills them to overflowing. 

“Cheers!” we cry, clinking our glasses. 

Vinca says it’s tradition to down your first beer in one draught, so we raise the bottoms to the sky—and emerge gasping and giggling.

“Right,” Pim continues, “a lap to watch the crowd—we’ll tell you who’s who. Then a lap for food and introductions to ladies. After that, we wash up for dancing! I’ll find you good partners—and if that gets dull, well, we’ll do whatever we please.”

“You really have ‘enjoying festivals’ down to a science,” I chuckle.

“Oh, Pim takes these kinds of gatherings very seriously,” Vinca says. “Especially since it’s your debut in society—though she sometimes—”

“Dear sister, you must admit I am right! Why anyone goes about things differently escapes me entirely.”

“As for me,” Opal chirps, “I am happy to be led on a leash. This is all so much, and I fear I need all the help I can get.”

“Oh, sweet cuckoo!” Pim sings in an exaggerated falsetto. “Come under my wing, and I shall not lead you astray!” 

She loops an arm around Opal and leads the way. Vinca and I exchange humored looks as we link arms and follow in step.

We stroll the park, the buzz of ale making everything magical. Opal gazes longingly at a stand with spun sugar, but Pim says she must wait until our second lap—“because it’s unladylike to eat and walk at once.” We pass gaming booths testing strength and skill, with whole pies as prizes. There are contests too: a drinking game with spirits dripping down contestants’ chins, a pipeweed show judged by popular vote (the leaf samples already eviscerated), and youths preparing their livestock for tomorrow’s show.

Vinca tells me about her love of painting and names nearly everyone we pass—detailing their relations and half their life stories. Many of them are not-too-distant relatives of hers. Pim expands on the local histories and customs surrounding the games and contests, hyping up all the events tomorrow and the day after. It’s lovely—a private tour from Tuckborough’s best-connected women.

The sheer elevation of their social status hits me: they hail from one of the most prominent families in all the Shire, of course. They have time for painting. For matchmaking. For hundreds of relatives and neighbors. It’s their job to know everything about Tuckborough.

Including my outlandish family, I suppose.

My swift favor with these socialites no longer feels like luck. It was a calculation. Pim and Pervinca’s kindness may be critical for our good reception, but I’ve never had to question whether a friend had false intentions before.

Everyone’s scrutiny suddenly weighs heavy. People turn to whisper to their neighbors, gawking as we pass. Are they talking about me? Are we making a good impression? The spotlight is thrilling and terrifying. I stand up straighter, donning my most charming smile. Opal must feel it too, because her gaze darts through the crowd while she takes deliberate breaths. I catch her eye. We nod solemnly, our thoughts in tune: Thank the Valar we had half a pint first.

Eventually we approach a ring of cheering and betting hobbits. 

“What is this?” I ask.

“Oh, there’s always a wrestling tournament to start the night,” says Pim. “It’s a popular sport for the lads around here.”

Vinca suggests we move to higher ground. Still, I have to crane my neck to see over heads and hats. 

One lad walks around the empty inner circle. He’s got a big grin on his face to hype up the throng, and encourages them to send a competitor his way. He is tall with long, toned limbs and an oval face ending with a sharp chin. Wavy auburn-brown hair frames his face. He’s not especially handsome or chubby—but everyone finds his wild mirth alluring, and he is more striking because of it.

“That’s Pippin,” Vinca yells in my ear. “He’s one of the best and—”

“But he’s not been champion yet!” Pim sings. “He’d better win this year or…”

Cheering drowns out the rest of what she says as a grim wrestler strips his waistcoat and lowers his braces. He is portly, but powerful. Anyone would have difficulty getting him off balance. There’s no way this Pippin will win—he’s too lanky.

The lads circle each other, taking their stances. Final bets are placed—and the competitors lunge into a grapple. They shift and block, eyes locked in a fierce mental battle. Neither can make a solid move before the referee calls time. The pair break, reset, and go at it again.

Suddenly, the stout hobbit lunges for Pippin’s waist. But Pip reacts like lightning—slipping one arm under his opponent’s armpit, threading the other beneath his knee—and the fellow topples onto his back. He tries to roll and twist out of grasp, but it’s no use. 

After five seconds, the referee calls the point. Pippin leaps up and helps the hobbit rise, laughing and egging on the crowd to bet more before the pair reset. I clap along. My brothers and cousins never wrestled with such precision and skill.

“Yoo-hoo! Pippin!” Pim sings at the top of her lungs. Pippin whips his head in our direction, and beams when he sees Pim. We lock eyes for a split second. I glance down to straighten my green stay. “I’m betting against you! You’ll owe me if I lose any money!” 

Pippin doubles over with mirth. When he straightens, he blows air-kisses our way, then turns to face his opponent once more.

“Even if Merry lets him win later, he’ll never beat Gorbadoc,” Pim says cynically. “Let’s go!” She strides away, and though I am curious about the next match, I turn and follow.

We weave through ever-tightening corridors as the crowd grows denser. Pervinca and Pim insist on purchasing all our food and ale—“We invited you, after all!” Their kindness continues to impress me—and free food is worth a little parading.

And we eat like queens: roast lamb, buttered corn, mushroom pie, fried potatoes— the most heavenly dish. Pim playfully scolds Opal when a snap pea drops down the front of her bodice, then makes us all lean forward comically to protect our dresses. We laugh, chatter, pass desserts between us in sticky-fingered delight. I savor the wonderfully strange sensation of sweet cotton melting on my tongue. 

By the time we’re filling up the corners, I recognize half the faces in the crowd—but have spoken to very few. I brace myself: the time for Shirish pleasantries has come.

“Ladies, this is Peony Chubb; Peony, meet Diamond and Opal Cleeveholm,” Pim says. 

Peony opens her arms slightly, and I wrap mine around her. She stiffens and hesitantly pats my back. My face flushes—wasn’t she opening up for an embrace? 

Pervinca coughs. I pull away to look behind me, where she and Pim curtsy.

“Oh.” I clear my throat and follow suit. “It’s, eh, very nice to meet you Peony.”

“Likewise,” she says, giving us an imitation smile. I glance between her and the Took sisters.

“I’m sorry—” I laugh loud and deep, covering my face with a hand. “But you looked so surprised just now! It was too funny!”

“Oh?” Peony eyes me curiously, but she can’t hold back a giggle. “It’s all right, I just didnae expect you to be so, ah, friendly.”

“Where we’re from, ladies always hug when they meet—at least among peers. And if you know someone even a little, a kiss on the cheek is practically required.”

“Well isn’t that… interesting?”

Something in her tone makes me blush. Pim leads us in making small talk, which is full of dull, pointless subtleties, until Peony takes her leave.

“Di,” Pervinca says gently, “hugging on a first meeting's considered a bit… forward in these parts.”

“I didn’t know,” I say. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. At least Opal is more reserved.”

“Don’t worry.” She takes my arm. “Just do as we do.”

My lip twitches. “And I imagine no kissing cheeks, either?”

“No,” she snorts. “Though I suppose you could get away with it among dear friends.” She pecks my cheek. My spirits lift, and I peck hers back.

I shake hands, make a few jokes, curtsy and say “good evening” to many others. Several people comment on our accents: “Your voices are very playful!” “How curious that you pronounce… that way.” “Just say more—I hardly care what!” 

I love performing, but not like this. It’s odd to force such formality.

Aubrey Brown is the only lass we meet who really interests me: she is saucy, droll, and effortlessly pretty with her darkly freckled complexion. Her kinky, rust-colored hair is haphazardly covered by an old scarf—but she holds her shoulders back and her head high, noble in her humble dress.

“Do you like Tuckborough so far?” she asks.

“Da, it’s very lovely,” I say. Pim gives me an approving nod before turning to introduce Opal to someone else.

“Dead on?” Aubrey asks flatly. “I’ve either witnessed a miracle or you have much less sense than everyone predicted.” 

I laugh, and a satisfied smile grows on her lips. “To be honest, I was just being polite. Folks seem quite reserved here, and some have been rude. It’s very strange.”

“Oh, don’t be so hard on me.”

I grin. “You are not what I expected! I like you.”

“Who, me?” She brings her hand to her collarbone. “I had no idea impertinence was fashionable in Long Cleeve. I certainly try to be as aloof as everyone else.” 

I laugh all the more.

Then, Vinca presents two girls about my age. “This is Orla and Fiona Tunnelly.” 

The former has glossy black curls tumbling past her lifted chin, the younger with eyes as brown as her pretty freckles. Fiona studies us from head to toe. We curtsy and greet them in the appropriate manner.

“Ah, charmed,” Orla says. She fingers a silver pendant at her throat, and turns with Fiona to Pim and Pervinca, speaking with animation—ignoring us. Opal and I stand by, unsure what to do until a lull in their conversation gives me an opening.

“Ehm, I adore your hair, Orla,” I say. Opal politely agrees. “It must be nice to have curls like you do. Much less work to make it look nice.” 

Her fingers go still on her pendant. The silent beat stretches.

“What a strange dress you have, my girl.” Fiona nods to my sister. “What is that design?”

“Eh,” Opal begins shyly. “You mean… graenik?^[14] Don’t you have graenik here?”

“No indeed! I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Smiles twitch on the their lips.

“I daresay it’s a Dwarven fashion.” Orla says.

“That’s right,” I say, confused by their dissonant words and expressions. “But it looks rather pretty on my sister, da?”

“Yes—right class!” Pim bobs her head. Orla and Fiona assent, but not convincingly.

“We had heard you were both beauties—for Long Cleeve, at least,” Orla adds. “You must have many swains back home, yes?”

“Eh… no, not really.” I try to shrug off growing disdain. Opal glances at me. “Not too many hobbits out that way.”

“No, of course not.” Orla gives us a smug look. My forehead creases.

“And no Dwarves?” Fiona asks. My face grows hot.

“I must admit, both of your hair is done very fine,” Orla says. “Another exotic style, I presume?”

“Sha, and what do you mean by that?” I plant my hands on my hips. “Do you have a problem with our plaits, or just with us?”

Orla blinks. Fiona arches her brows. The air between us shifts, their amusement turning sharper. Opal squeezes my hand—though I can’t tell if she’s grateful or begging me to back off.

“Oh how interesting,” Fiona murmurs, her lip twitching up.

“Why, there’s no problem at all, Diamond,” says Orla with a saccharine smile. “Your braids are exactly as fascinating as you are, I’m sure.”

I glare. If I quip back at her, she’ll surely pretend like she said nothing insulting at all. Steam builds in my head. Am I overreacting? What did she say that was so bad?

Pim and Pervinca hastily redirect our attention as the tittering Tunnellys move away.

“This way! This way!” Pim shoos us to the edge of the crowd.

“Why are we going to the forest?” I ask.

“There’s a stream just through the trees to wash our sticky hands and greasy faces before dancing.” 

My disappointment builds as we weave through elongating shadows. They are preparing us to be studied, not welcomed.

“Why aren’t more people washing up here?” Opal asks as we come to the clean water.

“Apparently, we’re the only ones who care about hygiene!” Pim exclaims. “Honestly, I have no idea what the other girls do.”

“Maybe they don’t eat much?” Opal suggests.

“Or they pick their teeth when they think no one’s looking?” I nudge her, and she elbows me back. Pim had corrected her on this misstep earlier.

“And what about the fellows, hm? Do they get to be covered in grease and have food stuck in their teeth?” Vinca challenges.

“Bah, you know how they get away with everything,” Pim says, to her sister’s outrage. “What? I don’t make the rules!”

“Other lasses must go to the same pains if they want to impress,” I say, splashing my face. “There’s no one here to see us—maybe they assume we are effortlessly fresh after stuffing our faces for an hour.”

“I certainly hope so! We must make everyone believe we have magic.” 

Vinca chortles and splashes her sister. 

Once we’re clean, Pim gives each of us a thorough inspection. Maybe it’s over-the-top, maybe she’s embarrassed of us—but maybe she wants our introduction to Tuckborough to be perfect.

“You all look so lovely,” she gasps. 

She’s right, too—Opal’s midnight graenik “contrasts her thick brown hair perfectly;” my green stay and skirt “brighten my hazel eyes;” Vinca’s cerulean outfit “makes her shine brighter than the full moon.” 

“I expect both of you to dance as long as possible, and tomorrow, everyone will love the Cleeveholm girls as much as I do!” Pim squeals, winking. “I plan to claim all the credit for introducing you to the town, of course—so make me proud!”

~

I should have got more ale. 

As soon as we emerge from the forest, a ruddy lad asks Pim to introduce us. He invites me to dance, and that is the last I see of my friends for nearly the rest of the evening. Then, hardly has my strathspey with Everard finished when Liam Goodbody cuts in. It’s nice to see a familiar face. He’s cheerful, but not mirthful—carrying the conversation easily without revealing too much of himself.

But apparently, the masses do not know we met the other day and collectively decide I’m fair game, no introductions needed. Not that I mind—I love to dance—but is it improper? I try to catch Pim’s eye. She’s distracted. So, I surrender with alacrity to every stranger who offers a hand.

My popularity seems more a product of curiosity than generosity—or maybe because I’m “uncommonly pretty,” as a few lads declare. Most partners are tolerable, even pleasant, but their questions are well-rehearsed and prying. Others are more polite than friendly, and soon don’t know what to say. In these silences, I wish desperately for Khamíd’s company—we’re never at a loss for words.

But besides Liam, only Cormac Banks—one of Mrs. Banks’s sons—is truly sweet. He doesn’t treat me like a show pony, though he does flutter nervously. It’s fun to catch him off-guard and tease him until he blushes. 

I scan the crowd as my aching feet fly across the grass. Vinca does not dance with lads as a rule, preferring conversation from the bench. Opal steps shyly with some nice lads. Pim’s husband twirls her gleefully through the crowd, their eyes bright with affection—but when the song ends, they part readily for the rest of the night. Shouldn’t newlyweds be more… inseparable?

During a medley with a boorish partner (who’s said more than once how Long Cleeve must be “positively manky”), a familiar face catches my attention: Pippin sits by a dark-blonde hobbit in a yellow waistcoat—and both of them are eyeing me. I blink and turn away, hoping they didn’t notice me staring. Soon, though, my embarrassment yields to curiosity. I risk another peek. They’re arguing, laughing, drinking—and looking frequently in my direction.

“Ahem. I said: How do ye like Tuckborough?” Murphy demands. 

“What?” My attention takes a moment to shift back to him. “Eh, just fine.” The effort of smiling grows with each step of this endless jig. “I look forward to walking in the woods around here. The Hill Country seems quite lovely.” 

“And the company int shite.” He chuckles, breath is heavy with ale. I clench my teeth. “Oh come now—you know I mean sparse.”

I ease back, hoping to protect my toes from another stomp. “The locals are the very definition of gracious hosts,” I say lightly. “Their hospitality is well-rehearsed, their compliments as scripted as a play. I’m quite impressed with the whole performance—it’s a marvel you don’t charge admission!” 

He pauses, probably trying to work out my meaning. “So… you’re not fond of the place?”

“Don’t look so serious—I was only teasing.” I smile, hoping to make up for my outburst.

“Oh…” He knits his brows together. “I guess you are a wit.”

“Sha, if you say so.”

“And you’re much prettier than I thought you’d be.”

What did he think I would be? Why did he think anything at all? Still, the shoddy compliment would have been more welcome had he listened to a single word I’ve said tonight.

Blessedly, the music stops. I curtsy and turn—when he stops my elbow.

“Let’s dance again,” he says.

I hesitate, glancing around. “Eh, I’m a bit tired. Maybe later—”

“The next one’s a waltz.” He shrugs. “Easier to talk. And, no one’s cutting in.”

But my patience for Shirish niceties is waning. “Are you asking or ordering?”

“It’s just one more dance. Is everyone in Long Cleeve this rude?”

I jerk my elbow away. He scowls. “I should get back to my friends.” I walk away, but he follows, insisting. I scoff and whirl around. “Are you seriously ignoring me?” 

Murphy flinches back—

“Scuse me, lad, but may I cut in?” 

The hobbit with dark blond curls edges in-between us. Murph straightens his posture.

“We were just about to start another dance, actually,” he mutters.

“Really? Didn’t look that way to me.”

Murphy stares him down, but the newcomer doesn’t budge. I roll my eyes—this display is utterly ridiculous. At last, Murph gives me a resentful nod and stomps away. 

The stranger smiles at me.

“Sorry to butt in like that, but my friend and I noticed you refusing that farmhand—he’s jolly bad, that one, so I don’t blame you for scorning an invitation, even without an excuse.”

I cock my head. “Do all fellows think chivalry is necessary around here?”

“Oh—well ah, not that you needed a rescue.” 

Was I too harsh? He seems earnest, even if a little nosy. Maybe I should give him a chance. 

“Did you want to dance with him again?” he asks. “Oi, I always knew I was dumb as a doornail.”

I grin. “I was only making fun. I would have been fine on my own—but, it has been a long night, and I presume you had noble intentions.”

“It was nefarious from the start—I wanted to make your acquaintance over a dance.” He offers a hand. “I will learn from Murphy’s blunder if you are still too tired, but I’d happily lead you down the floor if you’ll have me, miss…?”

“Diamond. Cleeveholm.” I curtsy and let him sweep me away with the waltz.

“I’m Meriadoc Brandybuck—or just Merry.” 

A Brandybuck—from Buckland, beyond the Shire’s border—just like Long Cleeve. I arch one eyebrow. “Merry by name, merrier by nature?”

“I believe many would say so,” he snickers. “So, a Cleeveholm, ‘ey? You didn’t happen to come from Long Cleeve, did you?” 

I hesitate. He’s already fishing for gossip. “Yes… I arrived earlier this week.”

“Settling in nicely?”

“Da,” I exaggerate. “The neighbors are very kind, and Pim and Pervinca Took are especially welcoming.”

“Pimsy and Vinca? Welcoming? ”

My heart trips. “What do you mean?” Are they false friends?

“Their father is my uncle. Those girls would always try to put me in dresses, fix my hair, mock me. If I resisted, all three sisters would scold me. Can’t say I never deserved it, o’ course—but last week I said I did not want to wear a purple petticoat, and they would not listen.” A mischievous gleam comes to his eye. “Cried for an hour, I did.” 

I laugh so hard I snort. 

“So,” Merry says, grinning. “You making pile of friends tonight?"

“Ehm…” I glance away. “I don't know. People are hard to read here. Many seem put off by me for no reason at all, and many others say the strangest things.”

He groans knowingly. “My father holds that in the Shire, no one says what they mean, nor do they mean what they say.”

“Exactly!” I exclaim. “Everything has some hidden meaning here that I can't quite grasp. Take earlier: two girls were complimenting my sister and I, but it seemed… malicious, somehow.”

“What did they say?” he asks. I tell him. “Well, you really put your foot in it, implying Orla couldn't fix her hair.”

“What! That’s not at all what I meant!”

“She doesn’t know you’re so straightforward! But it's all right—sounds like she and Fiona deserved to have their feathers ruffled a little.”

I blush. “Well—what would you have said?”

He twirls me before answering. “I would have told her that a worldly flair adds character and consideration—and that her education must be lacking in that, if I was feeling cheeky.”

I gape at him. “How did you think of that so quickly?”

“Practice.” He smirks.

I shake my head. “It is strange coming to such a different place. Long Cleeve is very tight-knit, so it feels wrong being on the outside.”

“Well, I know what you mean—hobbits do love a bit of gossip. They'll talk about you until the next time I make a spectacle of myself.”

I laugh deep and heartily.

“I must ask,” he goes on, “don’t your Grandfather and Aunt live here? How is it that Tuckborough is so new to you?”

“Ah, well… It is a four day journey to Long Cleeve, so you know how it is.”

“Come now, you can do better than that!”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a three day walk from here to Buckland, but that’s never stopped me from visiting often.”

I huff. “You must be very well-to-do if you can afford to be away from your livelihood so often. Not everyone is so lucky.”

“Oi—you have taken me unawares once again!” Merry throws his head back, making me crack up. “But, if you’re too vague, folks will assume you have something to hide. You have to give them just enough to satisfy their curiosity.”

“Ehm…” I pause for a moment as the waltz shifts into a reel. “Our family was always so busy with our… property and village—my father being prominent there—that we rarely spared the time to come here. And during the off-season, it usually snows too much for easy travel.” 

“That’s better!”

“But I assure you we have family morals—it’s just that my grandparents and aunt were usually the ones to visit us.”

“Really? Ruby Hornblower seems like a rather private person.”

“That’s true.” I shrug. “Granddad and Nana came every Yule, but Ruby only sometimes. We’re really only as close as quill and paper allow—but I love how eccentric she is.”

“That’s exactly how I’d describe her. Eccentric…” Merry’s smile widens. “And what about you, Diamond of Long Cleeve? Does eccentricity run in the family?”

I want to repay him for his kindness, to show him I can be clever, too.

“Well, between you and me,” I lean close and whisper, “I’ve always hated cheese curds on toast.”

It’s a standard teatime snack in the Shire—disliking it is disliking small-talk. Which I do. And he completely loses it. Folks all around stare as we gasp for breath, keen to know what we were talking about. I try to ignore them. We don’t recover until the set finishes.

“See, you’re already getting the hang of it,” he says.

I smile gratefully. “Thank you for the dance, Merry. But I fear I must sit down or my feet may never work again.”

“Then I’ll escort you to a bench and fight off anyone who threatens you with a jig.” 

We walk to the edge of the crowd. I glance around for Pim, Pervinca, Opal—no luck. The only gazes I meet are foreign.

A stunning lass calls Merry’s name as she approaches. Her perfect smile is punctuated by an exquisite mole, and the gold rings in her long black box braids shimmer in the lantern light. 

“The next one is a strathspey suite, which I only dance with you,” she says.

Merry and I catch our breaths. She raises a groomed eyebrow at him, but I go entirely unnoticed.

“You are so beautiful,” I murmur.

She turns to me in surprise. “Oh—didn’t see you there. Charming.” 

“Sorry Diamond, this is Estella Bolger,” Merry says. “Estella: meet Diamond Cleeveholm.”

She nods formally. “Well Diamond, however beautiful I may be, it seems you are the belle of the ball tonight.”

“If that’s true, it is a great injustice while you are in attendance.” I curtsy. She looks me over, wary. “I didn’t know Shire hobbits braided their hair like Dwarves! It’s not exactly the Blue Mountain fashion—but you must know some from the east who taught you?”

Her expression cools. “The ladies in my father’s family have braided our hair for generations. It’s practical. But I assure you I have hobbit maids to dress it for me.”

I blink, sensing some misstep. I glance at Merry, who widens his eyes. “Ehm—I’m sure you’re right! I only meant that your hair reminded me of the elegance of Dwarven royalty.”

“Do not mock me,” she warns. “I have no patience for false flattery from upstarts.”

“Mock?” I frown, coals smoldering in my belly. “That was sincere. If calling your hairstyle Dwarvish is an insult, then I’m insulted. Dwarves are noble, wise, honorable—and their craftsmanship? Finer than anything made in the Shire.”

I can’t stop my voice from climbing.

“And you would know if I was lying, because I’m terrible at it!” I throw my hands up, nearly smacking Merry’s arm. “Oy—is everything backwards here? Has everyone gone mad?”

My breath catches as the words hang. Estella and Merry blink at me—then they exchange a glance, and shriek with laughter.

“Sha… maybe everyone is mad,” I mumble, completely at a loss.

“A delightful menace!” Merry guffaws.

“Merry, Merry—I like your friend! Let’s keep her around to sic her on our foes!” Estella wipes her eyes, her smile back to dazzling.

“Eh… sorry?” I snort, unsure if I’ve made a friend or a fool of myself.

“Don’t worry, Estella has a secret affinity for the shocking and rebellious,” Merry says.

“Don’t spoil her opinion of me!” She swats his arm lightly. “I look forward to our next meeting, Diamond. Now, let’s go.”

Merry gives me a Shirriff’s salute, takes Estella’s arm, and disappears into the crowd. 

I’m left speechless. I want to laugh with them, and almost do—but something pulls in my chest. Am I nothing but a spectacle? A novelty?

All the noise and light is suddenly too much. I scan the crowd again. No sign of my friends—though plenty of people whispering and glancing my way. I clench my fists and slip beyond the treeline.

~

The evening deepens. I make my way carefully, protecting my skirts from thorny bushes. At the stream, I grope for a seat in the dark and sink into a rock. I lean back to look up at the stars bathing the world in soft light. My favorite time to daydream

“Elbereth,” I whisper, “your stars are the most beautiful things in all the world.”

Sometimes I think I can hear Her whisper back to me. Just tiny acknowledgements. Little encouragements, as musical as nightingales. But tonight, She is silent.

The heat of ale has long faded—a warmth that I was hoping to find among people. Instead, I’m exhausted. Later I’ll want to remember every detail of tonight, to relive and relish it—but now, the disappointment is too fresh. I close my eyes and inhale deeply.

A creaking to my left rouses me from wandering thoughts. The tall tree sways, but I can’t move out of the way. I watch, frozen, as it crashes to the ground directly in front of me. The boughs are still bouncing when I hear the chip of axes striking wood. More and more beautiful trunks fall. I try to stand, but am stuck. Why cut wood during the Midyear’s Eve party? 

A flicker catches my attention. Flames creep up in the distance. Oh no. My heart drums, but I can’t move. Smoke fills the air. Ash falls like snow—a whip cracks, followed by wicked jeering. I crane my neck, still stuck to my seat as the shadows of Big People shift through the greenwood. My chest tightens with fury. My veins fill with courage. Finally, I rise tall and proud against the flames—

I startle awake. The sky is completely dark, stars shrouded by clouds, and all the trees about me are standing. I wonder how long I dozed off? The dream was so vivid, I almost thought it was real… 

The air by the stream is damp. I shiver, longing for the heat I felt seconds ago. I listen for sounds of the festival and stand, eyes still adjusting to the pitch black—when leaves rustle. An animal? A Big Person? My head blindly whips from side to side. I turn, take two steps and—

“Ach!”

“Oy!” A grunt escapes me as I fall to the ground.

“Hooisit?” asks a lilting, tenor voice. “Are you all right? Did you hurt anything?”

“I—I’m all right. I think my head smacked something hard.” 

A hand touches my shoulder. I grasp the arm and the stranger pulls me to my feet.

“You knocked my chin a good one, but you might be worse off.” He keeps hold of my arms so I don’t fall over. Then his hands move to cup my jaw. “Can ye stand all right, lass? You seem a bit unstable.”

“My eyes are adjusting, is all.”

“There’s not much light to adjust to. Clouds are covering the stars.”

He slowly releases me. Still uneasy from the fall, I reach for his forearm. “I can balance fine, but I’m afraid that without feeling where you stand I’ll just bump into you again.”

“Fair ‘nough.”  The stranger closes his hand over my elbow. For some reason, the hairs on my arm prickle pleasantly.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“The name’s Pippin. Who’re you?” 

“Diamond. Diamond Cleeveholm.”

“Sorry to knock you over, Diamond. I can almost promise it will never happen again.”

I laugh and relax a little. “Wasn’t your fault.”

“Say, you’re right. You’re the one standing stalk-still, alone in the dark in the woods. You were bound to get plowed over at some point.” I smile at the grin in his voice. “What’s that about?”

“I just came in here to get a break from the crowd. I think I fell asleep on that rock.”

“Not a very comfortable place to rest, I’d think. But perhaps I ought to give it a try first.”

I snicker. His easy playfulness is comforting. “Any place will do if you’re tired enough.”

“Aye, I dinnae doubt that… So who sapped your spirits: the young lads, the young lasses, or the old biddies?”

“Eh… all of them at once, I suppose.”

“Weeell, they all mean well, believe me. We don’t have Lithe every week, and some folk are likely to get carried away. Everyone wants to dance with and talk with and talk about the pretty new lass in town, it’s only natural. Don’t let ‘em scare ye away.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks, partly from the compliment, and partly because he knows who I am. “Did you win the competition?”

“The whit now?”

“The, eh… wrestling thing? Earlier? I saw you score a point—just curious if you won or not… Pim kept saying you wouldn’t…” I could slap myself for rambling like a dobber!

“Oh, that. Of course I did.”

“You did? Really?”

“Don’t sound so surprised!”

“Sha, how would I know?”

He pauses. “No, you’re right. I’d not believe me either—which is a shame, because the only prize is bragging rights.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough for most people.”

“It’s not enough if no one believes you.”

“You’re the only one who lacks faith in me, love.”

“I’m not in the habit of putting my faith in strangers,” I say archly. “Besides, you admitted your victory far too confidently.” 

“Is that so?”

“And you hesitated before answering. Not very convincing, sir.” 

He laughs, and I beam triumphantly. 

“They post the name of the winners of every contest on the bulletin in the town square. You can see for yourself Monday.”

“Hmph.” I lift my chin, unconvinced. “I guess we'll just have to wait and see, then.”

“So Diamond…” He wrinkles his nose. “Perhaps we should get back to the land of light?”

I shrug. “Lead the way.” 

He turns, letting his hand slide from my arm to my fingers. He’s not nearly as shy as most folks I’ve met. His grip is solid but not too tight—a welcome comfort.

“And don’t forget to trip here and there so I don’t have to,” I say. That wins me another chuckle. “So Pippin… why are you alone in the dark in the woods?”

“I’m not alone. I’m with you.”

“I mean before you were with me?”

He thinks for a moment. “I guess you could say I was looking for something.” There’s mischief in his voice, but he doesn’t explain further.

A soft lantern glow cascades around us as we leave the trees, and I finally get a good, up close look at him: waves of paprika and cinnamon frame his face, insolent and sweet like his playful countenance, which softens his sharp chin; bright green eyes shine like wild grass in the moonlight; a slight smile reveals a chip in his canine tooth. There’s an innocence about him, an inquisitiveness in his gaze as he searches the horizon. 

He releases my grip. I scold myself for feeling disappointed—of course he only held my hand to prevent another accident, not as a friendly gesture. He’ll probably ask me to dance though, right? Everyone else wanted to, even if just to prod me about Long Cleeve.

“Weeeell…” he begins cheerfully. His eyes want to say something, ask something, prolong our encounter, or perhaps memorize how I look at this very moment— “Sorry for the bruise. I think I see Pimsy over there.” 

He gestures to some benches where Pim sits chattering with middle-aged ladies. 

“I’ll be seein ye!” He nods and walks toward the food tents, hands in his pockets, whistling an old melody. He doesn’t look back.

All at once I’m surprised, charmed, frustrated—at Pippin for leaving so abruptly, for not wanting to dance with me; at myself for expecting anything, for standing here like a fool. Why do I even care? I certainly shouldn’t, for a number of reasons. I think of Khamíd’s grounding black eyes and sigh. 

Pippin is just one more dashed hope after a long night of being entirely out of place. It’s not like I’m going to lay awake at night thinking about all my embarrassment and isolation—except that’s exactly the kind of thing I would do.

I shake myself. Time to get back to Pim.

But before I’m fully out of the trees, movement catches my eye. A couple stands behind a tree, fully absorbed in each other—Merry Brandybuck and… What’s her name? Pansy something? 

He’s whispering to her, their faces close. She smiles, blushing. He pecks her cheek. And as he slowly retreats, she turns her face and their lips meet. 

I avert my eyes and keep walking. 

Not that it’s my business who Merry canoodles, and not that I care, but I thought he was completely taken by that Estella girl earlier. Their mutual affection seemed so obvious, my heart cracks a little for her. 

But maybe I read things wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time today.

Chapter Text

It’s noon on Monday. Doves warble in the distance as I perch on the back porch. Jaden combs the grass for bugs. The festival days could only distract me from grief and homesickness for so long; and now, only creating keeps me sane.

Jaden draws near and places two treasured caterpillars by my feet. “Look at these!”

I smile. “Beautiful. Are you going to keep them until they turn to butterflies?”

“Don’t you know anything?” He sighs and continues his search. “Cabbage moths—not butterflies!”

“If only I knew as much and as little as you,” I tease, flipping through my journal. 

My finger stops on an old poem. I don’t need to read it—I can still taste the bittersweet news that inspired it, and the day I felt the impermanence of all things.

“There you are!” Khamíd had exclaimed, walking up the hill. His black hair hung long and wild about his angular face. The air was crisp and cool before the first snow, and I sat in my saddle, watching my dog Tess rouse the sheep to head home.  “I was supposed to reshoe your pony—but here you are, still grazing.”

“The sheep think the day is too fine and do not want to come home!” I laughed. “Very obstinate of them.”

“Well, I have to show you something.” His grin, unusually un-serious, stretched wide. 

I dismounted. He tossed a steel orb—groaning when I nearly dropped it. The perfect sphere, no larger than an apple and polished like a mirror, weighed cool and heavy in my hands. I caught my breath. Engraved across the entire surface were lines and dots and Dwarven runes. 

“Khamíd… this is incredible.”

“I thought you would like it.” He smiled at his feet. “The detailing was difficult. Don’t look too closely, or you’ll see all the mistakes!”

“You made this?” I gasped. “What does it say?”

“It’s a map of the stars, oh lover of Elbereth!”

I looked again. All the constellations his family had taught me were accounted for. His black eyes watched me intently. I felt a jolt when I met his gaze again, and my cheeks grew hot.

“I’m going to submit it to the Guild.”

“You’re what?” I flinched. “The Smithing Guild? But—you’re too young to join, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” He shrugged. “But I’m confident about this. When I’m at the forge, I almost feel... as if it calls to me. My destiny is bound to crafting, somehow. Do you know what I mean?”

Just like the stars, for me. I nodded earnestly—but worried he’d forget about Long Cleeve if he got in.

“Who knows if I have a chance,” he said. “But this is something I was born to do.”

My heart swelled—and sank. Khamíd already knows what he’s meant for; I’m still listening for my purpose.

“Diamond!” Mamma yells from the kitchen. 

I startle back to the present. The fields are quiet—save trilling birds and Granddad’s farmhands at work. I sigh, wishing I could go back to where I belong as often as Khamíd does.

“Da?” I yell back.

“Come inside, for heaven’s sake!”

Jaden sticks his tongue out. Deflating, I tie my books with a length of twine, dust off my brown kirtle, and head through the round back door.

“Darling, I need you to go to town and pick up some staples,” Mamma says.

“You mean… right now?”

“Aye, Diamond! Opal just realized we’re completely out of meal. I would go myself, but I have to take the mule to get reshod.”

“All right,” I groan. If only Khamíd could mind the mule. “I was just surprised. I’ll go.”

“Tone,” she warns, pulling a leather purse from her pocket. “Here’s some money, plus a little extra just in case. And the list—” she hands me a leaf of paper with at least a dozen items— “don’t lose it, and make sure you come home with everything.”

I read through it. “How do you expect me to carry all this?”

“There’s a trolley in the storehouse. All right?”

I sigh. “I’ll manage.”

“We’re out of wine!” Granddad bellows as he hurries in. “Add that to the list.”

“Dad, we don’t need any wine,” Mamma grumbles. “You’ve been drinking too much.”

He just leans closer, loudly whispers, “Add it to the list,” and taps the paper. I stifle a giggle. Mamma rolls her eyes and orders me to eat a sandwich before I go.

 As I throw together my meal, she stares unblinking out the window, completely still.

“Mamma?” I ask softly. “Are you thinking of Papa?”

She takes a sharp breath. Her eyes are misty, but she smiles and kisses my head. “Aye. I miss him very much.”

My parents are rarely parted for more than a day, so their decision to split up for five months was a painful one. But it was necessary. Practical. Papa is needed in Long Cleeve, and Mamma is needed here. It makes me think about being away from Khamíd—a friend when I left, but perhaps with the understanding of something more. I wonder how much he misses me?

After my face is sufficiently stuffed, I head to the storehouse. Bags of seed and broken tools clutter the floor. The trolley is rough with splinters—yet another discomfort to endure. I set it on the road, take hold of the leather lead, and begin the mile trek toward the village.

“Good morning, Diamond!” calls a baritone voice behind me. “Or—afternoon, rather.”

I turn with a wide smile—it’s Cormac Banks, Granddad’s nearest neighbor and tenant of the Proudfoot sisters. “Hello stranger! What brings you up the road?”

He grins bashfully. “Post office for my ma, and a few calls in town about odd jobs.”

“And I’m going to the market. Shall we walk together?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

I take his arm. But it isn’t long before I notice how stiff he is—and remember the unusual attitudes of this place.

“Oy, sorry.” I start to pull my arm away—

“Oh—no bother,” he says quickly, patting my hand to keep it in place. I hesitate, but he doesn’t say more. How kind of him to set aside his embarrassment to spare mine.

Cormac glances around like he’s searching for his confidence. We try out a few topics—our families, the beauty of a blooming flower, the pleasing shape of a tree—but the conversation is stale. He scratches at his curls. His freckled, boyish smile flickers on and off his brown face. It’s surprising, really—Granddad says he’s well-read for his means, so he ought to have more pride. Anyone in the Shire who wants an education can get one, of course, but it’s harder if you aren’t of the gentry or aristocracy, and have to start working young like him. And yet Cormac isn’t cocky. He hasn’t said an unwelcome word to me yet.

Soon, the cobbled streets of the bourgeois district rise to meet us—as do the curious glances and hurried whispers. I haven’t the slightest idea why. Maybe they find me ‘uncommonly pretty?’ My stomach tightens with pride and frustration, like I’m some beast on display.

“I have several places to go,” I say, releasing Cormac’s arm. “Meet me by the bulletin when you’re done?” 

“Really?” he asks. “Sure—yes, it’s a plan.” He clears his throat and hurries off.

I chuckle and step into the butcher shop for two lamb shanks and a pound of stew cuts. Movement catches my eye through the window as I pay. Beside the store, Pansy sighs profusely with one of her friends. I wonder if she remembers me? I glance their way as I leave.

“Oh goodness, Pansy—well what did ye expect?” her friend says.

“I dinnae know! I thought he’d want to marry me, I s’pose.”

“Our fathers are nobodies!”

They must be talking about Merry. I wonder what happened between them—were they swains for long? Or, is he a rake and she a fool?

Pansy sees me and pales. I wave, but she only pulls her friend away—perhaps thinking I was intentionally eavesdropping.

Sighing, I march on to the miller to buy huge bags of flour and cornmeal. My trolley groans under the weight—one back wheel wobbles, dragging the cart to the left. Then I stop at the tailor for buttons, the charcoal burner, the cheesewright, and the Sugarloaf Bakery, where the baker and his wife bicker right in front of customers. I’m mortified for them—and their son, forcing apologetic smiles as he tends the counter.

After fighting with my cart all the way to the town square, I abandon it outside the Bramblewood Barleyhouse. The tavern is dim, all dark wood and paneled walls. A few early diners murmur over their meals. As I approach the empty bar, delicate footsteps hurry from behind, and Aubrey Brown ducks under the counter.

“Didn’t expect to see you stop by for a morning tipple,” she says flatly—but a gleam in her eye makes me smile.

“I just need some wine. It’s on the… list.” I flap the paper. “I think Granddad likes Thistlebrook Red.”

She dives behind the bar. “Size?”

“Eh…” Mamma didn’t want me spoiling money on any liquor, but I can’t bear Granddad’s disappointment. “Better go with something in the middle.” 

She springs back up with a dusty bottle. I pass her coin, and she wraps it up in brown paper and twine.

“I didn’t realize you work here. Do you like tending the bar?”

“It pays.” She takes up a mug to clean. “And you could say I’m on the cutting edge of the happenings in town.” 

I suppose that includes talk about my family. Aubrey might be a valuable ally, helping me stay one step ahead of the gossips—or a loose-lipped liability.

“Do you have aspirations outside of work?” I ask. “Duties to your family?”^[15]

“My twin brother’s my only family. We just try to get by.”

I draw my brows together. “I’m so sorry. What happened to your parents?”

“My mum cooked a bad meal one night, so she and Dad strangled each other—”

“Oh my!”

She smirks and wipes down the counter. “They got the white plague twelve years ago. Sent us to stay with Mr. Firkin—the proprietor here—so we didn’t catch it.”

After a pause, I snicker. “Funny. I like you even more than I thought.” 

She rolls her eyes, but a smile hints on her lips. 

“My mother says Tuckborough isn’t a hospitable place,” I go on. She shrugs, striding down the bar to gather glasses. I follow. “But surely she’s wrong about Mr. Firkin, at least?”

“My mum tended bar for him. We have kin in surrounding villages, but they’ve too many wains and too little money to keep us. After my parents passed, they carted us from house to house for weeks until—” She shakes her head. “Why am I telling you this?”

“Sha, I did ask.”

“Aye. Well,” she sighs, “when Firkin realized how miserable we were, he gave Heath and me jobs and rented a delving for us here. Heath runs the kitchen now, and I’m head barmaid. It’s enough to pay back some kindness.”

“I honor your hardships,” I bow my head, “and the hard work pulling you out of them.”

She snorts. “What an odd little duck you are.”

I frown. “Now hold on just a minute—”

“Easy!” She waves me down. “I like how strangely you talk. I’m a bit of an odd duck myself.”

“So you don’t mind new things? Or… new people?”

Her eyes glint playfully. “I’ve got plenty of my own problems and no time for a’body—but, I’ve no time for snobbery either, if you take my meaning.”

I think of Merry’s lesson at Lithe and reach for something clever. “Da, you don’t strike me as someone with that kind of sophisticated taste.” 

Aubrey breaks her straight-face for a chuckle. “I’ve little time for friends. You’ll have to distract me from the dullness of this place to be worth my while.”

I brighten. “If I’m not interesting or impertinent enough, no one is.” 

She smiles, and the hope of her friendship bubbles in my belly.

Glass shatters by the back booth, snapping us out of the conversation. Three curly heads roar with laughter—Merry, Pippin, and a stranger. 

“Eejit!” Merry chides. “Said you’d break it, didn’t I?”

“Troublemakers,” Aubrey growls, already stalking over. “So you think you can come to my tavern and horse around like children?”

“Sorry Aubrey,” they chorus. Pippin catches me staring. I smile with my tongue between my teeth, and he sputters.

“Which of you’s gonna clean this up? It sure as spit won’t be me!” 

I slip out, door closing on the lecture behind me. With a heavy sigh, I drag my lopsided trolley to the grocery—my last stop. The cart won’t fit in narrow aisles. I park it outside.

“Hai! Diamond!” Merry Brandybuck trots over. I pause to greet him with a pat on the arm. “I thought I saw you leaving the Barleyhouse just now. How’s the day treating you?”

“I’m feeling a bit unbalanced after my lunchtime whiskey,” I tease, “but otherwise, I’m well. You run into some trouble with Aubrey?”

“Not me—I’m the responsible one,” he snickers. I think back to Pansy, and doubt that very much. “My cousin and Fatty weren’t so lucky.”

“Fatty?”

“Fredegar Bolger—but everyone calls him Fatty, considering his respectable girth. I would’ve introduced you if you’d come to say hello.”

“I thought it was best not to cross Aubrey’s war path.”

He laughs. “Wise lass!” 

I wave him after me. “Come—we can talk while I shop.” 

He follows me inside. “So, how’d you like the festival? Meet anyone interesting besides me?”

I roll my eyes. “Interesting or interesting? I was told repeatedly how ‘interesting’ I am.”

“Ah yes—no one in the Shire is as fascinating as us foreigners.”

I laugh as I sift through the tomatoes. “I would’ve liked to not be picked apart, but I did meet a few who caught my interest.”

“They must have been hiding in the woods then, for I didn’t see any,” he says. 

I pause, wondering if he’s testing me. Maybe Pippin told him about our fall? 

“Or, at least you don’t remember their names?” He quirks an eyebrow. “Answer carefully—I’ve got money on this.”

I nod, donning an air of theatrical pride. “I am very good at remembering names! There was Liam Goodbody from the furniture company, Aubrey Brown, Cormac and Corbin Banks—my neighbors. That Estella lass I offended. And who could forget Murphy Wellspring?” 

He folds his arms, satisfied. “I see you think very highly of yourself, Miss Cleeveholm.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” I say innocently. “Besides, I could say the same about you.”

“Oi, I walked right into that one.”

The store doorbell tinkles. I glance up from the green beans just as Murphy ambles into my aisle, inspecting the potatoes. He sees me—I turn away just before our eyes meet, but his footsteps approach. 

“Speaking of.” Merry presses his lips together, widens his eyes at me, and rolls around the aisle’s corner. I’m glad he took my comment about chivalry to heart, but a tingling discomfort creeps down my limbs. I ought to tell Murphy off—but unless I want to cause another scene, I must be polite and clever.

“Afternoon, Diamond.”

I drop celery into my basket and look up in feigned surprise. “Da? Hello?”

He frowns, already confused. “Don’t you remember me?”

I put on my best thinking face.“Hmm, you do look familiar…”

“Murphy Wellspring,” he huffs. “We danced? On Midyear’s Eve?”

“Oh right! Right. Sorry, I just met so many people that day.” I turn back to the vegetables. He steps closer. I clear my throat. “Well, good to see you. I hope you have a fine day!”

“What are you up to?”

I blink. “Eh—just getting groceries for my mother.” I add to my basket and move along. 

He follows. “Mind if I join you?”

My gaze wanders to Merry, talking with someone on the other aisle. He raises a questioning eyebrow. I turn away. I don’t need rescuing.

“I’m almost done, actually,” I chirp, “but I appreciate it!”

“Listen—I was hoping to talk to you.”

My cheery facade falters. “Oh?”

“You stick out like a sore thumb.”

Hot coals stir in my core.

“But I’ll show you around today. Help you get situated. Save you some trouble. Alvin let us off work early, so I’ve time.”

“No thank you,” I say, annoyance creeping into my voice.

His smile fades. “Why not?”

“I, eh, have plans with my family.” I move to another section. He skirts around me, and I nearly bump into him. Indignation flares in my chest.

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I’m busy.”

He scoffs and glances over his shoulder. “Well, when are you free?”

I fume. What is his problem? 

Then inspiration strikes. 

“Sorry Milo—my social calendar is absolutely packed. What can I say?”

“It’s Murphy.” He taps his heel impatiently.

“Oh, my mistake! It’s hard to keep all the new names and faces straight.” 

“Listen Diamond.” Murphy leans closer. I meet his stare, unflinching, but my heart thrums in my throat. “Do you think you’re better than me or something? You’re not. I don’t much like you, but we could help each other out—”

“Hello Diamond!” calls a rosy-cheeked lass. I spin, beaming with relief. Bless her!

“Peony!” I exclaim. “Good to see you. Fine weather today, da? Not too warm. Nice breeze. Did you see these turnips here? Ginormous! Is Perry feeling better?”

“Much better, thank you!” she giggles. “I’ll tell him you said hello. I’d stay to chat, but my mother is waiting.”

“Another time, then. Take care!” I wave after her. “Sorry, Moro—I mean, Murphy—you were saying?” A triumphant grin flickers on my face.

“I was saying that—”

“Sha, Miss Camilla!” I lean around him to address Granddad’s neighbor passing the fruit crates. “Opal and I were just talking about you. Did little Puff have her puppies yet?”

“Not yet,” the gammer chuckles, “but I’ll be sure to send for you as soon as she does!” 

“I hear carrots are good snacks for nursing dogs.” I press a few into her hands.

“Oh… thank you, lassie. I’ll see if she takes to them.” She gives me an odd glance and, not so subtly, returns the carrots to their crate. I cringe. But, it’s worth annoying Murphy. 

“Sorry again,” I say, facing him. “I’m listening now.”

Murphy squints at me. “You’re new here, and as clueless as the day you were born. I’m only offering to help. You should consider yourself lucky that—”

“Why, Mr. Griffo!” I sing, cutting him off. “One moment Mungo—since you’re right here, sir, may I ask if you have any larger parsnips in the back?”

“Forget it,” Murphy mutters coldly. “Fine by me if you wanna be a misfit.” 

He stomps to the counter, pays for his potatoes, and leaves in a huff. Thank Elbereth.

“Ehm, never mind Mr. Griffo,” I say. “Thank you for appearing so conveniently.”

“Oh… of course Diamond.” The grocer eyes me and shakes his head. “Foreigners…” 

The silence of the empty aisle presses in. Everyone seems far away. A giggle erupts near the counter, and I picture folks across the store glancing at me—snickering, frowning, calling me “trouble” before even asking my name. 

I sigh. I suppose I still made a spectacle—but why can Murphy be impolite and imposing, and I can’t? Sullen, I load some parsnips into my wicker basket.

Merry rounds the aisle, clutching his sides. “That was amazing! A bit obvious, but you’re quick on your feet. It’s only a matter of time before you master subtlety.”

Amazing? I smile, surprised and relieved. “Wheesht—I’m just an excellent judge of character.”

“You sure? The other day you overlooked several of Murphy’s flaws.”

“A false negative, detective! I was tired and hardly paying attention.”

He snorts. “And what do your skills say about me?”

I wrinkle my nose, trying to think of something witty. “You’re a dangerous miscreant posing as a gentleman. Young ladies ought to keep their distance—if I had an older sister, I’d warn her against you.”

His bewildered look tells me I must be pretty near the truth. So he’s a scoundrel after all? I hope he thinks twice before leading on another girl like Pansy. 

He recovers with a shrug. “I’ve been found out! I’ll be ruined. Run out of town.”

“I don’t like gossip.” I drop my basket onto the counter. “I’ll let Fate decide your punishment.” 

Once I pay Mr. Griffo’s clerk, we head outside, where my laden cart sags pitifully. We eye it for a long moment. It’s going to be a long walk home. 

“I should get back to the pub,” he says. “If those two ninnyhammers haven’t cleaned up by now, they’re less than worthless.”

We exchange a sarcastic Shirriff’s salute. 

“Godspeed, comrade,” I say with a flat expression. He chuckles and saunters off.

I heave my foodstuffs to a bench in the square, sinking beside the bulletin. Hopefully Cormac is done soon. Impatient, I start taking inventory of my load just as Orla and Fiona Tunnelly pass.

“Why Diamond, I thought your grandfather owned Harfoot Hollow?” Fiona asks.

I nod politely. “Indeed he does.”

“Doesn’t he have enough money to keep his equipment in repair?” 

I open my mouth to ask what she means—then flush with understanding.

“Oh Fiona, take it easy on the lass,” Orla tisks. 

I gape—stunned, grateful—

“She’s probably just homesick for a certain… rustic charm. I hear worn-out tools—and worn-out ladies—are all the rage in Long Cleeve.”

They chortle. No tactful retort comes to mind, so I glare after them. It takes many deep breaths to quench my frustration. Mamma told us to expect this—I should’ve listened.

No one else speaks to me, which is both a relief and a disappointment. I go through my cart again for something to do. I lean back and scan the Square. Above, the sky is flat and grey. It’s surprisingly cool for Afterlithe, and my eyelids droop with afternoon drowsiness. 

A young couple strolls by, hand-in-hand, stirring a surge of hope in me. Could that be me when I get home? I shake myself—I already hold hands with Khamíd, and everyone I’m close with. But his beautiful black eyes watching me over that steel orb… Does it feel different for him when our fingers are entwined?

The baker and his wife start another spat as they duck into their shop, though their voices carry into the street. I heard a number of jokes at Lithe about him “being in the dog house,” but I never imagined folks were laughing at serious matters. How uncivilized to mock another’s problems.

“What a shame that such a pretty lass has to dress like that,” someone mutters.

“Aye, what can Saoirse mean by it?”

I turn in the direction of the comments. Three mothers quickly avert their gaze. I squirm. Should I acknowledge them? Feel flattered? Ask what they mean? They seem to gather that I heard them, and shuffle away.

Frustrated, I close my eyes to focus on other sensations: grainy wood against my hands; gritty cobblestone under my feet; the electric smell before it rains; the patter of small feet chasing around the square; the rise and fall of conversations; a sudden breeze brushing hair into my face. I comb the strands back. My gaze drifts to the bulletin, where a poster reads:

Lithe Wrestling Champions
Peregrin Took—1st place
Gorbadoc Whistledown—2nd place
Carl Greenholm and Meriadoc Brandybuck—3rd place (tie)

“So he really did win,” I murmur.

“Who won?”

I squeak, whip around—and slap Cormac’s arm as I burst with laughter. 

“You snuck up on me!” I chide. Cormac grins but plays along. “I was just reading the bulletin. My friend had told me that Pippin Took was unlikely to win.”

“Your friend must have been joking. He’s placed the last two years.”

I stand, shrugging. “My trolley has a lame wheel. It can travel—barely. I’m afraid I’ll slow you down.”

“Not a problem.” He extends a hand. “Give me the lead, please?” 

I protest a polite amount, but give in easily. And as we start home, I remember not to take his arm.

Cormac tugs the cart with difficulty, remarking on the inevitability of rain, the “bloody old trolley,” and how it’s “really no trouble at all.” I chuckle. Then he begins to chant:

In softest hush, the rain descends—
A silver veil, and earth it tends.
Upon the soil, the water mends
With melodies; and life transcends.

“That’s Siegfred Fallohide!” I gasp, jumping in to continue:

Though in the rain we often sigh,
Drenched in woes 'neath somber sky,
Umbrellas gone, I still surmise
Adventures found in rain's disguise.

We recite the final stanza with growing excitement:

Beneath the boughs, the raindrops play,
And liquid mirrors reflect the day.
In wet reprieve, it’s best to sway
Along with nature’s damp ballet.

“I cannae believe it!” he exclaims, beaming. “I’ve never met another tween who knows Siegfred Fallohide. But of course—your grandfather introduced me to his work.”

“He gave me a copy of Fallohide’s works when I was little. Do you have other favorites?”

“Hard to choose—lately I’ve been reading Wilcomb Goldbody, Ophelia Baggins, and Isengar Took.”

“I love Ophelia’s Sonnets of Solitude!”  I clap. "Every time I read her, I want to spend all day chewing each line.”

“Her diction is potent—pulls me right into the page!”

We laugh. He glances at me, then quickly away. I cock my head.

“You know,” he says slowly, “Pearl Took hosts a night of creative readings on the third or fourth Trewsday each month—at Great Smials. I bet you would like it.”

“Perhaps I would,” I chirp. “Do you usually go?”

His smile blooms. “I seldom miss it.”

We continue all the way home like this, speaking with an enthusiasm only bibliophiles understand, pausing when the trolley wheel sticks. All his knowledge and opinions please me. I’m eager to search Pim and Pervinca’s family library for his recommendations. 

A light rain begins just as we reach Delving Lane. The humidity chills the air.

“I really appreciate your help,” I say as we hike the trolley up to Harfoot Hollow’s door. “Not sure I could have beaten the rain on my own.”

“It was my pleasure—I’m grateful for the company.” His cheeks color. “Ahm… Call on me anytime you need a hand. It’ll give me an excuse to discuss literature.”

“We need no excuse to discuss literature!” I swat his arm. “Cormac, would you stay for tea—or dinner? As thanks?”

He gives a fluttery laugh. “Very generous—but my brother’s expecting me to help chop wood.”

After a long hesitation, he takes his leave with a friendly nod, peeking over his shoulder as he walks into the drizzle. I smile to myself. Maybe I’ll find more friends here than I thought.

I hoist the huge bag of flour into my arms and waddle through the front door, feeling a little less alone.

Chapter Text

I silently tiptoe out of Harfoot Hollow into the morning mist. It rained without end for the last two days, and Mamma declared we all needed to deep-clean the house, boil cheese from the curdling goat milk, and do a number of other odious chores. She drove us relentlessly, fretting that the chickens weren’t laying enough eggs, or that I made mistakes balancing Granddad’s ledgers, or that Jaden was letting termites into the walls. 

Granddad couldn’t stand it, either. He and Mamma bickered hotly, such as my parents have never done. I need this escape—and better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

I duck into the Great Smials woods just as the sun pierces the grey morning. My spirits rise with the dispelling fog. It reminds me of another morning, in different trees, with a handsome companion walking beside me. Oh Khamíd… Malachite would offer wisdom. But Khamíd? He’d comfort me until my cares melted away.

I swing my hair and my notebook, praying the bounce in my step will lighten my mood. But I know music would help more. With a great effort, I breathe deep and sing:

Over roots and through trees, my heart bounds with a leap,
Chasing birds and the bees—I’ve a promise to keep
Under cotton and calicoes,
Over canopy dapple long ago.^[16]

How I love vernal sun trickling soft through the trees,
How I love sweet bird song wafting near on the breeze—
But more than walking in springtide groves,
I yearn the love of my youth from long ago.

Mamma always said there’s magic in a good tune, and that our voices are instruments of enchantment. And lo, the spell is cast—my shoulders fall back; my lungs expand; the whole world stands still. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Sun Herself^[17] stopped to admire my performance.

Over rocks and through streams, restless feet carry me
Like a vision of dreams, running reckless and free.
There was once I feared to bestow
All my loving—but that was long ago!

How I love morning sun trickling soft through the trees,
How I love sweet bird song wafting near on the breeze!
But more than walking in summer groves,
I yearn the love of my youth from long ago!

I crest a hill, just over a mile from the crossroads, and spot a meadow stretching beyond. A huge oak stands near the center. Perfect for poetry! I skip and spin into the field, my voice filling every corner of me.

Many miles filled with mirth, I walk hills and the plains!
Soon to reach home and hearth where my darling remains!
Stand in awe as her ember glows,
She’s the fire in my heart lit long ago!

How I love harvest sun trickling soft through the trees!
How I love sweet bird song wafting near on the breeze!
But more than walking in autumn groves,
I yearn the love of my youth from long ago!

I miss his kind eyes, his quiet strength, the way his hair curled around bare shoulders in the Hot Springs, where I first saw the scars across his chest. Khamíd didn’t hide them—he told us the sacred secret, the reason there are fewer Dwarven women than babes.^[18] And he seemed even more beautiful after that. I envied him for knowing so clearly who he was.

With the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet!
Lifting high like a choir with the rise of the heat!
Trees I love felled to fight the cold,
I fretted fire but that was—

I round the oak tree and nearly jump out of my skin.

“Good morning!” says Pippin, sitting against the trunk and beaming wickedly at me.

I clutch my collarbone. “Sha tchave,^[19] you must stop startling me every time we meet!”

“Well, don’t stop singing on my account,” he teases. I raise an eyebrow. “The song was lovely, and your voice—lovelier.”

I snort. “Thank you. I know many who would agree with you.”

He cracks up.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I didn’t expect to meet anyone at this hour.”

“Nor did I. But this is my favorite spot, and I wake early. I often walk here when the day is fine and I‘m in need of an escape.”

“I know just what you mean.” I let out a long breath. “Well, I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll find another place to write.”

“You’re a writer?” He hops to his feet. “What do you write?”

“All sorts of things, I suppose—my philosophies, interesting experiences, nursery stories… but mostly poetry.”

He steps closer. “Can I see some?” 

“What?” I snicker and hide the journal behind my back. “No way!”

“What are you afraid of? You must have one poem you’re willing to show me.”

He lunges for my book—but I swerve around the trunk just in time. We circle the tree, ducking and dodging, until he finally throws up his hands. 

“It’s too early for this much exercise!” he laughs. We both lean against the tree, catching our breaths. 

“You absolute toad.” I flick him, grinning.

And he snatches the notebook from my grasp, holding it above my head.

“Pippin!” I try to push off his shoulder to jump higher, but he keeps it just out of reach.

“Aha—you do remember my name!” He dashes behind the tree. “Merry owes me!”

My sides cramp from laughter. As I chase him, I try to gather all this week’s frustration and wear it as a menacing scowl. 

“Give. It. Back.” But the corners of my mouth betray me. I stamp my foot. “I don’t want you to read it.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll make fun of me. I write for myself, not for an audience.”

“All right, all right—I wasn’t  really going to read anything without your permission.” He offers the journal. “Just wanted to see what you’d do if I took it.”

I pause. “The last entry.”

“Sorry?”

“You can read the most recent entry.”

He hesitates. I shrug. He unties the twine and flips through the tattered pages.

“I perch in a mild afternoon,” he begins.

Anxiously studying sky
And squirrels racing by—
Every bound impulsive,
Each movement purposeful,
Blissfully bent on current task,
Past and future powerless.

With toes rooted in chilled soil,
A snail creeps onto my woolly foot,
Depositing a trail of mucoid kisses,
And saunters away on his business—
Most others hesitate to bestow affection.

Fluid paint trickles across heavens,
Unfurling cirrus obscures the light,
Cumulus sails between horizons,
Reeling in vernal constellations—
I must be inconsequential.

Let the world keep turning
Despite my deeds and disquiet
I let the cold slowly ensnare,
Until my numb limbs are refreshed
By tangible sensations:
Icy fingers and dewy dress;
A sudden breeze that brings a shiver.

I fidget with the pleats of my frock while he silently rereads it. “Well?” I ask.

“This is poetry?”

I frown. “What do you mean? Of course it is.”

“But it doesn’t rhyme.”

“Poems don’t have to rhyme!”

“I’ve never heard of a one that doesn’t.”

“How much poetry have you even read?”

“What is much?” He grins impishly.

I narrow my eyes. “Just hand it over.”

“Wait—it doesn’t need to rhyme, that’s how good it is!” he declares, backing away. “It’s, ah… very thought provoking?” 

I snatch the journal back. “That’s the last of my poems you’ll ever see.”

“Are they all like that?”

“Like what?”

“No rhyming. Not proper poems.”

I snort. “It’s called free verse, which you might know if you’d ever opened a book before.”

He laughs, then invites me to sit with him between the roots. “What was that song you were singing earlier? I rather liked it.”

“My brother Malachite wrote it,” I say, tucking my knees underneath. “Our family is very musical, and several of us compose songs.”

“An interesting family trait.” 

He says ‘interesting’ much more politely than many have in the last week. I smile.

“Will you teach it to me?” he asks.

I pretend to deliberate. “Hmm… I’ll allow it—if you promise to behave.”

My voice starts out shy, but the song’s spell builds my strength. When I finish, he whistles the verse back to me.

“That’s a bonnie tune.” He laces his fingers behind his head and leans against the oak, peeking at me through one eyelid. “All right Diamond—I’ve been a thorn in your side long enough. I’ll not distract you from your so-called poems any longer.”

I swat him and settle in.

We sit like this for some time: me scribbling in my notebook and watching the waking meadow; him chewing a stalk of grass and whistling the tune I taught him. When a bird flits past, I coax it closer with a birdcall.

“You’re uncommon good at that,” he marvels. “Have one bring us some fruit!”

“I’m not a witch, Peregrin, even if I sound like one,” I laugh.

Eventually, the growing warmth of the morning and the meadow’s hum lulls us toward sleep. Pippin nods off. I close my eyes to better observe the sound of birds and insects and wind rustling through heather.

Harsh voices rise on the breeze—whips, cries, axes striking wood—until the cacophony overpowers the meadow’s music. Smoke burns my throat. Fire licks up buildings and trees. People beg for mercy. But I can’t help, or stand, or even cough.

“Lift up thy heart,” says a voice in my head. “Hold out hope ‘til the very last.”

My head slumps against Pippin’s, and I startle awake. He stirs, stretching and rubbing his eyes.

“Oi,” he yawns, “I was asleep longer than I thought. Must be near ten o’clock, judging by the sun—did you make much progress?”

“Ten o’clock? Already?!” I jump up. Dozing off in the woods twice in one week—what are the chances?

“What? Worried you missed second breakfast?”

“I left Granddad’s house while everyone was asleep.” I quickly tie up my book and dust my frock. “And I neglected my morning chores. Mamma must be furious…”

“That’s a serious matter,” he says tongue-in-cheek, “and one I’m particularly familiar with. I dinnae envy you. But maybe she hasn’t noticed you missing yet?”

“Unlikely!” My deep laughter rolls across the field as I jog away. “I’ll be seein ye!”

I hurry back along the deer trails and sneak around to the kitchen entrance. Carefully opening the back door, I place a toe inside—

“Diamond!” Opal hisses. 

I half-close the door to shield myself. 

“Where have you been?!”

“Sorry!” I whisper. “Lost track of time.”

“Please give me a little warning next time! I barely had time to—”

Mamma strides into the kitchen with a suspicious look. “Diamond, where on earth did you get off to?”

“Sorry Mamma,” I say sheepishly. “The morning just looked so beautiful, and I was anxious for a bit of solitude. Couldn’t help it. But I won’t be gone for so long again without—”

“Without making sure it’s all right with you,” Opal interrupts. 

I shoot her a look. ‘What are you doing?’  

‘Just play along!’ her glance answers.

“Well,” Mamma sighs, “I suppose no harm was done. I kept you busy the last few days, and you finished your morning chores and told Opal you were going. But next time, please ask if I need you first. Oh—and you missed second breakfast, so you’ll have to make do with a heel.”

My heart sinks. Both morning meals, missed! And what did she mean about my chores? I glance at Opal, but she has her back to me, putting away dishes.

“Eh—thank you for saving a slice for me, ” I say.

Mamma nods—but something catches her notice. She snatches up a whiskey bottle, half-hidden among the drinking glasses. A fire lights behind her eyes.

“Not again!” Her head falls back and she storms into the hallway. “Dad! How many times do I have to tell you we cannae afford Marish Malt?”

Once out of earshot, I let out a breath. “Now what was she on about?”

Opal glares at me. “I covered for you! Like I always do. You were gone when I woke up, so I checked the barn just in case—and sure enough, the goats were full of milk, the chickens had their eggs, and none of the animals were fed. You didn’t even draw water from the pump! And I told Mamma I knew you were walking.” She furiously rings out the dishrag. “You owe me something crazy, Di.”

I crush her in an embrace. “You are the loveliest sister that ever was!”

She rolls her eyes, deflating with sudden fatigue. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’ll do your hair all fancy before tea today.”

“You were going to do that anyway!” she grumbles. “You can make it up to me by helping to catch up on everything, so we don’t have to miss our tête-à-tête at Great Smials.”

I sigh. “But… I’ll fix your hair extra pretty as a bonus.”

“Fine,” she huffs. 

I snatch my sad little heel of bread from the basket and devour it with dramatic vigor.

Chapter Text

“We’re lost,” I whine.

“No we aren’t.”

“We’re going to be late, and all the sandwiches will be gone!”

“You’ll get your sandwiches!”

“No, no. I will just have to starve,” I sigh. “Besides, we’ve passed that bush twice now.”

“Stop being dramatic!” Opal giggles. “It looks exactly like all the other bushes.”

“This is your fault,” I tease. “Granddad said to turn off at the second road before the big bend.”

“For the last time, he said the second road after!”

“I swear, it’s like she can’t even hear me,” I mutter to the wind, grinning. “We’ve taken twenty-five minutes for a fifteen-minute walk—when will you admit we’re lost?”

She flips her hair at me, but her curls catch on a low-hanging branch.

“Whoa! Hold still.” I gently untangle her, careful not to ruin my handiwork. “There. Now don’t forget: Fate punishes cheeky little sisters!” 

Her laugh rings clear and loud like a silver bell. “Just don’t embarrass me today!”

Opal is my closest friend in the world. She’s unusually shy for a Cleeveholm, but easy to love. In some ways, I think it helps that we’re so different—she is proud to have Mamma’s copper complexion, but wishes she inherited the bright eyes that Obsidian and I got from Papa; I love that I’m a head taller, though I would trade my mousy waves for her honey-brown curls any day. Before I braided a small wreath of hair to crown her head today, I spent far too long brushing and savoring the texture. I hardly managed to pull the strands at my own temples into a hasty ribbon before we hurried out the door.

“What’s that?” she asks, rising on tip-toe. “Is that the right hill?”

I squint. “Hmm… Only one way to find out.” I wink and take off running.

She complains loudly. Another difference: I’m much faster.

Great Smials swells from the hillside like a wave. The mansion is large enough to encompass three levels at its tallest point, with winding paths that branch to reach doors on every tier. Gardens burst with flowers and vegetables across the slopes, but even they don’t soften the scale—the eastern leg stretches farther than any road in Long Cleeve, and the western wing sprawls beyond sight. 

“Dúrinor’s beard,” Opal pants.

“Da. This is definitely the place.”

“It’s… enormous.”

“It could harbor a dragon,” I murmur. “Can you believe Pim and Pervinca actually grew up here?”

“Hard to believe anyone grew up here.”

We hurry on, searching for the main entrance.

“There you are!” Pim sings, lounging with Vinca among flower beds that flank the front door—which is at least six feet tall. “We were starting to think something happened. It was Vinca’s idea to enjoy the sunshine while we kept an eye out for you.”

“Sorry—someone led us astray,” I say, nudging Opal.

“I don’t understand…” She frowns and explains our route.

“You both forgot to turn after the Proudfoot farm,” says Vinca. “Next time you’re in doubt, just come through town. It’s a little further, but much easier.”

Pim takes our hands and leads us through the ornate entrance. “My, your hands are so dry! We can’t have that for our favorite lasses.”

Opal and I blush, mumbling an excuse about scrubbing floor-to-ceiling yesterday. I don’t mention that my hands are usually like this, calloused from holding reins or a crook while shepherding.

Vinca pats our shoulders. “You can borrow some balm from us, if you like.”

We thank her solemnly. Are soft hands important for ladies around here, or is it just for these two?

We follow Pim through the large entryway and greet Tom Greene, the doorman, before turning into a cosy parlor. A tea table is set with sandwiches, cold meats, grapes, biscuits—everything I could hope for. What luck to have friends of extravagance!

As the platters empty, Pim and Pervinca advise us on the town’s expectations for “ladies of our standing.”

“Now, Vinca and I know how darling you two are,” Pim says, “but being from a respectable, landed family, you’ll want to manage public perceptions.”

Opal straightens in attention. I deflate. Mamma’s given us this lecture half a dozen times in the last week, and it never sticks in my head.

They rattle off lessons between sips of tea: how to respond to certain maxims; to keep our dresses neat and our hair tidy; never to linger alone with lads—unless they’re escorting us somewhere; never to be flirtatious;^[20] to keep quiet, keep sweet, and keep a hundred other rules I’ve likely already broken.

“Oi, is that all?” I interrupt with a crooked smile. “Next you’ll be telling me I cannot ride, run, or do anything worth doing.”

Pim pauses, blinking. “La, you’re a bit old for running about, Di.”

I scoff. Opal juts her chin toward me, but I can’t help myself. “What do you mean? I’m accustomed to exercising as I please.”

“That won’t last,” Vinca snorts under her breath. 

Pim shoots her a look. “Diamond, I wish I could indulge you—but folks will say you’re as rowdy as a stableboy and unfit to eat at anyone’s table.”

My stomach clenches. I don’t want to contradict her or seem ungrateful—but something feels wrong about her request. I glance at Opal.

“I won’t run, though I won’t be a tween for another month,” she promises. Is she joking? Opal loves a good sprint.

“Bah, you’ll both catch on,” Vinca adds, noting the look on my face. “And don’t pay any mind to what folks say about your mother.”

I flinch. “What do they say about our mother?”

Pim widens her eyes at Vinca, who clears her throat. “Oh—nothing. Just that… she was a firecracker in her day.”

“Da, that’s why Papa fell in love with her,” Opal chuckles. But when Pim and Pervinca bite their lips without answering, she shrinks back.

I heave a sigh. “We know it was a scandal how she married a foreigner without knowing him long. But folks here don’t know a thing—they’re extremely happy.”

“And our aunt Syringa did not die of jealousy after Mamma left,” Opal adds.

“Da—Mamma told us that rumor ages ago. She just got ill, or something.”

Pim bobs her head. “Saoirse and Syringa used to babysit Pearl and I, you know.”

I pause at the sudden change of subject. Do they know something Mamma hasn’t told us?

“Why, that’s lovely,” Opal says. I catch her eye—don’t embarrass me. “I’d no idea.”

The sisters relax with a laugh and shift the conversation farther from Mamma’s reputation and Syringa’s untimely passing. I nibble a biscuit, but it crumbles dry in my mouth.

“Rain for two days straight!” Pim groans, smilingly. “I was about to go mad. No visitors, no calls—it was stifling.”

Stifled in a mansion? I almost laugh—but deflate instead. Of course Pim knows nothing of tight quarters and tight tempers, like at Harfoot Hollow.

“You exaggerate,” says Vinca, shooting Opal and me an apologetic smile. “We have plenty of room to enjoy a rainy day. I rather liked the quiet.”

“Exactly!” Pim sings too brightly. “There was a full hour where everyone was quiet!”

There’s a strained pause. Opal looks at me for a cue, unsure how to react.

Pervinca rolls her eyes. “Not everyone wants to talk through every minute of—”

“La, I only meant the company was missed.” Pim beams at us—but it’s not enough butter to smooth over her stiff shoulders. Opal smiles, lowering her eyes. I knit my brow.

“You’re worse than Pippin,” Vinca chuckles—a practiced redirect.

“Pippin?” Opal mouths to me.

“You mean… that wrestler at Lithe?” I ask. Must be another cousin like all the rest.

Pim laughs. “Listen to her, Vinca! That wrestler—do you not know who Pippin is?”

“I’m afraid the truth is rather embarrassing,” Vinca says.

Before I can answer, a round man bounds into the room—thinning grey hair, ruddy complexion, and a familiar gleam in his eye.

“Hello, Father!” the sisters chirp.

“Hullo, my dears!” He kisses their heads. Opal and I stand back, quiet and sweet.

“I thought you were in Bywater today,” Pim teases.

“Mayor Whitfoot^[21] and I finished our meetings early, and Rory and I are not needed back at the farm ‘til tomorrow. So I figured—why not look upon my darling family?”

“Did you actually have a meeting?” Vinca asks. “Or was it just an excuse to have a morning drink at the Green Dragon?”

“Ha! Maybe a bit of both,” he chuckles. “Now, where’s your brother? I sent word that I needed him today.”

“I’ve not the slightest idea.” The sisters shrug.

The Thain grumbles under his breath—but he finally notices us, and brightens.

“Well, well! And who are your new friends?”

“These are Diamond and Opal Cleeveholm,” Pim says. “Granddaughters of Brian Harfoot. Ladies—this is our father Paladin, Thain of the Shire.”

We curtsy and begin the greetings Pim and Pervinca lectured us about. But he waves it off, shaking our hands enthusiastically. I blink—charmed and disarmed, our script suddenly irrelevant.

“Brian’s talked often about his grandchildren. Is your whole family visiting?”

“No sir,” I reply. “My father and brothers stayed back for the summer harvest.”

“A shame, that is.” He nods. “Well, we’d best make your visit count! Want a tour of the estate while I hunt down my son?”

Opal’s eyes light up. “Could we?”

“Of course!” Pim chirps.

Opal and I begin to gather the dishes, but Pim shoos us off as a maid steps in to clear the table. We exchange an impressed look—how wonderful, not to worry about cleaning up! The maid flashes a quick smile and lowers her head as we leave. My chest tightens. She hurries quietly, like the servants in Khôrun Luin, rather than part of the family. Not at all like a hobbit home.

We follow Paladin—insisting we call him by name, since “there are far too many Mr. Tooks”—into “the largest of five kitchens.” It’s bigger than Granddad’s entire house. The stone floor is cool. Copper pots hang like jewels from the walls and ceiling. Cooks bustle about, already starting the evening meal. Then we peek inside a pantry so vast, I half expect a bed and a chimney in the corner.

“We empty all our pantries each season,” Paladin says. “The Tooks have hearty appetites in this hill!”

My gaze trails along numerous baskets, sacks, jars of preserves, rounds of cheese and beer barrels—and flick to Paladin’s belly. I can’t help but think of Cormac and Aubrey’s small waists and cellars. In Long Cleeve, the village gathers in our hall, spending harsh winters sharing everything—being hungry or filled together. The Shire is very different.

We step into a guest suite furnished with fine Goodbody furniture, embroidered pillows, and heavy curtains. There are ninety-eight apartments in the Smials, apparently—and the permanent residences are larger. Opal and I gape.

“A guest apartment grander than all of Harfoot Hollow?” she whispers.

Excessive—and yet, that makes it all the more hospitable.

We pass through a hall lined with huge paintings in intricate walnut frames. Paladin introduces us to portraits like the family members within them. He knows the quarrels, misadventures, and commissions behind each pastoral landscape. And Vinca, family artist-in-training, shares all her opinions on the techniques and styles. 

“See how my uncle painted the shadows around Pearl and her books?” she says. “And the detail of the pimpernel flowers on Pim’s coming-of-age portrait—it’s divine!”

Pim yawns, but lingers before a canvas of three young girls chasing geese. Her smile is as soft as her touch as she reaches out to it.

“How lovely that your family has so much time for art!” Opal chirps.

My smile grows. “Lovely indeed.”

They lead us to the Grand Ballroom just off the main entrance. Sunlight trickles through vaulted windows and glints off the crystal chandelier, laden with hundreds of candle prickets, like dew on a spiderweb. Brown and beige tiles checker the floor like an earthy expanse. Crown molding crawls up corners like vines. It’s not heavy with gold and jewels as the Dwarven halls are—there’s a natural buoyancy, both homey and pastoral.

“Impressive, no?” Vinca says, smiling shyly. “Most of the town can fit in here for Yule.”

“It’s marvelous,” I gasp. “I should love to dance in here…”

“I’ve never seen anything so fine,” says Opal, eyes sparkling.

We pause, soaking it in.

“Yes yes—and now the Dining Hall!” Pim says, pushing us up a wide carpeted stair.

Opal clutches my arm tightly. Though our house in Long Cleeve has stairs, they don’t climb so high, and aren’t so open.

“Aye, I know most folk dinnae take to heights,” Paladin chuckles, “but us Tooks are daring, and tend to like a bit of adventure.”

“And a bit of oddity,” Pim adds. I grin and step with more confidence.

The room above is no less astonishing. Three oak tables stretch as long as a road, and a fourth stands at the head of the rest. But the polish, warm walls, and lingering scent of pipeweed are not so different from home.

“We host clan feasts here,” Paladin explains. “Birthdays, weddings, the Yuletide buffet. But most meals are taken in the smaller dining rooms among each family group—not so formal.”

I drift among rows of chairs, tracing the grain. Each is a place of belonging. A welcome carved into wood.

The second level has many more apartments, studies, and at the end of the corridor, twin walnut doors. When Vinca pushes them open, I gasp.

Shelves tower up curved walls. Bookcases divide the floor in quiet aisles. I pace reverently down one, fingers brushing book spines in gentle greeting. The far wall is taken up by a massive arched window, bathing a chaise and armchair in golden light. Beyond the glass: gardens, woods, green hills that stretch all the way to Bywater.

“Almost as big as the Michel Delving library,” Opal says, “but very, very beautiful.”

“It’s the work of many generations,” Paladin says proudly. “Mostly histories and agricultural texts—but we’ve a fair bit of literature, too.”

“Oh, I could hole up in here and read everything,” I murmur.

“You like a good book then, lass?”

“She’s always reading or scribbling,” Opal sighs. “And neglecting her chores.”

Paladin chuckles. “Well, you’re welcome to anything here. Just sign it out first.”

I start—and hesitate, unsure if he’s more polite than serious. “That is too generous!”

“Try me.” He winks. “What would you like?”

I turn in place slowly, stunned by the choice. “Ehm… I’ve heard Hildegrim Took blends poetry and prose like no other.”

“My grandfather!” he exclaims. “Had a way with words that’d make a drunkard blush, he did, but he wrote pretty enough rhymes.”

He retrieves a worn tome with elegant lettering. I stroke it, too grateful to speak, afraid he’ll change his mind. But he doesn’t—and boldness swells in my lungs.

“Do you have anything on entomology?” I ask. “For my brother Jaden?”

“Certainly! Let’s see…” He hums as he examines the shelves, and pulls out a fresh volume. “On Marshes. Now, Pearl didnae make this copy, so the drawings are a bit crude—but it’ll have to do, as my brother-in-law is hoarding the original in Buckland.”

Just then, a woman with a pretty round face enters—an older, more serious Pimpernel. I clutch the editions closer, sure she’s come to take them back.

“Ah, Pearl!” Paladin bellows. “Meet Diamond and Opal—Brian Harfoot’s granddaughters from Long Cleeve. Pearl is my first-born,^[22] and the youngest librarian Great Smials has ever had.”

We curtsy—Opal shyly, me trying to cover the books—but she smiles bright.

“Welcome to our historic home,” Pearl says. “If you’ve not seen the grounds already, you’ve saved the best for last.” 

My brows shoot up. “We’d be delighted.” I glance down. “But—I wouldn’t want to risk your books.” Can’t have her thinking me a poor caretaker.

“Give them here, love, and I’ll have Tom keep them by the entryway.”

I surrender them reluctantly. She reaches for the ledger. 

“Hidlegrim!” she says. “It’s very funny, Di, if you like a splash of whiskey in your tea.”

I blink. A laugh escapes me. I guess I get to borrow them after all.

We leave Pearl behind and go out to the gardens on the high slopes of the Hill, where paths wind through fragrant flowers. Cairns, wind chimes, and fairy houses decorate the beds. Even the trees seem lovingly arranged.

“Anyone living here may care for a patch of green,” Paladin explains. “We encourage it.”

The Thain names every tree and bush, who planted them, and in what year. He tells of distant generations who cultivated the Smials. He even knows the population of larger game nearby.

“You must’ve had an excellent education, sir,” I chuckle.

“Weeell, I had many years before taking over my father’s Whitwell farm, and I only became Thain last year. That’s the secret: idleness and inquisitiveness.”

“And memory—it seems you remembered every answer your elders gave you.”

He taps his temple. “Old habits. Older bones. I am an octogenarian, after all.”

He and I walk ahead while the others linger, admiring a patch of periwinkle. But despite all the wonder, something still itches the back of my mind: Do all Tooks share in this luxury, or just the ones closest to Paladin? And what of the rest of Tuckborough? Who is excluded?

“Smials is delightful, sir,” I ask, “but how did your family come by so much, ehm…”

“Wealth?” he finishes. I wince. Pim would chide me for such a question. “Not so differently from your father, I imagine. Does he not own acres and flocks?”

“Shire folk might say so, but that’s not how we think of it.” I lift my chin, determined not to feel embarrassed or intimidated. “The Tower Hills fiefs are protected by Dwarves mostly—but not owned. And in Long Cleeve, we share property, work, and food equitably. For example, when one family grows, a widow might trade them her bigger home.”

He startles back. I turn my gaze straight ahead.

“That is a strange kind of wisdom, make no mistake.” He nods. “I daresay, folks need more of that generosity. By sun and stars, I do what I can to set an example.”

I cock my head. Maybe life within Great Smials is more communal than the rest of the Shire.

“Your name is a curious one,” he says. “You seem bright enough for it, but I dinnae meet many hobbits named after gems.”

“It’s a family tradition,” I say. “My father, cousins and siblings, too. We’re close with the Dwarves in our land, and I believe their love for gems inspired it.”

“A worthy people, the Dwarves!” His chuckle rolls warm and deep. “They’ve fashioned finer things than stone, if Long Cleeve is as you say.”

I laugh with him, feeling all the hospitality of his charm.

By the time we return to the parlor, it’s nearly dinner. I glance at Opal, suddenly worried Mamma will be cross at our long absence.

“Father, we should have them dine with us!” Pim squeals. “They’ve earned a bite after listening so politely to your endless tour.”

“Splendid idea,” Paladin chuckles. “I’m frightful sorry if I bored you children.”

“Not at all,” I insist. “It was wonderful. But our mother is expecting us.”

“Dinnae fret—I’ll have Tom send her word.” He waves us off. 

No excuses now. Opal and I grin at each other—this will be a fine meal indeed.  

“Now, where’s Rory? Think he’s found the blasted fool?” he asks, drifting off.

“La, if I know!” Pim calls after him. “Do I look like my husband’s keeper?”

Paladin chuckles as he disappears.

We chatter pleasantly. The light fades. Pearl joins us before long—and the company is good, but my stomach grumbles impatiently. 

“We can’t starve for much longer, da?” I whine playfully.

A hush falls over the room. I turn—just as the famous Eglantine Took enters.

Unlike most hobbits her age, the matriarch of Great Smials is tall and lithe—a reed in a still pond, a stone in a hurricane. Her tea gown is stitched with harebell petals. Her brown-and-grey hair is gathered in a smooth knot at the nape of her neck. Though a Banks like Cormac, she carries a nobility I’ve never seen in a hobbit. Her gaze, calm and appraising, sweeps the room—and settles on me.

“She’ll not bite,” Pim whispers. “She’s always adored your mother.”

“But do not be too familiar,” Pervinca adds. “Remember the greetings we practiced!”

I stand and smile. One breath for luck. Two for the show.

“So these are Saoirse’s lovely daughters,” Eglantine says, stepping closer. “She spoke of you at Lithe—still the fiery wit I always knew. I’m pleased your father did not dim her light.”

I clear my throat. “Thank you, Milady. Our mother has told us much about you.” 

I dip into a curtsy, carefully considering my words. What would Merry recommend? Too stiff and I’ll seem a pretender; too much myself… that wouldn’t go well. 

“Tales don’t do justice to the true charm of your presence,” I say.

Opal echoes a soft, “How do you do?”

Eglantine studies us, her smile cool and dazzling. “Charming. But tell me—is Long Cleeve not missing her two brightest jewels this evening?”

The astonishing compliment hangs in the air. But it’s heavy—like a test. I wrack my brain.

“Tonight,” I say with care, “we are merely humble gems in a grand setting, Milady.”

Vinca lets out a breath. Pim beams. Eglantine gives a small, but genuine laugh.

“Well spoken, child. My compliments to your mother.”

The dinner bell rings. We float into the small dining room, lit with warm candles. We find our seats—Eglantine at one end—as Paladin strides in with Rory. Pim’s husband greets us with a pleasant nod—he seems friendly enough, even if he lacks personality. I beam at everyone as we settle in, leaving one empty chair. My shoulders relax. Maybe we aren’t so out of place.

In a moment, staff set fluffy rolls and bowls of mushroom stew before us. I salivate.

Paladin, nodding at the empty seat across from me, furrows his brow. 

“And where’s the boy now, hm?” he asks in a pointed whisper. “Still missing?”

“Father, Even I—” Vinca starts.

“Even Vinca hasn’t seen him all day!” Pim replies in cheerful contrast.

“Dear, if I know my son at all,” Eglantine says cordially, “I know he won’t miss dinner. Please calm yourself.”

“Bah!” He waves them off, masking annoyance with an invitation to dig in. Opal and I exchange an eager glance as we pick up our spoons.

And with one bite, I forget everything.

Buttery broth warms me throat-to-heart; leeks and mushrooms are caramelized to perfection; peas burst between my teeth. The salt, the herbs, the cheeky hint of pepper—I abandon all dining etiquette, shoveling greedy mouthfuls. Opal sops the precious broth with her roll. I drop my spoon and follow suit. 

Pervinca nudges my elbow. I look up, soup dripping down my chin. She arches her back, barely holding in a giggle. 

I blink—then realize I’m hunched over my bowl, elbows on the table. I spring upright, flushing, and kick Opal under the table until she corrects herself, too. But either no one else noticed, or they’re too polite to let on. Eglantine raises one eyebrow. Her lip curls in the slightest of smiles. I exhale—safe, welcomed, entirely at ease.

We’re halfway through the course when, to my astonishment, Pippin jogs into the room.

“Sorry I’m late!” He plops into his chair. “Hope my greedy sisters saved something for me.”

“Peregrin Took!” Paladin says sharply. His eyes flick to us—caught somewhere between obligation and exasperation. “What are you thinking? It’s ten past six and we have guests!” 

Unfazed, and apparently unaware that he’s in any trouble, Pippin turns his playful grin toward us.

“Ahem,” Pim says pointedly, “this is Diamond and Opal Cleeveholm—Brian Harfoot’s granddaughters. Ladies, meet our brother Peregrin.”

I gape. Pippin is their brother? He never let on. And apparently, he concealed our chance meetings from his red-haired sisters. Their resemblance is faint—he’s willowy and sharp like Eglantine, freer in his movements. But he has that Tookish gleam in his eye—a dare to pretend we’ve never met.

“Delighted,” he says. “You picked the perfect evening to join us. I cannae get in trouble with company present, after all.” He winks at me and starts scarfing food.

“Now son,” Paladin says, severity setting in. “It’s rude enough to keep us waiting for you—but this is no way for the future Thain to welcome newcomers.”

Pippin widens his eyes—a perfect blend of innocence and impertinence. The table falls still, but I nearly burst out laughing.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Eglantine says gently. Oy, she must spoil him. I’ll bet he can get away with anything.

“Perhaps we should send him to bed without dinner,” Paladin grumbles.

“That would be very awkward in front of guests,” Pippin says pertly. “Besides, I’m quite old enough to be coming and going as I please.” 

His father and sisters erupt with sardonic laughter, overtly disagreeing.

“You’ve responsibilities to learn,” Paladin says, “and I’ve asked you a thousand times to stop skirting them!”

“Paladin!” Eglantine hisses, eyes flicking to Opal and me.

“What? The rest of us have entertained our neighbors all afternoon—let him feel some embarrassment for once!”

“Please—don’t starve him for our sake,” Opal squeaks. My eyebrows shoot to the ceiling. “We’ve only just begun, and we aren’t accustomed to such formal dinners anyway.”

“Opal, you are my hero!” Pippin sings. She gives a bashful smile.

But the air is still stiff. Eglantine’s face is flint, and Paladin chomps with frustrated force. Pippin’s made fools of his parents in front of us—and Opal, meaning well, helped him.

“No,” I declare, lip turning up. “I say: send him to bed!” 

Everyone looks up in surprise.

“I, for one, am not pleased to begin an intimate dinner with a complete stranger. We ought to run him off and distribute his food amongst ourselves.”

Pippin narrows his eyes, grinning—the first to catch on. I smirk in satisfaction. Then—

“Hear hear!” Vinca laughs. And the table erupts—Rory clutching his belly, Paladin slapping the table.

“Off with the criminal!” says Pearl.

“End his reign of terror!” Pim shrieks. 

Eglantine assesses me silently. My stomach flutters. But Pippin, emboldened by the attention, kneels on the floor with hands clasped.

“Have mercy, fair maiden! An evening without dinner is a fate worse than death!” 

As if we’ve rehearsed this script, I stand, donning all the haughty pride I can. He quiets his giggles. Opal flushes beside me.

“Bah!” I scoff, mimicking Paladin’s signature exclamation. Pim snorts into her napkin. “Would you all look at the peasant? He’s not worth our pity.”

“Spare me, and I’ll never be late for dinner again!”

I lift my chin. “And if you break this promise?”

“If I break my promise…” His gaze darts from face to face, expertly drawing out the suspense. “Feed me naught but humble pie while everyone picks my plate clean.” 

Enormous shouts of approval. Opal laughs nervously along, trying to catch my eye in warning. Hours ago, I would’ve listened—but now, I’m commanding the room like I was born to.

“Very well, sha tchave.” I extend my hand and turn my nose up. He kisses it gallantly.^[23] “Thou art forgiven. Now, sit and be silent!”

As Pippin obeys, the noise softens—but the warmth remains. My cheeks burn with pride. If this is the game Shire folk prefer, I can play along.

But Opal glances sideways at me, lips pressed together, and turns back to her bowl.

“Who knew we’d have dinner and a show?” Eglantine mutters. But it’s no jest. Her face is stony save for one quirked eyebrow. 

I gulp. Perhaps I went a bit far.

~

After a long and full meal, our hosts take us to a sitting room. Pearl opens a window to the warm night as the men take out pipes, puffing sweet, earthy smoke into the air.

“You strike me as a musical family,” Pippin says—more teasing than casual. I wrinkle my nose. “It’s only fair to repay the hosts of such a magnificent meal with a song.”

“How did you know?” Opal asks, gaping.

“Just a hunch.” He flashes a smile at me. I struggle to contain a laugh.

“You never told us!” Pim wails, glancing between Opal and I in betrayal.

“It never came up,” I say, “but we’ve been performing all our lives.”

“I mostly fiddle, and Diamond has a hand for the harp,” Opal adds. “But we all sing and play a number of instruments.”

“Wonderful!” Paladin claps his hands.

“I’ll fetch my fiddle,” Rory says. 

He returns with a maple and spruce violin. Opal’s eyes widen as she takes it. With bow tightened and strings tuned, she warms up with a simple tune she wrote years ago. Our friends applaud enthusiastically, and I swell with pride for her.

“My, if I had your talent, I’d deserve such an instrument!” Rory says.

Opal blushes, grinning profusely. “Well, if someone else wants a go—”

“No no love—you are a shining star,” Eglantine says. “Do you know Greenhand’s Jig ? Used to be my favorite.”

Opal nods and sets the fiddle on her collarbone, all her shyness dissipating in a puff of rosin. Rory stands, offering his hand to Pim. Eglantine shoots a glance at Paladin, who sighs heavily as he lays down his pipe. 

“Shall we?” he asks.

Vinca takes my elbow, Pippin nods to Pearl—and we all join in the Buckland Weave. We step in a circle, criss-crossing closer and back out, and break to twirl with our partner. Opal’s bow flies across the strings. We reset, clapping and stomping as opposite ends of the group dance to the middle and take hands. First Vinca and Rory; then Pearl and Eglantine; Pim joins Paladin, who comically pretends the turn hurts his back. Then Pippin and I meet, laughing with the delight of our secret.

We cheer heartily when the jig is up. Opal beams, red and shrinking back into her shell.

“I’ve never heard a fiddle so sweet,” Pippin nods, making Opal blush even deeper, “nor seen dancing so fine. We should spend every evening like this!”

“You pretty much do already,” Vinca snorts.

“Aye, we should spend more evenings like this,” Eglantine says pointedly. “All of us.”

Paladin glances away.

“Now Diamond, it’s your turn!” Pim says. “Our harp’s not tuned, but you can still show us your voice.”

“You will be disappointed after Opal,” I chuckle. But our hosts press me, so I skip to the hearth. “Very well—but don’t pay the farmer before seeing the crop! What shall I sing?”

“Maybe something like this?” Pippin whistles the tune I taught him this morning.

“How do you know that song?” Opal gasps.

“Oh, I dunno.” He winks at me. Eglantine glances dubiously between us.

I hesitate. Malachite’s walking song is beautiful—but it’s also personal; a product of Long Cleeve. I want the Tooks to know that I’m grateful, that I’ll return true friendship tenfold, that I’ll not scare away. And thanks to Mamma’s influence, I know plenty of Shirish songs.

“Perhaps you’d like to hear one you all know,” I say, flipping my hair over my shoulder.

Blue as the wings of a heron taking flight,
Like the moon upon the Shire bathing fields in evening light,
They gleam evergreen, winds a’ whistling in the pines,
Like a castle-crawling vine, like this grassy glen of mine,
And rich as the mud after rain upon the ground,
They're a whisky hue of brown, braided river running wild,
I’ll not go away, for in you, I have found
That I am ever bound to your hazel eyes!

Deep as the stream where the Brand’wine meets the shore,
Where I met them once before, shining em’ralds to adore,
Bright as the light setting fire to the north
Rising high beyond the morn, laying shadows on the floor!
Long is the day when the moon obscures the sun
‘Tis the darkness they become, ‘til the dawn upon the Moors!
I fell astray, but I am bone and blood,
And I am bound by love to your hazel eyes!

I’ll not go away, for in you, I have found
That I am ever bound to your hazel eyes!^[24]

There’s a breathless silence as I emerge from my trance. My pulse hammers with uncertainty.

“That was beautiful,” Pim exclaims. “I haven’t heard that tune in some time!”

“Lovely!” “Delightful!” the group titters. My heart bursts with relief.

“You better be careful,” Vinca warns with an impish grin. “Your music is witchcraft.”

“You should both join us for Musings Monthly,” Pearl says. “Next one is a week from Trewsday. Folks give readings and other performances, and I’d love to have you both play.”

“We’d be honored.” I curtsy.

“Now, which of you will take a turn?” Opal asks.

We cycle through performers. It’s all wonderful—especially when Pippin can’t get through his song about a dish and a spoon without laughing. Opal’s eyes glitter, and her face flushes more than once.

But Eglantine watches me, unreadable. I pretend not to notice. Though I can’t hide the growing doubt in my chest.

The hour grows late after many songs and games. At last, Paladin rises with a stretch.

“Well ladies, it’s been a pleasure.” He bows. “But I’ve got an early start in Whitwell.”

“Didn’t you just get here?” I ask.

“Ah, well—I spend most of my time there—and Rory with me, during the planting and harvest.”

Eglantine smooths her skirt and stands. “I think I’ll join you—in sleep, not Whitwell.” She takes her leave but not her husband’s arm.

I glance uneasily at Opal. “We’d best head back, too.”

“We ought to walk you home,” Pim yawns. “It’s dark, and you’ll likely lose your way again.”

“I’ll go.” Pippin shrugs. “I’m not yet sleepy, so it’s no sacrifice.”

With everyone agreed, Opal and I hug Pim and Pervinca, promise to meet in a day or two, and we head into the night—with my borrowed books.

“Thank you for escorting us,” Opal says softly.

“Dinnae mention it,” Pippin says. “I like a walk under the stars, and I’m wide awake!”

“Thanks to chronic napping.” I elbow his ribs.

He flashes a grin. “You would know as much as me.”

“At least I was on time for dinner!”

We both laugh. Opal scowls. “Why are you acting so strange? Have you met before?”

I roll my eyes—but guilt pricks me. I know how frustrating it is to be left out. 

“We might as well come clean!” I sigh, and we relay the humorous story of our previous meetings.

Opal crosses her arms. “Di, you’re not supposed to be alone with lads!”

I wave her off. “An idiotic rule. We’re always alone with our friends back home.”

Pippin grins. “Opal, I assure you I’m a reliable friend—and that’s why I didnae let on at dinner.”

She is silent for the walk home, but Pippin and I speak freely. He says Merry is his cousin, and visits often with Estella and Fredegar Bolger—childhood friends from a wealthy family in Budgeford. Tomorrow, he’ll join them in Buckland for a fortnight.

As we reach Harfoot Hollow, Granddad swings the door open.

“Pippin, my boy!” His grin stretches. “It’s been far too long. How are ye?”

They banter a bit before Granddad invites him in for supper. He instantly charms Mamma with his manners, and has Jaden giggling after a few words. I study him—he’s no fool. He’s a master of timing, tone, and flattery. He listens with care. He speaks with confidence. He reads people the way I read books.

“You’re welcome anytime,” Mamma says as we see him out.

He waves and saunters into the night.

“Well, he’s a handsome lad, inn’e?” Granddad teases, closing the door. “From a good family, too! Very well-respected.”

“Granddad!” Opal cries.

“No thank you!” I groan.

“Dinnae put silly thoughts in their head, Dad,” Mamma warns, suddenly out of spirits. “They’re too young to have such ideas.”

But Opal smiles at her feet, and I think of Khamíd’s fine dark eyes. Mamma may not like it, but we are definitely old enough to have such ideas.

Chapter Text

Mamma is the most capable woman I know. Back in Long Cleeve, she manages our household, fields, flocks, and community with expert command. Papa does just as much—but he was raised for it; Mamma was born for it. A farmhand’s daughter with a hunger for challenge and a love of learning, she always refused to leave the hard work and hard decisions to men. She is a marvel.

But she’s been wound tighter than a harp string since we arrived in Tuckborough.

“We’re gonna be late!” Mamma yells. “Grab your coat, Jaden! Diamond, Opal—if your hair’s nae done in two minutes, we’re leaving without you!”

“Mamma!” I groan, hastily braiding the left-side of my head. “It’s only Ruby’s!”

She storms into our room with a look sharp enough to cut bread. We recoil. 

“We’ll not arrive just as dinner is being served. Let’s. Go.” 

She vanishes again. I suck in a breath, and Opal nods in fearful silence.

Aunt Ruby was always a bit odd. She writes infrequently, visits rarely, and never says quite what you’d expect. But that’s no reason for Mamma to get worked up. Maybe fighting with Granddad is the real problem. Maybe it’s the letter from Papa she’s been itching to tear into all day. And maybe she hopes that a perfect dinner will help her reconnect with the sister-in-law she lost to distance.

“Mamma,” Opal says as we hustle into the hall, “do you think Auntie will want to hear Papa’s letter?”

She eases up. “Aye—thank you Birdie.” 

Mamma hurries to her room, scolds Granddad for doddling, and passes the fat envelope to me upon return. Then we’re shooed out the door. I clutch the letter close, praying it holds news of Khamíd or—dare I hope?—a note from his own hand.

Ruby’s burrow is a good walk to town. The turquoise door rises bold against her colorful garden, cluttered with ceramic toadstools and ruby-glass trinkets. It’s a large, comfortable dwelling—and one she enjoys all to herself with “as few visitors as possible.”

Aunt Ruby was thirty-eight when she met Andwise Hornblower, a sixty-something merchant who traded pipeweed for jewels in Khôrun Luin. He’d stopped in Long Cleeve for years while she was off herding the sheep. Then one visit, they crossed paths: he took a liking to her, and she took a liking to his money. They married. Traveled. But soon, she grew weary of the road, and convinced him to retire and settle in Tuckborough. It was on Papa’s first visit to see her that he met Mamma—but that was long ago. Ruby has been widowed for many years now.

“Why hello, my darling muskrats! Come in, come in!” Ruby beckons us inside. 

My siblings and I exchange amused glances.

“Ruby, you’ve redecorated!” Mamma’s voice climbs with forced pep. “It’s so… you!” 

“That’s generous,” Jaden murmurs. The magenta entryway is crammed with mismatched furniture and wall hangings. “She trying to erase all evidence of natural wood?”

“Why thank you Saoirse!” Ruby sings. “It really does suit me—I wanted to cover up all the exposed wood."

“Called it,” Jaden whispers. Opal and I elbow him, barely stifling our giggles.

We follow her into the sun-themed sitting room, where a stylish woman around Ruby’s age lounges with a glass of barley water. Cropped black hair, almond eyes, warm smile—she’s instantly welcoming. But Mamma startles.

“This is Rosalyn Took,” Ruby says. “She’s an old friend staying with me for a bit, helping me redecorate. Rosalyn, these are my nieces Diamond and Opal, and my nephew Jaden. And you remember my sister-in-law Saoirse?”

“It’s been a long time, Rosalyn,” Mamma says—polite but stiff. “You look well.”

Rosalyn stands, pressing kisses to all our cheeks with easy warmth. I love her already. “I’m so pleased to finally meet you. Ruby adores you all. Ah—Brian! How are you, love?”

Mamma rolls her eyes. “I thought this was supposed to be a family dinner.”

Ruby, hearing her, chuckles. “Rosalyn practically is family, dear Saoirse.”

“Of course,” Mamma mutters. “I s’pose it only takes a couple letters a year for you to consider someone family.”

I flush. The miles have made her almost a stranger—but this isn’t the time to have it out.

Ruby half-turns away. “She’s been a great friend, helping me not feel so lonely since Mr. Hornblower passed.” 

Mamma softens, biting her lip. I shoot Ruby and Rosalyn an apologetic smile.

We settle in with tea. The conversation turns to our visit to Great Smials, and Rosalyn leans forward with genuine interest.

“I did not grow up there, but my father did. We’d attend the birthday feasts sometimes when I was young—and Yule in that hall is magic.”

Opal and I are eager for more, but Mamma shoots us a look, as if our curiosity is betrayal.

“I’m sure it is. But my husband Jasper throws a Yule Ball just as grand in Long Cleeve.”

“I do not doubt it!” Rosalyn says graciously. “I’ve heard high praise from Ruby.”

“Ruby’s not been to see us at Yule in ten years.”

I glance at Mamma in disbelief and disappointment—but she ignores me.

Rosalyn smiles. “Well, I imagine they’ve only improved since her last visit, thanks to your influence. And you’re right—I’ve been pressing her to make more trips to her home.”

Ruby turns to join us, and Mamma seizes the moment to whisper to Granddad.

“I saw Rosalyn at Lithe—but not with Ruby. I’d no idea they were this close. Did you know she was living here?”

“Of course!” He waves her off. “I see them oftener than I see you.”

Mamma bristles. “She didnae tell Jasper a thing about inviting her to stay! And I expected a quiet, family dinner—without prying townsfolk itching to see how I ‘turned out.’”

“She’s not nosy—she’s important to Ruby, so let it go!”

There’s a heavy pause. “Well—I at least deserve a little warning after such a trying week!”

I can hardly believe Mamma’s tone—and after lecturing us for two weeks on proper etiquette, no less. Rosalyn seems lovely. Can’t she swallow her frustrations for an evening?

Ruby’s part-time cook pops in to announce that dinner is served. We file into the dining room, where Granddad and Rosalyn sit at either side of Ruby—the place Mamma would normally claim. Her jaw tenses, and she takes the other end of the table.

I dig into the first course, careful to mind my manners. I still don’t know if Ruby or Rosalyn care about dining formalities. 

“You see,” Ruby begins, spearing a carrot slice, “I really wanted the guest room to capture the essence of a rabbit. At first, I thought: wool—adorning walls and floors—but it wasn’t enough. So I consulted my tea leaves, which said I need some agricultural elements—”

“That is,” Rosalyn cuts in gently, “we made a wheelbarrow into a bookcase, and fashioned a trellis to hold the spare blankets.”

“Exactly! It’s charming. And I’m just over the moon about our—ehm, my pink bedroom. It took days to convince the paint to be the right shade.”

“We had to extract the pink pigment from hundreds of moss campion petals,” Rosalyn chuckles.

We listen with amusement—except Mamma, determined to nitpick Jaden’s every move. She corrects his posture. His elbows. His napkin placement. He obeys with heavy sighs, but otherwise keeps focused on the conversation at hand.

“Mamma, he’s fine,” I whisper, nudging her. “Leave him be and relax, da?”

The table quiets. Her eyes blaze at me.

“Aye Saoirse, stop fussing,” Granddad grunts. “Ruby is telling us about her garden.”

“Dad, dinnae—” But Mamma pauses at my widened eyes. The tension strains—and at last, she clears her throat. “Please go on, sister.”

“Well Brian,” Ruby continues, “we are probably going to put some marigolds in the side garden. We loved your idea last Monday for petunias, but that will have to wait for next spring—”

“Last Monday?” Mamma interjects, turning to Granddad. “You mean the day you told me you were off to get the rakes repaired?”

Granddad shifts. “I was just paying a visit to some friends. No harm done.”

“You set us back half a day,” she says sharply. I glance between them, conscious of my every move. “I had Bob and Barry just waiting around for you, and still had to pay them.”

“Sometimes folks just need a break,” he grumbles.

“Sometimes folks cannae afford a break.”

“I’m old, Saoirse. Tired. And I’m even more weary of your bickering.”

Her countenance darkens. “If you’re so tired, you know our solution.”

He folds his arms. “Tuckborough is my home. I’m not leaving.”

“Your family is in Long Cleeve.”

“Ruby is family, and she’s here!”

Silence falls like lead. Granddad drops his eyes. Mamma takes a long drink of wine.

“Ah, I see, I see,” she mutters.

Across the table, Jaden bows his head. Opal’s eyes are hollow, haunted, and she sinks in her chair. I know the toll so much conflict at home has had on them. We’re used to Dwarves yelling—but more with enthusiasm than anger, and never prolonging a quarrel. My heart aches.

“So… the marigolds,” I chirp, turning to Rosalyn.

“Oh yes!” She nods, eager to turn the talk to lighter things. “My brother runs our family nursery in Bywater. My niece manages the sick plants—she’s brilliant with roses. I think you’d like her.”

We carry on as Jay brings out braised pork in mushroom sauce. I eat with singular focus, hoping we’ve passed the worst of it. Jaden launches into a spirited description of his bug collection and the book I brought him last week. Ruby and Rosalyn squirm in delighted disgust. Mamma listens in silence.

Somewhere between the main course and dessert, the conversation wanders to the festival.

“Did you see all the fellas dancing with Diamond at Lithe?” Granddad asks loudly. “They were fawning over her even more than Estella Bolger! I’d wager she stole half the hearts in Tuckborough that day.”

“Granddad, stop telling such stories!” I laugh, blushing. “I was naught but a curiosity.” 

“I heard two boys got in a fight over her!” Jaden giggles. Opal pokes at her food. My smile falters, thinking of Murphy and Merry. Did I really make such a scene?

“I’m not surprised!” Ruby croons. “Runs in the family. You’ll have an army of admirers in no time.”

“I think one of our neighbors is already quite keen on her,” Granddad continues. “He’s a good lad. And last week, she even brought home young Peregrin Took—and he couldn’t stop complimenting her manners and singing.”

The mood shifts faster than the weather on the cliffs of Long Cleeve. Opal curls inward, scowling. Mamma’s knuckles whiten around her fork.

“You don’t say?” Rosalyn teases. “What a catch!”

“Our washerwoman says her son and all his friends are raving about Diamond this, Diamond that,” Ruby adds brightly. “Newcomers always get the hens and roosters flapping.”

My face burns. What are people saying? Are they laughing at me? Embarrassment and dread knot in my stomach. But the hard line of Mamma’s mouth is even worse.

“Aye, don’t they?” Granddad says. “Well, she’s young yet, but there’s no doubt she’ll find a fine fella to keep her right here in Tuckborough—”

“Stop it, Father!”

Mamma leaps to her feet. The table goes still.

“Sit down, Saoirse!” Granddad snaps. “I was only teasing the lass. Let me have my fun.”

“It’s not fun,” Mamma barks. “I’ve asked you not to put such ideas in my daughters’ heads!”

Granddad throws down his napkin. “What’s the matter with you? We were having a fine dinner before your outburst.”

“You’ve spent the entire evening acting like Ruby’s more your daughter than I am!” Mamma’s voice shakes. “You’ve never forgiven me for marrying Jasper and leaving—and now you want my girls to do the same to me. Is that it? Pay me back by turning them against me?”

“That’s nonsense,” he growls. “I was glad you found a good man. But you—you never forgave me after Syringa passed!”

“Oh here we go—”

“This is only your second time back since her funeral!”

“As if we dinnae see you every year,” she scoffs, glancing aside.

“Only because we make the long trip to you!” He stands and points at her. “It took your mother dying for you to visit us proper like—and you didnae even bring everyone!”

“How dare you! After all you’ve put me through the last month!” 

Jaden sits still as stone. Opal stares at her lap, fading into her chair. My pulse rushes in my ears.

“You have no idea how folks have treated me,” Mamma hisses. “Whispers. Stares. Like I was a traitor for falling in love. And you—” her voice breaks— “you let it happen, just like you let my sister die. You were silent. You didn’t even try to understand why we needed to leave.”

“You abandoned us!” he shouts, tears in his eyes. “You left me and Daisy to rot in our grief, far from our grandchildren!” He blinks hard, teeth clenched. “Ruby was there for us. Not you.”

A lump forms in my throat. Aunt Syringa died before I was even born. What exactly happened? Did Mamma really abandon Granddad and Nana? 

“Has Ruby paid any of your debts? Has Ruby helped fix the homestead? She’s as much a stranger as ever—she didnae even write condolences when Ma died!”

“Who do you think held my hand when we buried her?” Granddad roars. “Ruby and Rosalyn filled your family duty. Not that you care—you’ve come to try to take everything else from me, to try and make me leave my only home and go to your no-man’s-land—”

“ENOUGH!” Ruby slams the table with both palms. 

Opal, Jaden and I jump. She rises, shaking with rage. Her voice is raw, stripped of its usual airy detachment. 

“You two come into my home, eat my food, then have the audacity to slander me and my homeland?”

“Ruby—” Rosalyn murmurs, but our Aunt shakes her off.

“You think I wanted to stay away from Long Cleeve, Saoirse? You think I liked the silence between us? You know how I hate traveling—yet you expected me to do all the visiting.”

“But you could afford it more than us!” Mamma says, recovering her surprise.

“Oh yes—you were busy and tired and couldn’t brave a few sideways looks to visit me for more than two weeks after Andy died!” 

“That was fifteen years ago!” Mamma gripes. “And you of all people should know what it’s like, being merely tolerated here!”

Ruby presses her lips tight. Opal turns away, her arms tightening around her stomach—but I’m too far to reach out.

Mamma lifts her chin, though tears pool in her eyes. “You could’ve at least written more than twice a year.”

“Why must I always take the initiative?”

“You shut us out!”

“You and Jasper shut me out!" Ruby shouts. "Aside from Brian and Daisy, I was entirely without family—until Rosalyn. And you’ve been treating her like a spoiled egg all night!”

Mamma starts. I give her a desperate look, silently begging her to back down. 

“Why do you keep bringing her into this?” she barks. “Rosalyn’s not family, and she shouldnae be hearing this!”

“She is my family because I love her!”

The air goes dead quiet. Even the candles are still. My mind is a fog of confusion. Why didn’t Ruby tell us?

Opal curls into a ball. Jaden melts into his chair. Rosalyn stares through the table. Fractures form in Mamma’s frame—her posture drooping, her fury draining down her cheeks. I’ve never seen her… unraveled. Only Granddad looks unsurprised, like he already knew.

“For dessert, we have—” Jay bursts through the door and freezes. “Ah… lemon posset.” 

Ruby storms out of the room. Rosalyn shoots Mamma a warning look before following her. Jay awkwardly sets the dishes before us, and Granddad falls back into his seat.

“Well, Saoirse, I hope you’re happy.” He snaps his napkin and digs into the posset, putting on a show of indifference. Mamma’s jaw ripples, and she leaves without a word.

There’s a long pause. I stare at the dessert, thinking of dinner at Great Smials last week, of Orla and Fiona snickering as I pass. It’s not supposed to be this way. Family, friends, neighbors—why is everyone at each other’s throats? Maybe Tuckborough really does bring out the worst in people.

“Granddad,” Opal whispers, teary-eyed and trembling. “I’m so sorry you felt abandoned all these years. I had no idea.”

“Well, dinnae bother yourself about it, Little Bird,” he mutters. “Not your fault.”

“Di, doesn’t he have to apologize to Mamma?” Jaden asks.

“Now hold on!” Granddad slams his spoon down. Jaden flinches back. “I’m the one who’s been wronged!”

“Granddad,” I half groan, half scold. “Seems to me like there’s been wrong on every side—but now it’s all in the open and spoken with nasty words.”

Granddad shifts, grumbling under his breath.

“It’s not right, Granddad,” Opal peeps. “It’s not right for family to fight like this.”

He hesitates. At length, he heaves a sigh. “Well… I s’pose you’re right about that.”

But he doesn’t stir. Opal and Jaden give me wide-eyed looks. I huff. Without Malachite or Papa around, I’m going to have to do everything around here, aren’t I?

“Leave it to me.” I rise, take a step toward the door—and freeze. I should get some kind of reward, if not thanks.

I turn and scarf a portion of lemon posset before marching into the storm.

~

“Mamma?”

No response. I plod down the dim hall, certain I’ve passed this way already. But as I round the corner—a sniffle. 

“Mamma?” I follow the sound to a door and knock. “It’s Diamond. Please let me in.” 

After a pause, she opens the door to a bog-themed washroom. Her eyes are puffy. I hold her close, and we sit on the edge of the froggy tub.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she mutters at last.

“It was pretty horrible.” I stroke her scalp—hair still tied up like it never is at home. She leans her head on my collarbone. “What happened? You just… snapped.”

She lets out a long breath. “It’s been a hard month, Diamond, since we heard about your Nana.”

“Da, but… maybe it’s better now? You and Granddad have been at it since we got here—the whole thing was bound to explode eventually.”

“Maybe,” she murmurs. “But I was cruel—especially to Ruby and Rosalyn.” She presses fists into her eyes. “Ohhhh—I was such an arse!”

I stroke her back. “I understand you hating it here, and being hurt by Ruby’s silence, but… why Rosalyn?”

Her face hardens. “I wish you’d just stay out of this, Diamond.”

Anger boils in my belly. I try to be calm like Opal, wise like Malachite—but I can’t. 

“I’m only in this because you lost your head! I’m not a child anymore,” I huff. “I want to help. Why won’t you let me?”

She snorts. “Oi, now you want to be helpful?”

“I am helpful! I just don’t like chores!”

We stare defiantly at each other. She arches an eyebrow. My lip twitches. Little by little, our smiles grow into quiet snickering. 

“Fine.” She puffs out her cheeks. “Rosalyn just felt like one more person who knows my dad better than I do. And it stung, having a stranger there, watching it all fall apart.”

“Wheesht, you lived with Granddad half your life. You know him better than anyone. That’s why you can’t get along.”

She smiles weakly, shaking her head.

“And it’s not like Rosalyn crashed the party,” I add. “She just… happened to be there when you started the fireworks.”

“Dinnae remind me,” she groans.

“Just go talk to them.” I kiss her head.

She wrinkles her nose. “I dinnae think I can while my daughter’s motherin’ me!”

“Oh, cry me a river,” I tease. She nudges me playfully as we stand. I brace her shoulders. “I’ll come with you.”

We find Ruby in the back garden, slumped onto Rosalyn’s shoulder. I walk ahead and drape an arm around them both. Ruby lifts her face, eyes puffy, nose red. But her weak smile disappears when she sees Mamma behind me.

“Auntie,” I coo, “I know a lot was said back there, but we’re still reeling after Nana. We’re all hurt and hurting each other, it seems.”

Ruby sniffles. “It has been a while since things felt… right.”

“Da—I didn’t even know so much was wrong. Maybe none of us did. But we’re still family, and we can fix it.”

Rosalyn squeezes our hands. Ruby gives a shaky nod. I step aside for Mamma to approach.

“Ruby—” She sucks in a breath, shutting her eyes. “I’m so sorry. For all of it. For dinner, and the past, and how I spoke to you both… You were right about me. I let you down.”

Ruby says nothing, but her chin trembles.

“I’m so glad you found love again,” Mamma adds. “I can see she makes you happy. And… thank you, Rosalyn, for being part of this family even when we made it hard. I’m sorry.”

Tears spring to Ruby’s eyes—of a different kind, this time. She opens her arms, and Mamma leans in.

“Thank yooouuu, Saoirse,” Ruby blubbers. “I know—know it’s been hard lately.”

“Jasper and I—we’ve missed you,” she murmurs. “We’ve wanted you in our bairn’s lives more. We could’ve come to you, but we just… never did. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s hard to come back,” Ruby hiccups. “I feel the same—the longer I stay away, the easier it is to delay another trip…”

Mamma pats her back. “Thank you for being here for my Ma and Dad. It should’ve been me.”

“No,” Ruby says fiercely. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known—it happened so suddenly—but I… I did my best. Just like you did for me when my folks passed.”

They sink to the garden floor, arms tangled as their words unravel knots of the past. Shared struggles. Isolation. Does separation always create rifts? Can they always be healed? What does that mean for Mamma and Papa, or my brothers… or Khamíd?

Rosalyn threads her arm through mine. I return her smile and follow her inside, leaving Mamma and Ruby to finish their mending.

We return to the empty dining room, where a few desserts still sit out. I’m impressed Jaden didn’t finish them all. We each grab a dish and slurp the treat.

“That’s one apology down,” I say.

“She did well,” Rosalyn says. “I’ll admit I was surprised—she did not give me the best impression earlier. But, maybe you’re a good coach.”

I swell with a smile. “I’m glad she and Granddad finally said what needed saying, even if it exploded all over your dinner.”

“Well, it happens when it happens.” She smiles wryly. “In a way, it makes me feel more like family, being here for the bad parts.”

I snort. “I hope we haven’t scared you off. I think I speak for all of us when I say you’re already liked very much.”

“We shall see.” She winks. “These things take time to blow over.”

I dig my spoon into the dish, chewing over more than the posset. “So… how did you meet my aunt?”

“We’ve been acquainted many years,” she chuckles. “She loved Andy a great deal—and when he died, she threw herself into gardening. Didn’t know a thing. With my family’s business, I was the natural friend to help her.”

“That was so long ago!”

She grins. “We went on ten years like that. It took your Granddad and Nana to convince her to finally speak for me. And I’ve been here with her ever since.”

I lower my eyes. “Why didn’t she tell us?”

Rosalyn falls quiet for a long moment. “Diamond… I don’t know how it is in Long Cleeve, but around here, not everyone is welcoming of… non-traditional arrangements.”

“Oh.” I frown. “That’s so strange. Why not?”

She shrugs. “It’s just how things are.”

“I don’t understand.” I shake my head. 

“You know what?” A smile flickers on her lips. “Me neither.”

I grin weakly. “So why not move to Long Cleeve? People don’t mind moss mates^[25] out there.”

“All my family’s in the West Farthing, and Ruby doesn’t like change. She takes to routines like a snail into a new shell—very slowly.”

“Sounds like Ruby,” I chuckle. “How do you get on, then?”

“We keep quiet,” she sighs. “Jay knows, of course, and your grandfather—he’s always been kind. But I must ask that this does not go beyond them or your siblings.”

“Da, of course.” My gaze sinks to my empty bowl. I lick it clean, but it’s not satisfying. “I don’t suppose people would be pleased if a hobbit was with a Dwarf, either?”

She smiles pitifully. “Ruby told me about your uncle Rhodon—giving his inheritance to Jasper so he could travel the Blue Mountains with his Dwarven love. But most folk around here have never thought about it, I think, unless to disapprove.”

A fresh isolation clings to my bones like ice. Perhaps I can’t share everything with Pim and Pervinca. I was looking forward to telling them about Khamíd, spilling all my feelings and asking them a hundred questions about romance—but maybe it’s better I stay silent.

Rosalyn gives a small, sympathetic nod. I let go of the empty dish to wrap her in an embrace. There is a kinship in what’s left unspoken.

In the parlor, Opal and Jaden are curled up on the sofa, trading jokes in low voices. Granddad stands when Mamma and Ruby return.

“I’m sorry, Saoirse—”

“I’m sorry Dad—”

A little laugh. They trade a few quiet words—too few, if you ask me—and their embrace is too quick. But at least it’s a start. I glance at Ruby and Rosalyn next, sitting hand in hand. How didn’t I see the affection in their eyes before? Jaden and Opal give me a questioning look, relaxing when I nod. There’s only one kind of embroidery I’ve ever been good at—and it feels good, seeing us all stitched back together. I just hope the thread holds after we leave.

“Oy, we forgot!” Jaden dives toward me and wrestles Papa’s letter from my pocket. Ruby and Rosalyn shriek; Mamma groans; Opal and Granddad fill the room with laughter. I punch his arm. “Now that we’re all friends again—sit down and hush up, the lot of you.”

We guffaw and scold him playfully. But just as he breaks the seal, Opal swipes the pages from him, and I pull him onto my lap.

“Sha, let me go!” he giggles. But I have his arms pinned to his sides.

“Control yourself, ” Opal teases, clearing her throat.

Hello my darling family!

We were glad to hear you made it to Tuckborough safe and sound. My heart aches for each of you—your love, voices, insolence and all. Make sure you behave yourselves, don’t give trouble, and listen to your mother.

Saoirse, your rose bushes are blooming, nearly as beautiful as you. I think of you every time I see them and wish I could be in Tuckborough. I’ve enclosed a note just for you—so I can tell you properly how much I adore and miss you.

We’ve had some good sea rain, and the crops are looking strong…

We chuckle as Opal reads through two full pages of daily details, of the simple life we used to live. Jaden settles and leans his head against mine. There’s a relief knowing that Long Cleeve is the same as ever—and a bitterness, that the world turns just the same without us there. My arms tighten around him.

But in greater news, we’ll only be sending our shepherds overnight to the far southern slopes in pairs from now on. Last week on his third day out, Malachite was nearly killed defending the sheep from a wolf, with only Runner at his side and not another soul for miles.

We all gasp. Mamma covers her mouth. Opal’s voice wavers.

We are baffled why one was so far from the mountains in the summer. Thank goodness Mal had his sword—and thank heavens we’ve trained him on it. He says it would’ve gotten him if not for Runner, who bit the wolf’s hind and let himself take its jaws. His leg’s shattered, and he’ll probably be naught but a lap dog for his last few years. Mal had a troublesome time herding the sheep home without him. Needless to say, the pup Diamond’s trained will move up as our senior herd dog. 

I press my knuckles to my lips, blinking back tears. Malachite was nearly killed; Runner, crippled… It’s a sharp feeling, realizing how much the world can shift so many miles away, and I wouldn't know any different for weeks—if at all. 

Just like when Nana passed.

“Oh, poor Runner,” Mamma sighs. “I know he’s getting old, but still… I’m glad Mal’s safe, at least.”

“Aye,” Granddad says. “But it must have been something to see him slay a wolf! My… yesterday he was hardly walking; now, he’s already a man.”

“You raised another border collie, Diamond?” Ruby asks. “Is he any good?”

I take a quick breath and push forth a smile. “Tess will be even better than his sire. He’s very smart—since he loves me best.”

“Wheesht—he plays with me far more!” Jaden says, pinching my shoulder.

“Och! But he never listens to you!”

Ruby and Rosalyn laugh. Opal rolls her eyes and reads on.

Si has really stepped up with the fields this year. I’m mighty proud of him—

“That’s our nickname for Obsidian,” Opal explains to Rosalyn. “And Khalíl—that’s Khalíl Dhundrarlun,^[26] one of the neighbors that we’re close with—”

Khalíl found a bug none of us have ever seen. We sent along a drawing, and he wants Jaden to name it. He and Si are also making up some game for you all to play during the holidays—Dangers and Dragons, or something—and they talk of it nonstop!

I’ve also seen a lot of Khamíd lately—

“That’s Khalíl’s younger brother,” Opal says, flashing a grin at me. My pulse quickens.

—even though he’s been busy with his metalworking apprenticeship. He’s moved from casting tools to jewelry and gilded pieces, and is always asking me what Diamond likes so his practice pieces don’t go to waste.

Di, I think you had better not dance with too many handsome lads while you’re away, or you’ll break this poor boy’s heart.

“Ooooooh, Diamond,” Opal sings.

I blush and hide my face. Mamma casts me a disapproving side-eye, a warning that our conversation about beaus isn’t over—but at least she holds her tongue for now.

“Ahh, Khamíd, is it?” Rosalyn purrs, eyes glinting at me.

Granddad winks. “Aye, he’s a fine lad, I recall.”

Ruby eagerly jumps in. “I hardly remember—is he handsome?”

“Tall?”

“He’s making you jewelry?”  

“We know what that means!” And they hum the wedding processional.

I am mortified. But also… maybe a little bit pleased. It’s not as good as a letter, but it’s nice knowing the Dwarf with the fiery dark eyes is thinking of me. Maybe the distance won’t change us as much as it divides everyone else.

Chapter Text

I remember sitting close in his father’s dim workshop. The forge fire had gone out. Khamíd reached for my hair, and a shiver crawled up my spine. 

Nana’s fairy stories always ended in perfect romance—spellbound looks, weddings, kisses under starlight. I used to think it was silly. Then I learned how Mamma and Papa met: he was a romantic, she believed in magic, and they couldn’t resist each other. I want magic in my world. Someone I will always belong with.

Could Khamíd see the interest in my eyes that day? Did he know my mouth tingled, hoping our lips would meet? My heart drummed faster as his fingers touched a lock.

“You’ve got a crumb of bread in your hair,” he snickered, tugging the strand playfully.

I sigh, smiling at the memory.

Finally, it’s the fourth Trewsday of Afterlithe^[27]—the long-awaited day of Musings Monthly. I plait two small braids in my room, silently chanting my intentions to Vala Mahal and trying to banish the blush on my cheeks. Mamma has lectured me for days about romance, so I can’t have her guessing my thoughts.

“You’re too young for beaus,” she kept saying. “I like Khamíd very much, but I’ll not have you catching serious feelings at your age.”

I begged for mercy. I insisted we were only friends, that I wasn’t interested in lads yet. Still, the shiver came to mind—and Mamma hadn’t believed me anyway.

“A pretty thing like you hardly needs to flirt to encourage attachment—especially around here,” she warned. “Be more careful, or you’ll lead people on.”

As if. The only person I’ve ever cared to flirt with is waiting for me back home.

When my hair is perfect and my hands are smoothed with balm, I bound into the dining room. Despite a long day of chores, the promise of poetry and intrigue fills me with energy.

“Opal, for the last time,” Mamma sighs as I plop into my seat, “we cannae get you and Diamond new dresses—and you may not ask your aunt for money.”

“Please, Mamma?” she whines. “I looked so out of place when I went to town today.”

“You look perfectly respectable.”

Opal deflates, and we exchange a look. We’ll convince her eventually.

At least Mamma and Granddad aren’t arguing. She hasn’t mentioned moving him back to Long Cleeve since Ruby’s dinner. Who knows what that means for us? I try to enjoy the peace without thinking about it too much.

“So Mamma, are you coming with us to Musings Monthly?” I ask.

The table falls silent. I glance up.

“About that,” Granddad says. “I’m feelin a bit run down. Might just lie down with my bottle of—er, with my thoughts.”

Mamma narrows her eyes. “Have you been buying Marish Malt again?” 

He mumbles innocently. 

She sighs. “Diamond, I’m sorry, but I’ve no patience left for busybodies today. But you should go. Make a good impression for us.”

I slump. “Jaden?”

“Da, and sit through two hours of stuffy poetry?” He cackles. “No thank you. ”

“What!” I cry, stomach twisting. “Opal, at least you’re coming, right?”

Her shoulders sink with fatigue. “Eh—I’m tired and had a busy morning with my new friend Siobhan.” She smiles apologetically. “Won’t Pim and Vinca be there?”

“They’re in Buckland. And Pearl’s tuning the harp just for me, so I have to go.”

She hesitates, sighing. “I’d rather stay and practice by myself.”

“I can’t show up alone!” I groan. The whispers and odd looks are unbearable when I go out on my own. I’m bound to forget myself—and I don’t want to give my family, or Long Cleeve, or outsiders in general a bad name if I can’t give a perfect performance. Aren’t Cleeveholms supposed to support each other?

A knock interrupts us. Always the endless social chores! I jog to the door and open it to Cormac Banks, straightening his thin linen waistcoat.

“Hiya Cormac!” I brighten. Maybe I won’t have to go alone after all. “Say, are you—”

“I was wondering if—” We pause. “Please, you first.”

“No no, you knocked,” I giggle.

“Right. Well.” He wrings his hands. “Musings Monthly is tonight, and… I was wondering if you wanted to go—ah, walk—with me, since… since we’re neighbors?”

“Love to!” I grab his hand and pull him inside. “I’m just finishing dinner. Come in?” 

Not that I give him any choice. He follows me down the hall, looking pale.

“You all right, Cormac?”

“Oh—it’s nothing.” He scratches his head. “I was just practicing my poem earlier… and Murphy walked by.”

I roll my eyes. “Oy, what did he say this time?”

Cormac winces. “Well… let’s just say it wasnae encouraging. Then he laughed at me.”

“Just ignore him. Murphy’s a bully, and doesn’t know a thing about poetry.”

Granddad cheers as we enter the dining room.  “Cormac—how are ye, lad?”

“Hullo Mr. Brian.” Cormac bows. “Mrs. Cleeveholm.”

“Again, you can call me Saoirse,” she chuckles. “You’ve known my father your whole life, so there’s no need for formality.”

“Cormac’s going with me,” I declare triumphantly, “so I don’t care if any of you come.”

Opal eyes his waistcoat. “Di, do you think you’re a little under-dressed?”

My confidence evaporates, and I look over my dusty blue dress. What will people think? I have nothing newer, nothing brighter. “Do you think I ought to change, Cormac?”

“I give you good enough clothes,” Mamma huffs.

“You look very nice—I mean, fine. I mean—” He brushes the curls out of his face. “I daresay I’m overdressed… It’s my first time reading my work in front of people.”

“You’ve been writing then?” Granddad beams, winking. “No wonder Diamond likes you.” 

I roll my eyes. Cormac's cheeks color.

“Dinnae fret, lad,” Mamma says, giving him a polite smile and Granddad a warning glare. “It’s the substance that counts, not how you’re dolled up. Just stand straight, hold your head high, and you’ll be fine.”

Cormac lets out a breath. “Thank you Mrs—ah, Saoirse. I’m just… so nervous.”

“I still get nervous when I perform,” says Jaden. “But it gets easier.”

“How long until it gets easier?”

“Oh, a few years, maybe.” 

Cormac looks on the verge of fainting. 

“But—I’m not a natural, like my sisters,” Jaden adds. “Maybe you’ll have it better.”

“Bah, don’t overthink it.” Granddad slaps his shoulder.

“And don’t forget about beginners’ luck!” Opal chirps.

Cormac smiles faintly, but it’s time to leave. “No dawdling—straight there and back,” Mamma calls. He nods fervently, and we slip into the pink dusk.

“What is it like?” Cormac asks. “Performing, I mean. Are you good at it?”

I shrug. “We perform often back home. It’s exciting to have the room’s attention—and I enjoy surprising and pleasing people.”

He swallows hard. “What about the nerves?”

“I still get jittery, but that only sharpens my focus now.”

“Wish I could do that…”

“You can!” I chuckle. “Let yourself feel all the nerves in one breath, then let them go. Like Jaden said, it takes practice, but you have to start somewhere.” I pat his back. “You’ll do grand.”

He returns my smile—but quickly drops his gaze, hands clenching.

We enter Great Smials and go to the nearest sitting room, already filling with hobbits. Pearl greets and directs us to a table at the back, where cheeses, grapes and tiny pastries dwindle. I pile my plate high. Cormac takes a biscuit, but doesn’t eat it. 

“How are you not hungry?” I ask, taking a huge bite.

“Don’t want my voice to crack.” He grimaces. “And I don’t feel so good.”

“Oh please.” I swat his arm. “You’re being a worry worm.”

His lip twitches. “Do you mean worrywart?”

I snort. “Why would I call you a wart?”

“That’s just how the saying goes.”

“I don’t know what warts have to do with anything. Worms wiggle and fidget—which is just what you’re doing.”

He laughs loudly. I take another bite, pleased with myself.

“I’m as surprised as you are to see her here alone,” someone behind me mutters. 

I prick my ears. 

“Should Brian not accompany her, since he loves poetry?” asks a second.

“Maybe the family’s not literate,” says another. “Or they only know Dwarvish runes, or what have you.” 

“Why would they need to read anything way out in the wilderness?”

“Landed folk teach their bairns letters, and Saoirse reads.”

I grind my teeth. What gives them the right to act so superior?

Pearl calls for people to take their seats, and the gossip fades. 

I glance around, at a loss for where to sit. Those I know I don't know well, and the strangers have nothing inviting about them. But then I spot Estella Bolger—braids perfect, posture impeccable. We’ve met a few times since my Lithe blunder. She’s only in town once or twice a month, but she’s polite when I breach etiquette and friendly when I flatter her. I tug Cormac’s sleeve and steer us to the two open chairs on her right.

“Estella dear, are these seats taken?” I ask.

“Diamond, what a surprise!” She gestures for us to sit. “Please.”

I smile, trying to forget the gossip a moment ago. “This is my neighbor, Cormac Banks.”

“Yes, I think I’ve seen you here before.” She gracefully nods. “Always so shy.”

“And you always share first-rate works,” Cormac says, bowing.

“Ah, I fear I have neglected a valuable supporter,” she chuckles. “It is good to finally make your acquaintance. If you cheer for me, I’ll cheer for you!”

He smiles—then pales at the reminder of performing.

“You’re friends with Vinca, no?” Estella asks, turning to me.

I gleam. “Da—she and Pim have been very kind since I arrived.”

“They’re dear to me, too. My mother grew up at Great Smials, so I visit often to maintain my education and connections here.” She drops her voice. “Favorable for suitors, you know.”

My eyes widen. “What suitors?”

“Any worth having!” she chuckles. “My mother is rather hasty, I’ll admit, but I cannot disagree with her tactics. She and my father have given me every advantage for perfect happiness, so I dare not complain.”

“Then… you don’t mind them pushing you into marriage?”

She shrugs. “They’re simply maximizing my prospects—why should I mind? I am the Miss Bolger of Budgeford, after all.”

I almost laugh. Shirish aristocrats are remarkably in love with their reputations, but I don’t want to offend Estella again. She’s kind enough. If only I could siphon some of her confidence to Cormac.

Pearl calls the room to attention. Folks settle in—dozens of Tooks, townies, Mr. Griffo, Peony and Perry Chubb with Liam Goodbody. I smooth my skirt and pull my shoulders back.

“Welcome all to Musings Monthly!” Pearl announces. “A quick thanks to Willow for preparing the food—” Enthusiastic applause rings out— “and a reminder for only one piece per performer. Dawn, love, please take note!” 

We laugh as a sprightly gammer waves her off. 

“Now, let’s welcome Adelard Took to start the night.”

An older gentleman shuffles to the front. “Fourteen years ago this week,” he begins, “was the last Musings Monthly presided over by Lalia Took.” 

There are a number of boos, as well as a few hearty cheers for Pearl. She flushes.

“To commemorate the anniversary, I’ve written a few lines. Pearl darling—this is for you!”

In Tuckborough thus canonized:
Reigned Lalia, the matriarch despised;
A chair-bound queen,
So often seen
With manners quite uncivilized.

Great Smials was a dreadful place—
Our head-of-house, a great disgrace!
Her insults scraped,
None could escape—
A mem’ry we would swift erase.

Along came Pearl, so spry and sly,
Attending Lalia when—oh my!
From wheelchair she fell,
As if tipped by a spell,
And she uttered her final goodbye!

For Lalia the Large, we shed not a tear,
As her behavior was truly severe.
We’re thankful Pearl’s spite
Set the matriarch right;
So let cheers rise from kin far and near!

The room erupts with glee. Pearl covers her face and shoos Adelard off the stage. But I gape, astonished.

“Lalia was terrifying,” Cormac whispers. “Truly the worst hobbit I ever saw.”

“Just beastly,” Estella agrees.

“But… celebrating someone’s death?” I exclaim. “Pearl didn’t really kill her, did she?”

Estella winces. “It was an accident. Lalia fell from her wheelchair on Pearl’s watch—she was the bat’s personal attendant, and had it worse than all of us.”

“Lalia had a certain…” Cormac trails off. “Let’s just say she had a strong, obstinate personality, so she isn’t exactly missed.”

Nana was strong-willed, too. Stubborn. Hot-tempered—but she also was loyal and honest. She’d sing your praises and love unconditionally. Did people cheer when she died? Is that why Granddad waited weeks to tell us?

Embers spark in my cheeks. “So does every woman who speaks for herself around here get shoved from a chair?” I snap.

Estella gives me a sideways look—curious, maybe a little impressed.

“Oi, pipe down!” A hobbit in front of us hisses. “Isabella’s about to read!”

I fold my arms, grumbling. “Everyone here ought to be ashamed of themselves.”

The hobbit whips around. “You think you’re better than us, do ye girl? Think Lalia was just misunderstood? I’d like to see you shake her hand without talking back.”

Many eyes fall on me. My face burns with mortification, and no words will come.

“Oh Mundric, she didn’t know the woman,” Estella says smoothly. “You can hardly blame her for a noble sentiment.”

“Well, she ought to hold her tongue on matters she knows nothing about!”

“Excuse me,” Pearl interrupts. “We’ll have time for discussion during intermission.”

“I didnae start any trouble,” Mundric huffs. “It was this new lass from out yonder!”

The room stares. I lift my chin, proud like Nana, sure like Mamma. Hardy as thistles and asters. Pretend.

“It hardly matters,” Pearl says calmly. “Let’s just appreciate Isabella’s reading.” 

“Typical,” Mundric mutters. “As prickly and ill-mannered as Saoirse.”

I glare at the back of his head. Isabella continues, though folks peek over their shoulders at me. I set my jaw. They don’t know me. And they have bad morals, so I don’t want them to. I just have to stand tall, put on a show until Blotmath—and I’ll never have awful neighbors again.

Estella’s hand slips into mine. I flinch, but she doesn’t let go. Maybe she’s an exception.

“Pay him no mind,” Cormac whispers.

I smile weakly at him. He’s all right, too.

Most everyone reads verses or stories written by someone else, though they perform them well, breathing life into the words and holding my attention for ransom. I pat my friends’ knees when a line strikes me. They jump at first, but seem to get used to it. 

Finally, Pearl calls Cormac up.

“You can do it!” I whisper. 

He rallies himself and approaches the dais. We lock eyes. I exaggerate a deep breath; he follows my lead, and begins.

In fields of green where dusk unfurls,
I found a muse, a bewitching girl.
Her head in the clouds, a vision divine,
Stirring up storms in this spirit of mine.

Her eyes on the ground, her gaze ever deep,
Sparing the worms as a promise to keep.
Her confident strides, commanding and swift,
A hint of a smile to linger on lips.

Her laughter, a symphony upon evening air,
Serenading the world until it despairs.
A melody lingers in each step she takes
And echoes through dreams as I lay awake.

Through meadows she wanders, chanting in prose,
And wildflowers follow wherever she goes
Beneath moon’s soft and silvery glow,
To taste the stardust she subtly sows.

What secrets were spoken where starlight resides?
Some joke for herself? A celestial guide?
I can't comprehend or hope to explain
Her presence: a riddle I reread in vain.

He stumbles only a few times. But there’s a heartening round of applause, and Pearl releases us for the break. Ignoring everyone else, I pat his arm as he retakes his seat.

“That was wonderful!” I smile. “You didn’t read too fast. Well done.”

“I loved the imagery of the stars,” Estella adds. “Very ethereal.”

“Really?” he asks.

“Really!” we chime.

“But—I spoke in such a monotone. I couldnae even look up from my page!”

“You should be proud,” I insist. “I never would’ve guessed it was your first performance.”

“You’ve never read before?” Estella gapes.

Cormac grins—uncertain, but pleased. “Right. Well… if you’d excuse me, I think I’m gonna be sick—” and he slips away.

“I rather enjoyed that,” I chirp. “It was romantic and cosy, you know?”

“And not too obvious,” she snickers.

“I wonder how he thought of it. I can never write romantic things—they always sound forced.”

“Love poems must come from the heart,” she says. “You cannot fake what you’ve never felt. That’s why they say, ‘write what you know’.”

“I suppose…” I say skeptically. “But he’s not in love—he’s hardly two years older than me!”

Estella snorts. “Age has nothing to do with love, Diamond.”

“My mother would wholeheartedly disagree!”

“Only because she wishes it were true. Tell me…” Her smile grows mischievous. “Can you really say you’ve never felt something like Cormac’s poem?”

I blush, reminding myself I can’t be open with Shirish folks. “I love my family very much. That’s as true as love gets, da?”

She laughs. “Clever. But there are different kinds of love.”

“Oh, no doubt,” I say pertly. “But you must keep guessing what secrets lie in my heart, for I obey my mother and hold that I am too young for the rest.” 

She chuckles, and we fall quiet. 

My thoughts drift to Khamíd. In many ways, he is family—our fathers are best friends, so we grew up together. But am I conflating my love for him with… love? I think of the shiver, of his fingers brushing my hair. Did he feel something too? Am I imagining it meant anything?

“You seem well-read,” I begin slowly. “What do the old bards say about different kinds of love?”

“Well,” her eyes twinkle, “I’d say familial love keeps us loyal—many live to please family. Love for friends gives us courage, sometimes to follow them into mischief. Romantic love is passionate, reckless—makes you witless, you know. But it gives you hope.” 

She pauses, falling out of spirits. “Then there’s love of a physical sort, which men and poets revere.”

I remember how she looked at Merry at Lithe, and how he was later kissing Pansy. They’ve been friends for ages—is he one of her suitors? Maybe he used to be?

“I suppose misplacing your love can be painful,” I venture.

She sighs, and her tone turns academic. “Love is a heavy responsibility. We must work for connection, rectify wrongs—or the affection may die. It’s more fragile than family, whom we are ever driven toward to reconcile with.”

“But isn’t true love—of any kind—certain? Unchanging?”

“No, Diamond.” She blinks. I start back. “Hobbits grow and change, even if we pretend otherwise. We can fall in love, or out of it; cultivate love where none was before. I’m sure your parents are not the same people who married.”

I frown. “Well, maybe their love has changed shape—but it hasn’t faded.”

“Then I am glad.” She smiles. “Love certainly fades for many—affection, interests, the desire to get along. But love can change in good ways, too. And that is encouraging, I think.”

I bite my lip. “Change is… unpredictable. Uncomfortable. How can I be encouraged by something so…” I shake my head. “No—love cannot be so shrouded in the unknown.”

“Everything is shrouded in the unknown.”

“But why?”

She shrugs. “That’s life. Leaves room for powerful possibilities.”

And powerful disappointment. 

Her words churn in my mind—every relationship suddenly unstable, every feeling suspect. Is Khamíd forgetting me, moving on? Are we both changing? Would the future be clearer if I really loved him?

I shake myself. “So Estella, what is your poem about?”

She sighs. “A wish for love to fade.”

Cormac hustles to my side as Pearl ushers everyone to sit down again. She invites Estella up first to keep the night rolling.

I curse the day I met your gaze
In a hall of amber light;
I thought that both our hearts took flight
And like two hearths were set ablaze.

In early hours I wandered lost
Through the maze that is my mind,
Assumed that destinies entwined
Would help me find the one I sought.

But you were sly, you did evade
My sight by taking hidden paths
Down twists and turns until at last—
I knew my daydream was dismayed.

Forbade myself to hope again,
And for a time I was content.
But soon I yearned, without intent,
To meet your eye in grassy glen.

My foolish heart, you should have staid!
Instead, you raced and dared and prayed
That you would someday be remade!
You knew, yet kept up the charade
That “things will change, they’re just delayed.”
But now the twine that ties is frayed—
Even my will you disobey!
No words of reason will persuade
That tales of heartache oft replay.
By mine own heart I’ve been betrayed—
Oh, that I wish this love would fade!

She pauses to catch her breath. The whole room hangs on the silence.

Oh, spiteful heart, why won't you mend?
I only want my care to wane—
I wish that merely hate remained.
But love clings on ‘til bitter end.

The crowd erupts as she curtsies low. I stare, entranced by her words delivered like a slap across the face. You cannot fake what you’ve never felt. Would I ever curse the day I met Khamíd’s gaze?

I think of throwing open the doors to his father’s forge, where the smell of soot and steel hung heavy in the air. It was the day before Khamíd left for Khôrun Luin. He promised weekly visits—but how long would that last?

He put away tools from the cluttered bench, his shoulders tight.

“Are you excited?” I asked eventually. “Or nervous?”

“Both.” He didn’t look up. His voice was quiet—but not gentle, like usual. “My master will soon realize I’ve no talent.”

“You? Talentless?” My laugh fell flat. “Nonsense.”

“You don’t understand.” 

The words sting more now. I always understood Khamíd—at least, I thought I did. 

“I’ll be the youngest Guild apprentice in history. It’s more than a job—it’s my family’s honor, my heritage, something I’m meant for.” He turned away. “What’s left of me if I fail?”

He’d never spoken like that before. I wanted to ease him—but didn’t know what to say. Now, thinking back, all my teasing tricks seem so childish. 

I crouched beside a pile of planks and metal scraps. “Sha, remember this?” I asked, pointing to the wreck of our old fort. “When Si dared us to hide here and scare your bata?”^[28]

His chuckle doused the tension like embers in water. “He screamed like a seagull and made us clean the whole shop—but you only ‘supervised.’”

“As was my duty!” I beamed. But now, remembering his tired smile—I cringe.

“I miss those days,” he murmured. “When the worst thing was being late for dinner and treading on Jaden’s ant farm.”

“You helped him fix it.” I stepped closer. “You always fix things.”

He finally glanced at me. I thought something soft flickered in his dark eyes—but now, I’m not sure. He brushed a piece of hair behind my ear. The shiver crawled up my spine.

Then his smirk broke the spell. “You’ve got a crumb of bread in your hair.”

Cormac nudges my shoulder. I jump. Pearl beckons me to the front. How many performances had I missed?

I catch the whispers as I approach—“that coquettish foreigner,” my “peculiar accent,” what “strange performance” they’re in for. I jut my chin, standing taller like Mamma said. Act. Pretend. I want to impress them—into shutting their Shirish mouths.

I smile brightly as I sit at the pedal harp, earning many surprised looks.

“The Cleeveholms must be better off than everyone supposed,” a woman mutters.

“You’d think she’d have some brighter colors to wear if that were the case,” says another. 

I take a trying breath. “Good evening everyone. Thank you very much for having me tonight. It has been, ehm… quite a treat.” 

A few nods. Someone coughs. If they’re going to gawk and whisper, I’ll give them such a performance to talk about—

But I can’t play the Broadbeam tune I had planned—the one that sounds like my hills, the one Khamíd would hum as he worked. That would be “strange.” No—I’ll show them Cleeveholms are civilized enough to play their games.

“My Nana Daisy used to sing this song—though I prefer to play it with my own flair. I hope you enjoy, Far From Home .”

My fingers float between the strings, coaxing the notes to life. A pulse of energy animates me. I pluck with precision. Some folks sway, tap with the beat, hum along. I twist my face to match the music’s journey, from a buoyant andante to a mournful conclusion—a variation all my own. And joy fills me from heat to toe.

As my final strum rings out, half the room is misty eyed. At least they recognize talent when they see it. I stand in triumph, sweep into a deep curtsy, and revel in the applause.

“She’s more than half a Harfoot, she is,” someone says.

“How could Saoirse keep this jewel away from us all these years?”

Do they understand me better now? Do they like me, or only that I can pretend to be one of them? I shake myself—I don’t care either way.

After the rest of the readings, Pearl invites everyone to stay and discuss the performances as long as we’d like. Many people compliment my playing and express their “delight” to have me in Tuckborough. One woman tries to educate me about the customs in Long Cleeve—apparently, tensions are high between hobbits and Dwarves, since we “fight fiercely over food.”

“You ought to take care if you have the misfortune of returning there,” she says. 

It takes everything in me to hold my tongue. But I can’t stay quiet forever.

“Any grandkids of ol’ Brian’s belong here with the cultured folk,” Mr. Griffo says.

“Peculiar, then, that I learned to play among barbarians, ” I say sweetly, masking boiling anger with a smile. “Did you think Dwarves aren’t clever enough to make a harp, sir?”

He clears his throat and excuses himself. My satisfaction quickly twists into embarrassment. That was harsh—and unlike me.

“My, you speak very decidedly for one so young!” Adelard laughs as he walks by.

I blush. “I can’t tell whether or not you mean that as a compliment, sir.”

“Take it how ye like, lass.” 

I swallow hard. Mamma told me to make a good impression—I try to collect myself.

“Your address was remarkably polite up there!” says Marjorie. “And you curtsied before and after you played—very good for you, dear.”

“Eh… thank you?” I frown, confused. I coddle our animals with a tone like that. “My parents always tried to teach us good manners.”

“No need for gurning—I only mean that folks don’t eat with both hands out your way, if you take my meaning.”

I narrow my eyes, unable to stop myself. “No. I suppose we eat with our faces and don’t use napkins.” 

She blinks and flounders for a reply. I scold myself for my lack of control.

“Are you ruffling feathers again, Marjorie?” Liam Goodbody says as he approaches.

“Why, I hope you don’t mean me!” Marjorie waves him off, chuckling. “This lass here is quite the rascal.”

I flinch. Was that a joke or a real insult?

“Aye, I’ll bet Diamond does just as she pleases.” Liam’s smile is friendly—and quite possibly performative. “I don’t see you at Musings often, ma’am—what brought you tonight?”

“Adamanta invited me,” she says. “I cannae say I’ve much of an ear for poetry—but it was a nice enough time… mostly…”

I start to back away, but Liam catches my eye.

“Lovely to see you, Marjorie. Tell your family hello for me, if you would.” 

She relaxes, apparently relieved for a way out of the conversation, and shuffles away.

“I suppose I’m obliged to you,” I chuckle. “I fear I was talking myself into a pickle there.”

“That was some fine playing you did,” he says, changing the subject. “I’d no idea you were musical. Do you have any other secrets I should know about?”

I grin. “I also sing, write poetry, and pawn my chores onto my sister.”

He nods slowly, considering. “A lass of many talents! If only I had siblings to make up for my shortcomings.”

“You must be a dutiful son, then.”

He smiles. “I wish I could be more so. But it’s in that pursuit that I’ve come to invite you to tea next week. Well-to-do families ought to make everyone feel welcome—and perhaps you would entertain my mother in return.”

“I’d be honored.” I curtsy, feeling a flutter of gratitude, even though his words ring as rehearsed. “But we shouldn’t forget my sister—she is a much better musician than I am.”

“She will be just as welcome.” His teeth flash bright against his dark face. “I’ll be in touch, Diamond Cleeveholm.”

I watch him go, all practiced charm and polished poise. He must give that speech to every newcomer. Still—he’s making room for me. And in Tuckborough, while I’m so far from real connection, that’s not nothing.

“Diamond, love,” Estella says, appearing at my side. “I wanted to catch you before I left. You play a nice harp, and I had a jolly good time talking with you.”

The Miss Estella of Budgeford enjoyed talking with me? “I did, too—and I loved your poem! Maybe…” I bite my lip, hesitating. But even temporary friends would make it easier to get through the season. “Maybe we could work on our poetry together sometime?”

“Marvelous.” Estella’s stunning smile spreads across her face. My heart trips over itself. “Meet me tomorrow at the Bramblewood Barleyhouse? I go back to Budgeford the day after.”

I beam in disbelief. “If I have chores, I’ll escape them!”

She laughs. Without thinking, I throw my arms around her neck. It’s normal for Long Cleeve—but not here. My stomach churns, mortified, and I start to pull away—but she returns my embrace. Unfazed. Firm. I melt, savoring the warmth that folks act like is so alien here. Perhaps I won’t have to pretend for her.

Once Estella leaves, I’m more than ready to go. I thank Pearl for hosting, fend off a few nosy strangers, and collect Cormac by the door.

“I’ve never heard a harp played with such artistry,” he says as we step into the night. “You told an entire story without a word.”

I laugh, flattered. “And what story did you hear?”

“Well, it began jubilant—like the hope of returning to your love, as the song goes. Then it settled into routine, warm and familiar with the repeated melody. But near the end, there was something unexpected… Troubles. Loss, maybe—like the wanderer never made it home.”

I consider Estella’s words from earlier. “You don’t think they just fell out of love? Stopped trying to get back?”

“No,” he says quickly. “True love can traverse time and distance. Least, that’s what the tales say—and my ma still loves my dad, though he died when I was very young.”

My eyes drift upward. I would have agreed with him earlier today, but it was silly for me to put so much weight on a shiver, on a playful tug of hair. “Maybe for some.”

The glittering sky reminds me of Khamíd’s star map. Am I destined for love, O Elbereth, or do You have something else for me here? The thought chills me. I shake myself and punch Cormac’s arm. 

“You had no business being nervous earlier! Your poem was beautiful.”

“Ha, thank you.” He grins sheepishly. “It wasnae so bad. And maybe I can keep changing for the better.”

A shooting star sparks crosses the heavens—and burns out all too quickly. I have had far too much change lately, and I’m none too eager for more.

“Tell me, how did you come up with it?” I ask.

He scratches his head. “Just spilled out of me, I guess. Its meaning is still taking shape.”

“Do you think it’s a prophetic word from the Valar?” I tease. “Dwarves say spontaneous inspiration comes from Them.”

“Who are the Valar?”

I roll my eyes. “Sha, they only created everything: the heavens, the seas, the land and everything in it.”

He snorts. “Well, I’m not sure I want my poem to come true, so I hope it’s not from them.”

“Why not? You don’t fancy worshiping a lady for her celestial mystery and beauty?”

“Not if she’s so unattainable, untouchable—as the tone implies,” he chuckles. “It’s obvious that she is out of my—or, the speaker’s reach, that is.”

“Sounds like Elbereth.” I look at him sideways. “Can I see it again?”

He hands me the tattered paper. “You can just keep that.”

I blink. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely! A memento of your first Musings Monthly.”

I search the page for meaning, answers. I still don’t understand what the stars are whispering. I don’t know if I’ll remember my first Musings fondly, or if Long Cleeve is keeping my place at the table warm. The poem is shrouded by night, too dark to read. The future is shrouded in mystery. And all I can do is stand tall and walk into it.

My smile is fleeting as I tuck the paper into my pocket. “Thank you, Cormac.”

Chapter Text

The scent of baking bread curls through the air.

I clutch my blanket tight before throwing it off. Sunlight spills through the round window, refreshing, but the pull in my chest remains—that familiar ache for Long Cleeve, for before, when people knew me intuitively. With a sigh, I stumble to the basin and wash my face, staring through the vanity mirror as water drips down my chin.

When we got news that Nana had been dead for five weeks, I galloped Telumendil across the hills, letting the mountain wind pull tears from my eyes. But he found me. Without a word, Khamíd pulled my face from my pony’s mane and held me close.

“I just heard,” he said at length. His black hair was tied back in his apprentice’s braid, for he’d only just returned for a short break. “I’m so sorry, Di.”

My throat tightened. “Did you hear we’re being whisked to Tuckborough until winter?”

He winced. I knew what he was thinking: I know you’re scared, but it’s only a season.

But Mamma hates Tuckborough, I replied silently. I’ll be miserable.

“Give it a chance,” he murmured. “It’s your homeland.”

“Long Cleeve is my homeland.”

He didn’t answer. My breath hitched. Will you miss me? I wish I had asked. Do you love me?

But I didn’t. I never felt the need to confirm it back then. We had time. An embrace was enough. Only now do I wonder if I had it all wrong—and if I will ever have someone understand me so deeply again. Did I miss my chance? Will he—or anyone—be able to find me the next time I gallop off?

“Don’t worry, you won’t become some Shirish bumpkin.” He stooped and touched the eye of his forehead to mine—a gesture of friendship among Dwarves. But neither of us retreated. We stood still, noses and the space between our eyebrows pressed together for a long time.

Smoke fills my chest, tight and choking. The longer I’m away, the more that stillness seems like a distant dream—and the more these nightmares creep in, with ash and embers singing the corners of my mind. What does it mean? Should I tell Opal?

“No,” I say to my reflection, eyes ringed with circles and hair tied up in a sleeping scarf. “She’s in a bout of fatigue that’s been three-weeks long. I can’t burden my Little Bird with fretting about home, or whether Khamíd will write or not.”

“Diamond!” Mamma calls from the hall, yanking me back. “Are you still in bed?”

I groan. Easy closeness is a lifetime away. Tuckborough has few loving touches and no simple routines, and I have to improvise a new rhythm each day. 

With a heavy sigh, I rip off my scarf. There’s animals to tend and fieldwork to do before the social hours. And I’m already late.

“Half a minute, Mamma!” I call, pulling on a dress and braiding my hair in a flash.

~

Opal and I walk through the streets of town arm-in-arm, nodding politely at passersby. Her grip is lighter than usual. Not even the dresses in the tailor’s window draw her attention.

“You all right Birdie?” I ask.

“Stomachache,” she mutters. “I haven’t met Liam or his parents before…”

“Liam won’t bite. But I still say you should’ve brought your fiddle—I specifically told him you were a virtuoso.” I nudge her.

“Oh please,” she sighs. “Music is fine after dinner or supper, but tea is for introductions.”

“Says who?”

“Pim and Pervinca!” 

I’m about to tease her for taking them too literally when Aubrey overtakes us. I brighten—she never misses a chance to complain about Tuckborough, and I could use a little catharsis. She lets me hug her, rolling her eyes but smiling anyway.

“Maybe you can delay me with some idle prattle,” she says flatly. “Truly—I’d welcome an excuse to be late to the Barleyhouse.”

“Have you actually become lazy?” I say.

She gives me a slanted grin. “No. Heather Hobbs is scheduled with me tonight.”

“I’ve met Heather once,” Opal peeps. “She’s very sweet.”

“Aye—and everyone agrees.” She rubs her temple. “Talks all night and leaves all the work to me. And she cries whenever I tell her to knock it off.”

“Sha, you know Shire folks are fragile flowers—like you,” I laugh. “Be gentler with her.”

“I’m as gentle as I can be during the dinner rush! She’s just not suited for pouring ale.”

“Because she’s popular? I’d think that’s rather good for business.”

“I imagine that’s the only reason Firkin keeps her around.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, duty calls. Come mock me properly soon, all right?”

We wave as she hurries off, but I deflate a little. I was hoping she really would linger and laugh at the world with me. Would she have stayed if I only asked? If I admitted how eager I am for her company, might she say the same?

“She’s funny,” Opal murmurs as we sit on a bench in the town square. “I like her.” 

“Me too.” I squint at the warm sun. Honeysuckle and juniper, roses and vanilla heliotrope perfume the warm air. It’s a comfort—this stillness. I close my eyes. But it’s not my highlands.

“Well well, if it in’t Tuckborough’s favorite misfits.” 

My eyes flash open. Murphy strolls over, grinning like he owns the place. I groan.

“You two lost?” he asks. “I know girls get confused easily—but I’m always happy to set you straight, Diamond.”

He laughs far too hard. Opal and I exchange an eye roll.

“We’re just enjoying the sun,” I mutter.

He whistles. “Givin Her some poor comp’ny, then.”

I lift an eyebrow. “As if you’re any better.”

He pauses, glancing at Opal, then back at me. “That your sister you’ve got on a leash?”

Opal flushes and ducks her head.

“Oy, lay off!” I gripe. “We don’t want you or your ‘help’ anywhere near us.”

He snorts. “Aw, when will the outlander admit she needs help fitting in?”

“How about when you can take a hint?” I snap through gritted teeth. Opal’s eyes dart between us, and she scoots closer to me. 

Murphy’s smile tightens. “You think you’re so clever, Diamond?”

“I know I’m so clever, Murph,” I growl.

“Oh, aye?” The corner of his mouth twitches up. “Well, folks don’t gossip about you because you’re clever.”

I lift my chin. “Must be saying how uncommonly pretty I am, then.”

“That only makes the rest of you more amusing—and more tragic,” he chuckles. My smile falters as he walks away. “See you around, misfits!”

I roll back onto the bench, face hot. Tragic? What are people really saying about me? What am I doing wrong? Maybe Murphy was just needling me—and maybe everyone can read me better than I thought, but choose to laugh instead of help.

“Please—the school day is nearly done!” A young woman begs a cluster of well-dressed ladies leaving the Sugarloaf Bakery. They all give her pitiful smiles and wave her off. She moves onto Orla and Vera Foxford as they enter the square—“I’d really not be asking if it was not an emergency!”

“I’m sorry Miss Hallie—we simply cannae on such notice,” Vera says.

“Is that Halimeda Took? The school teacher?”^[29] Opal asks.

The duet hurries away. The teacher wilts for a moment—then makes a beeline for two older gents chatting by a flowerbed. I sit straighter.

“I think she needs help,” I say. She needs someone to understand and reach out.

The men shake their heads apologetically.

“We can’t be late, Di,” Opal whispers. 

But I’m already rising and jogging over. “Miss? Can we be of service?”

She brings a hand to her chest. “Oh, bless you! You’re the Cleeveholm girls, no?”

“Yes, Miss Halimeda.” Opal curtsies at my side, and I follow suit. “May we help you?”

“It’s my father,” she says breathlessly. “He’s taken ill, so I must tend to him—but I cannot turn my class loose for another hour! Are you any good with children? Could you watch them?”

Guilt ripples through my body. Opal gives me an alarmed look. 

“I’m so sorry,” I say earnestly, “but we have an appointment in a quarter hour.”

“Oh…” She bites her knuckle, glancing past us for anyone else. Her desperation is all too familiar. And it’s not like folks ask for help very often in these parts…

There must be something we can do.

“Ehm—maybe I can stay while Opal finds a replacement?” I suggest.

Opal’s eyes widen. Miss Hallie clasps her hands and beams.

“Oh my, that would be such a relief! You can try Peony Chubb or Leoric Yewgate—they substitute for me sometimes, but live too far for me to get them right now.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Diamond—” Opal whispers. But Hallie is already ushering us inside the nearby schoolhouse, where fifteen seven- and eight-year-olds holler and climb their desks.

“Everyone!” Hallie shouts. The room quiets—mostly. “This is Miss Diamond and Miss Opal. Mind your manners and heed their instruction.” Then to us, “Thank you again.”

Her gratitude is so sincere, I give her a quick hug. She squeezes me back, pats Opal’s shoulder, and rushes out the door.

“Di, I’ve only met Peony twice!” Opal whines.

“Leoric’s closer anyway—his mother is Ruby’s washerwoman.”

“But I don’t know him any better!”

I roll my eyes. “Would you rather stay and wrangle these rascals?”

She hesitates, blinking hard, then bolts out the door.

I turn to the class—staring, picking their noses, lounging upside down in a chair. I clear my throat. “Eh… good afternoon.” I smile hesitantly. “Can you please tell me your names?”

“Why do you talk so funny?” asks a grumpy-looking boy.

“It’s, eh… it’s just how we sound where I’m from.”

“Why did that other lady leave?” says a bubbly girl, leaning over her desk.

“Are you really sisters?” “I heard you’re trouble.” “I caught a mole yesterday but Zinnia—”

“Oy—wheesht and sit down!” I bark in a low, commanding voice. 

Their mouths clamp shut. Slowly, they return to their seats, rather frightened.

“Much better,” I chirp. “Now, your names one at a time, please.”

The roll call burns a good five minutes. Some names stick: Wulfie Farfield, the grump; Delly Mills, the bubbly chatterbox; Garrick and Barric—one bold, one bashful; Maeve the golden child; Hamlin the miscreant.

“Thank you for practicing your manners,” I say, glancing anxiously at the door. Maeve’s hand shoots up.

“Miss Diamond, are you going to tell Miss Hallie we were bad?”

“We weren’t bad!” Garrick groans.

“What about Hamlin?” Delly says. “He brought a frog inside.”

“Ach—I didnae!” Hamlin gripes. 

A croak sounds from his breeches. 

Trying not to laugh, I hold out my hand. “All right Hamlin, give it here.”

“Snitch!” he snaps at Delly. She sticks her tongue out at him.

“I promise I wasnae bad!” Maeve buries her head on the desk.

“Hamlin,” I insist. 

Heaving a sigh, he produces the frog and drops it into my hand. “Can I get it back later?”

“If you behave, and if you don’t stuff this poor fellow back in your pocket.” I step back and peek at the door. Where is Opal? “Now, what was Miss Hallie teaching you today?”

Maeve’s hand shoots into the air. “Arithmetic!”

My smile grows. “Perfect. Then how about a game?”

There are many excited gasps, and several jump out of their chairs to click their heels.

“Very good!” I giggle. “If you answer right, you’re safe and can sit. But answer wrong…” I hold up the frog. “You give him a kiss!”

They erupt in squeals, laughter, and disgust. I ask practical questions requiring addition, subtraction, even a series of calculations. Maeve answers first, of course. The others are more cautious. I beam with each correct response—and count every minute that passes, my eyes frequently flitting to the door.

“If you pick nine baskets of apples, each with seven apples, how many do you have?”

Silence. They must not have started on multiplication yet. Oops.

Barric eventually raises his hand. “Ahm… sixteen?”

I grimace. “No, I’m sorry.”

His face pales, and the class’s taunts rise.

“He has to kiss the frog!” “Rules are rules!” “You’re a baby if you don’t!”

“Barric dear, you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I say quickly. “Wouldn’t want your mother scolding me for forcing a frog on you.”

“I’m not a baby!” He grabs the slimy creature, holds his breath, brings it to his lips—

Croak! The frog jumps, smacking him in the face.

“Catch it!” I yell. 

Kids leap onto their chairs or chase it in circles and under desks. My sides cramp from laughing. Finally, Wulfie traps it and passes it triumphantly back to me. 

“Well done, Wulfie!” I say through booming giggles.

“Miss Diamond is the best teacher!” Delly whispers loudly. Several others bob their heads.

Then just as everyone retakes their places, Opal bursts through the door with Leoric Yewgate.

“Opal!” I hiss. “What kept you?”

“Sorry—Peony wasn’t home, and it took a while to find Leoric’s burrow,” she pants.

“Good to see you again, Diamond.” Leoric sweeps into a bow, tossing his brown curls back as he stands. I suppress a snicker. “Your sister said you needed my help?”

“Miss Hallie needs help, and Opal and I are late for tea.”

“Well—” He claps a palm to his fist— “then I’m here for the rescue.”

I furrow my brow. “Eh—all right then.” I stretch out my hand, dropping the creature into his. “Here’s Hamlin’s frog. We were just kissing him.”

The class roars with laughter. Opal’s cheeks flush.

“Ahm…” Leoric gives a puzzled smile, searching for something clever to say. “You must not have kissed him, though, or he’d have turned into a prince.”

Opal rolls her eyes. The bairns hoot and smack their lips.

I laugh, at a loss. “Eh—thank you, but we must be off.”

“Dinnae go, Miss Diamond!” the kids cry. “Don’t you want to play?” “Come back!”

My heart clenches. “Sorry—I promise I’ll come another time—”

They rush over, clinging to my hands, legs, skirts, demanding that I stay. They ignore my orders to let go. Opal and Leoric set to prying them off—and drop the slimy beast in the process.

“My frog!” Hamlin cries as it leaps out the door.

“Get it!” Wulfie hollers.

All the children stampede into the street, shrieking. I give Leoric a salute for luck and bolt after Opal. The town clock strikes half-past as we flee, trailed by a herd of croaking kids and one terrified frog. Folks stop to gawk, chuckle, scoff and shake their heads. Embers flare in my cheeks. If only they would understand! We’re simply late for an important date.

~

We reach the Goodbodys’ round red door out of breath, sweating, hair frazzled. I try smoothing my green dress—but the housekeeper answers too quickly. She looks us up and down before hesitantly admitting us to the parlor. Liam and his white-haired mother rise from armchairs beside a lovely tray of sandwiches, cakes, and clotted cream.

“Sorry we’re late!” I exclaim. Twenty minutes late. I try to smother my embarrassment with a smile. “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting?”

“Not but a few minutes,” Liam says, though his brow creases as he takes in our disheveled state. Mrs. Goodbody’s lips tighten. “Lovely to see you, and to meet the miraculous Miss Opal.”

We curtsy, then again to Mrs. Belba Goodbody before we sit. Opal guzzles a glass of water. I wolf down two sandwiches. Belba glances at Liam, who smiles sheepishly.

“Was I mistaken,” she says gently, “or did I just see you both sprinting down the street?”

“Oh—eh, yes ma’am.” My mouth is too dry to swallow the scone gracefully. Opal stares at the ground. “We didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer than necessary.”

“If I may—in these parts, it’s not becoming for ladies of your age and station to gallivant through town. A bit more punctuality will avoid offense and… impropriety.”

My stomach flips. I give Liam an apologetic look. He shrugs minutely. I want to explain about Miss Hallie’s class—but I’m not trying to make excuses. Everyone else in the square refused her if they had other engagements. It probably wouldn’t help to bring it up.

“I’m guessing lasses can run as much as they please in Long Cleeve?” says Liam smoothly.

I force a laugh to lighten the mood. “Da, I’ve been chided for a great many things in my time—but never running.”

Opal elbows me.

“Ahem—and how are you settling into life in the Shire?” Liam asks.

Terribly. “As well as you could expect, after so few weeks,” I say.

“We’ve been very busy,” Opal adds. “But the hills and woods here are almost as lovely as the people.”

“Oh how sweet,” Belba coos, smiling at her.

I nod, taking Opal’s lead. “Yes, I enjoy exploring when I can, and have been pleasantly surprised—I can only wish I could cover more ground with my pony.” I sigh. “And, I suppose the wild cliffs and ravines back home have a different sort of beauty… More filling and freeing, you know, with mountains on the horizon…”

Mrs. Goodbody shifts uncomfortably.

“I—eh—but Tuckborough is very nice, too,” I say.

“Do you ride for pleasure, Miss Diamond?” she asks. “Your father must be very well off.”

My face heats up. “Da, when I can. I like to gallop and jump her—but more often I ride to herd our flocks for a long day, or when I’m training to take them on longer grazing trips.”

“You work?” Liam asks, surprised.

I furrow my brow, confused and a little put off. “Of course… just like you do. But shepherding doesn’t feel like a chore to me.”

“Shirish food is quite a treat,” Opal cuts in. “There are so many breads and sweets here!”

Liam’s smile reaches his eyes, and he offers her more cake. “I’m glad you’re pleased. Do you not have cakes and biscuits in Long Cleeve?”

“We do,” Opal says, “but we don’t have them commonly. And we use honey instead of sugar grain—and generally have more spice in our meals.”

“Oh really?” Mrs. Goodbody asks, leaning forward. “Such as?”

My heart twinges and my grin grows. “Dragon’s breath, inferno peppers, ember flakes—they’ll set your face on fire!”

“In a delightful way,” Opal says.

“Oh my,” Belba chuckles.

“Makes most things here bland by comparison,” I say. “Predictable, subtle, simple—like the Shire in general, da? It’s quaint and…” The shift in her posture makes my stomach twist. “Eh—but not unpleasant, of course!”

“Some might call it civilized,” she says, her tone frosting over. “But that is as ungenerous to your home as bland and tame might be to mine.”

A weight falls on my shoulders. A lump forms in my throat. Opal curls into herself, mortified. I clutch my head, searching for words, feeling faint, blinking back tears.

“Oh Mrs. Goodbody, Liam—I’m dreadfully sorry.” My chest tightens. “I didn’t mean to be rude, it’s just—” 

What is it? Why can’t I just be sweet and quiet like Opal, like Pim and Vinca said? Why is it so hard to pretend I fit in here?

“We were only late because we were helping Miss Hallie!” I blurt. “She was desperate, and alone, so we couldn’t just leave her—and everything is so unfamiliar here, almost backwards, I keep thinking people must know what I mean, but end up offending them—and I’m just… Sorry. Truly.” I slump in my seat, hiding my burning face behind my hands.

There’s a long silence. “You mean to say,” Liam ventures, “that you’re homesick.”

“Oh, love.” Mrs. Goodbody softens. She touches my knee. “I’m sorry, dear. I didnae mean to be so stern. Of course you’re homesick—it’s no small thing, leaving your home for the first time.”

I gape, blinking in surprise. Opal looks equally shocked.

“I—I must apologize again,” I wince. “We’re very grateful for your attention and generosity. It just feels so difficult to get things right here.”

Opal nods. “Not everyone is as understanding. Diamond is much more active in maintaining our family’s acquaintance, but I also feel like a fish with legs out there.”

“I didn’t know,” Liam says, eyebrows high. “Folks like things a certain way here, but they’re at fault if they’re unkind about it.”

“Well,” Belba says, “it’s all water under the bridge between us, at least! You are both welcome here any time.” She raises her teacup to clink against ours. “Now—Liam tells me you are both accomplished musically?”

We relax, brightening as we explain our parents’ love of music, our education, our favored instruments.

“I reckon I could fiddle all day long if there wasn’t work to do at home.” Opal sighs wistfully. “As it is, I take what I can get during the midday respite and in the evenings.”

“I am very eager to hear you play for us.” Liam smiles and leans forward.

Opal blushes. “Sha—I thought bringing it would be improper for tea—I’m sorry!”

“How considerate!” Belba chuckles. “Next time, love, we’ll invite you both for dinner.” 

Mrs. Goodbody tells us about her childhood, her knitting, her husband and their many years running the prosperous Goodbody Furniture Company. They were unusually old when they had Liam, their only child, and expect him to take over before too long. 

“But… Liam’s barely twenty-five!” I exclaim.

“And my husband and I are nearly a hundred!” Belba laughs. “Though I may not look it. But Liam does very well—he’s very mature for his age.”

“Do you not have any time for hobbies, then?” Opal asks, horrified.

“Bookkeeping, furniture deliveries, and helping manage the woodworkers is pleasant enough,” Liam says with a papery grin. “But I also have a duty to drink with our neighbors as much as possible!”

Mrs. Goodbody laughs. “He means he’s attentive to the community, and strengthens our connections in town when he’s not working.”

I narrow my eyes playfully. “Da, I’m sure he’s very reliable—reliably impertinent, at least.”

He snorts. “I also enjoy my share of woodworking when I can spare the time. It’s a family tradition to learn—though I prefer making more delicate things than tables and chairs.”

Opal perks up. “Like that cutting board you made for us when we first arrived?”

“Ah, you remember that mathom?”^[30] He brightens. “You’ve not gotten rid of it yet?”

“That was no mathom!” Her smile flashes wide, as if weeks of fatigue just melted away. “Although, it is so beautiful that we can hardly use it, except as a decoration.”

Liam laughs a full, genuine laugh—such mirth as he’s never revealed to me. It’s so contagious, the rest of us are clutching our bellies before long.

“I see that hobbits from Long Cleeve know their way around flattery,” says Liam, wiping his eyes.

“Would you be more impressed with insults?” I tease.

“I am not afraid of you.” He gleams. 

“Nor I you. That’s the benefit of growing up in the outlands—mere incivilities will not rattle me.”

“Ah, except they do rattle you, sister!” Opal nudges me, sending us laughing again.

There’s a clamor from the front hall, and someone bursts suddenly into the sitting room. His calloused hands are smudged with dirt, his sleeves are covered in wood dust, and a few spots of red wet his shirt.

“Young Master, Madam—” he bows hastily to them and us— “I’m sorry to interrupt while you have company, but there’s an emergency at the workshop.” 

Liam tenses and sits straighter. “What happened, Harry?"

“Is everyone all right?” asks Mrs. Goodbody.

“No ma’am,” he says. “Leofwine was cutting a joist when the saw hit a knot, jumped, and cut his fingers. I reckon he’ll have to lose them.”

Opal and I gasp and cover our mouths. Liam pales, eyes flicking to his mother. She gives a slight nod. He hardens his gaze.

“Diamond, Opal—I apologize for cutting our visit short, but I must see to this, as my father is out of town.”

“Of course,” “We understand,” we both say, standing.

“Harry, please fetch Mr. Applebee to perform the amputation,” he orders as they stride out the door. 

We’re all silent for a moment. How terrible that this falls to Liam! And how noble that he didn’t falter when someone needed help. Just like Opal and me with Halimeda. Just like Khamíd.

“Poor Leofwine,” Belba sighs, shaking her head. “He’s a good carpenter, though he tends to rush his work. Has a young family, too.”

“So sad,” Opal peeps. “Do we know them?”

“I think his cousin Seamus is your grandfather’s foreman. You likely don’t know the rest—his eldest, Wulfstan, is only eight or so, and Ector and Emilia are still toddling.” 

My stomach sinks. Wulfie. The grumpy boy in Miss Hallie’s class who caught Hamlin’s frog. I slouch over my knees.

“What will happen to his wife and bairns?” I ask.

“We’ll keep Leofwine on the payroll while he recovers. Goodbodys look after our people, after all.”

I brighten. So do Cleeveholms.

“Can we help?” I say, jumping up. “Fetch medicine, food—anything?”

“That’s very kind, Diamond.” Her eyes crinkle with warmth. “You could save me a trip to the Barleyhouse and order a dinner for five to be sent to his home, every day for the next couple weeks. Put it on the Goodbody tab, of course.”

I grasp her hands. “It would be no trouble at all.”

“Thank you for everything, Mrs. Goodbody,” Opal says with a curtsy. “We look forward to repaying your generosity with music.”

“You two take care,” she replies, seeing us to the door, “and give my compliments to your mother!”

We step outside, the buoyant Wedmath perfume a sharp contrast to the carpenter’s fate. But I’m hopeful despite the hardship. The Goodbodys, at least, are not so different from us than I thought.

Chapter Text

Several weeks wear on with the late summer harvest, keeping us so busy that Opal and I hardly have time to maintain our acquaintance. Exhausted, I dine with the Goodbodys, read to Miss Hallie’s class, meet Estella and Aubrey at the Barleyhouse, and visit with Pim and Vinca—only after long days in the fields. My skin browns, my hands form callouses, my muscles ache. I don’t even have the energy to be upset when, for the third month, Khamíd doesn’t send a letter with Papa’s.

“We all have to make sacrifices, Diamond,” Mamma warns whenever I present my very level-headed objections to fieldwork. “Your Granddad needs our help, so I do not want to see you complaining when he’s around. Aye?”

So Jaden and I help pull up more potatoes, green beans, carrots and beetroots than I can fathom. At least Mamma hires Cormac and Corbin to help us on the longest days. We create a game to lighten the work and hearten the workers: either improvising a tune or inventing a verse on the spot.

“You have a fair voice, Cormac!” I say, cutting a cabbage from its rosette. Seamus and the farmhands agree. “I didn’t know you could reach such deep notes.”

He wipes his freckled brow—no fluttery nerves in sight. “I’m not particularly musical. Only sing while chopping wood, generally.”

“Well, your tune was better than the original. Much more feeling.”

“Now I dinnae trust your taste!” Seamus teases, tossing cabbage into the wheelbarrow. 

I laugh with him. “Well, let’s see if I can change your mind!”

A-walking, a-gawking, a-talking was I,
To meet my true lover, he’ll come by and by.
To meet him in the meadows is all my delight,
A-walking, a-gawking from morning ‘til night!

The cuckoo is a pretty bird, She sings as she flies!
She brings us good tidings, And tells us no lies!^[31]

“Isn’t it cheating to leave the chorus unchanged?” Cormac says, grinning.

“Not when the original is so pretty,” I declare. “House rules.”

He chuckles. “Whatever you say, love.”

While we tend the stock and harvest never-ending fields, Opal takes on my chores with the hosting and cleaning—on top of preparing three meager meals for us, and lunch for all the farm hands. Mamma insists we can’t afford a cook, but she’s the busiest of all. She takes shifts in every role to give us breaks, runs errands she hates, and returns from town flustered and short of temper.

How on earth did Granddad manage harvests before us? Maybe it was all Nana Daisy. Maybe he’s still grieving. And maybe he’s less responsible than I realized.

On days like today, when I can’t handle the pressure, I grab my notebook and make for the woods—without taking leave.

The mid-Halimath^[32] breeze is dusty from the harvest. The four-o’clock sun smiles through lush leaves onto my working kirtle, and a symphony of warbles, buzzing and chattering resounds all around me. I dance up the hill and gaze out at the Tuckborough valley. 

I’ve grown fond of this place—for its beauty and the friends I’ve made. Sure, some folks are less than gracious, but plenty have class. I dig my fingers into the soft dirt, groping for the heartbeat of the land, imagining it reaching back out to touch me. It takes my hand.

Stay.

My heart swells. Tears sting my eyes. But wouldn't staying be like betraying Long Cleeve, and Mamma… and Khamíd? He’s a better friend—an older friend—than the ones I’ve found here. I blink hard. I’ll just have to make the most of my next two months and say goodbye to the Shire. 

I sit at the roots of the Old Oak, scribbling a few rhymes. It’s peaceful—until something moves along the treeline—and Pippin Took flashes a grin. I sigh. I should’ve known. He always finds me at the Oak—not that I mind, exactly; but today, I’m not at all dressed for company.

“I thought you were away, sha’tchave,” I say, closing my book. “Do the birds tell you whenever I come here?”

He laughs. “Merry and I got in last night. And this was my favorite meadow first, you know.”

I roll my eyes. “He isn’t with you now, though—is he sick of you, too?”

“Something like that.” He digs into his pockets and pulls out licorice, cheese, and chewy bread. Suddenly I’m not so sorry he interrupted me. “I raided the pantry and couldnae risk getting caught. But if you ask for any, I’ll be forced to end our acquaintance!” 

Once I suppress my giggles, I pout my lip until he divides his spoils, and we lounge in the heather.

“How do you spend your time in Buckland?” I ask, wiping my mouth on my sweat-stained sleeve. “You go there often.”

“Merry and I hunt with my uncle’s hounds and practice archery—though I’m a lousy shot. We ride, walk, call on family and neighbors—and this time, I helped repair a fence.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Not sure I believe that last one.”

“I’m helpful!” he scoffs, his smile mischievous. “But I’m not tempted to prove it to you.”

My laughter rolls loud and deep. “So, you didn’t go boating?”

“No. Buckland’s ‘fondness’ for boats is exaggerated—but Merry’s taken me before.”

“Sounds terrifying.” I lick my fingers. “You couldn’t pay me to get on a boat.”

“There’s no rapids along the Brandywine.” He shrugs. “What about in Long Cleeve?”

“We have streams, and the hot springs in Khôrun Luin—but nothing deep enough for boats. Although, I have seen ships at the Grey Havens.”

“What!” He bolts upright. “What sent you so far west?”

“Sha, have you ever even looked at a map? It’s only a three day trip from Long Cleeve.”

“Maps are more Merry’s thing.” 

I shove him. He raises his hands in surrender.

“Anyway,” I snort, “only merchants trading with Elves really go there. But when I was twelve, my uncle Rhodon and his—” I pause, remembering that Shire won’t look kindly on my Dwarven uncle. “And his… spouse, decided their next adventure would be on a trading ship. We went to say goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” he says soberly. “I hope they’re well, wherever they are.”

We’re quiet for a moment. I clear my throat. 

“The sea air is salty, and the water is violent, wild, beautiful. Waves swell and crash in an instant—there’s no telling where the next peak will crest, or how far the foam will roll along the sand. I watched it for hours…”

He whistles. “I should like to see that.”

“Stop by Long Cleeve on the way—you’ll find hospitality at my father’s house.”

Pippin looks at me sideways, his grin growing until my pulse flutters. He hoists himself up. “It’s no ocean or great river, but there’s a bend in this brook that’s perfect for throwing rocks.” He follows the nearby stream into the trees. I blink, hesitating—and bound after him.

In a few hundred feet we come to a rounded bank of small stones, all perfect for a hobbit’s hand. Pippin stoops for a wide, flat rock, and skips it several times around the stream’s corner.

I clap politely. “Admirable effort—for a wee babe.”

He bows with a flourish. “I’d like to see you do better.”

We scour for smooth stones and take turns skimming them across the water—backhand, forehand, under a leg, behind our backs. His aim is better, but my rocks skip much farther.

“Oi, how are you doing that?” he asks.

“My arm is but a whip—you’ve got to snap your wrist.”

He tries again, but no improvement. I laugh and take his arm. 

“It’s simple. Relax here,” I touch his tricep and wrist, “and start the swing from your shoulder.” I guide his arm through the movement. He practices on his own. I look up to smile just as he does—bringing our faces within an inch of each other—and we jump apart.

He coughs. “Ah… yes. Arm as whip.”

“Da—from the shoulder,” I mumble, staring at the ground.

There’s a pause. He flings a new stone—splash!—and I burst out laughing.

“Whoops!” He grins. “Guess I’m a faster learner at making you laugh.”

He keeps practicing while I toss pine cones at knots and tree boles. He asks a hundred questions about Long Cleeve—always launching into another before I can finish answering the last. At one point he spooks me, throwing off my aim, and I nearly hit a squirrel. It races up a tree to scold me.

“Ahhhh, you’ve made a mortal enemy.” Pippin nudges my arm. “The grey squirrels never forget. I would know.”

“Eh, he’s all chatter.” I wave him off. “He’ll stay away if he knows what’s good for him.”

“Then many would do well to follow his example. You do seem pretty dangerous.”

“And don’t you forget it!” I chuckle.

Eventually we head back to the Oak, chewing grass stalks as we walk.

“Tuckborough must’ve been dreadfully dull without me. However did you survive?”

I roll my eyes. “I’ve had more than enough to do. Just look at my complexion.”

He stops and scrutinizes me. “Oh… Oh dear,” he says gravely.

“What?” Have I become wrinkly and wind-flushed? Am I no longer ‘uncommonly pretty?’

“Just as I suspected.” He squishes my cheeks between his palms, making my lips pucker like a fish. “The lass is nearly bored to death. A very serious case.”

“Oy!” I swat his hands away, my ribs aching with thunderous laughter. “No—my skin tanned out in the fields. It’s high harvest, if you didn’t know.”

“You were supervising?”

“I wish. I’ve been pulling up vegetables and turning over rows for weeks.”

He blinks. “That’s hard work. Does Brian not have farmhands?”

“Not enough.” I glance aside. “Can’t remember the last time I had more than three meals in a day, either…”

I flush as soon as I say it. I’m not trying to beg for pity. What must he think of me now?

“You poor, destitute child.” He clicks his tongue. “Lucky I came along, then.”

Relief floods me. He’s a good friend—and not half as judgemental as folks in this town. I push him and sprint uphill to the Oak. 

“Speaking of meals,” I pant as he catches up, “I’d best get home for dinner.”

“Me too. The consequences are dire now if I’m late—thanks to you.” 

“I’ll be seein ye!” we chime, and he whistles my Walking Song as he disappears from view.

~

Mamma gives me a good tongue lashing for skipping my last couple hours of chores again, but Granddad comes to my defense. “She’s been workin to the bone, Saoirse. Let it go.”

She does—reluctantly—as long as I keep an eye on Granddad at the Barleyhouse so he doesn’t overspend on ale or cards.

“I don’t envy you,” Jaden mutters, bringing the last few dishes for Opal and me to clean. 

“I thought you loved the Barleyhouse,” I chuckle. “You’re finally old enough to drink beer.”

He yawns. “I can’t pretend it tastes good after a long day.”

“You’ll come around to it,” Opal says, drying a plate. She’s as tired as I’ve ever seen her, but hums bits of her newest composition.

“Opal!” Granddad bellows from the parlor. “You coming with us?”

“Not tonight,” she chirps, fatigue masked by sugar. “I’ve been itching all day for my bow.”

“Is that so?” He waddles into the kitchen. “What’re ye workin on now?”

“Variations on The Last Rose of Summer.”

“My favorite!” He whistles the melody. “You finish that arrangement quick, hear? I’ll not be able to get it out of my head ‘til you do. Now Di—let’s go!”

“I’m nearly ready, Granddad,” I say, shaking out my dish rag.

I hardly have time to change into my brown kirtle, fetch my shawl and notebook, before Granddad is walking into the dusk, whistling.

“Why is that your favorite?” I ask, taking his elbow to steady him.

“Why are you so much taller than me?” he quips, patting my hand. “It was the first song Daisy and I danced to at the Tooks’ Yule Ball. I’d watched her all summer, but couldnae work up the nerve to speak a word—until that tune. Then, I knew she was the lass I’d marry.’”

“Och, you did not!”

“I did! She was shining like the Evening Star—and she danced with me.”

I smile, my heart aching for her. His eyes grow misty. I wish I’d known her better.

You must go on, the stars whisper in my mind. Your time is now, not in the past.

As if he heard too, Granddad blinks, picks up his step, and chants poetry for the rest of our walk.

We enter the Bramblewood Barleyhouse, and Granddad veers toward his mates in a corner booth. Estella hasn’t arrived yet. I take a seat at the bar, exchanging a nod with Aubrey—but a tap on my shoulder pulls me away.

“Why, Diamond!” chirps May Proudfoot. I take a trying breath to support my smile, and clasp her wrinkled hand. “Marsha and I were just saying how we missed your company! The eldest daughter ought to make her calling rounds, after all. Have you grown tired of visiting us old biddies?”

“Not at all,” I chuckle. I don’t care for the Proudfoot sisters, but they’re still neighbors, so I make sure our family visits them and the others thrice a week. “I’ve just been busy helping with the harvest.”

“Ah, that’s right!” She winks repeatedly. “But why would a young lady do such hard labor? You must be exhausted!”

“I manage just fine, if that’s what you mean.”

“Of course—you have fine strong limbs—but you’re neglecting your family’s acquaintance for chores!”

“For that I’m ever sorry, Miss May—believe me,” I laugh. “But I hope Opal and Jaden have been treating you well? I thought they called on you just yesterday.”

“Oh they did—you have lovely siblings,” she says pointedly. “I was just wondering why you dinnae come anymore. We feared you were turning into a recluse,^[33] like your Aunt Ruby.”

My jaw tightens. “It’s just the high harvest, as I said.”

“But why not hire another field hand? I can recommend a few lads if Saoirse—”

“We’re getting along fine, Miss May. I’m accustomed to a hard day’s work.” A stab of guilt reminds me that I cut my “hard day’s work” short just today.

“Oh really?” She leans closer, dangerously curious. “Do all your siblings toil from your teens like commoners out in Long Cleeve? I s’pose there is hardly any help to be had way out there…”

“Not exactly,” I hedge. I’d forgotten gentlewomen don’t labor around here. “I only mean I… like being useful. Whatever your station, a little work can’t always be avoided.”

She eyes me, unconvinced. “Well! I’ll leave you to it. But don’t stay away too long, love.”

She bustles off and immediately starts whispering to a cluster of ladies, all glancing my way. Great. I exhale sharply and wave Aubrey over. “Darling, I need a Honey Lager.”

“Hold on—I have something for you.”

I grumble about poor timing and poor service as she disappears, smirking. The tavern is getting crowded, but still no Estella. Where is she?

Aubrey returns with a small bundle. “A mathom for ye, you ingrate. I’m twenty-nine tomorrow.”^[34]

“Really? Happy birthday!” I beam. She rolls her eyes. I eagerly unwrap a white teacup and saucer, trimmed with green vines and pink flowers—and gape. How can she afford this? It must be one of her only delicate possessions. “Aubrey—this is too lovely, I can’t accept—”

“One can never have too many mismatched teacups.” She shrugs. “Hush up and take it.”

I melt, reaching across the bar to pull her into a hug and kiss her cheek. I don’t even care that people give us odd looks. Trying not to laugh, she pushes me off.

“Wish you didn’t have to work tonight,” I sigh. “I’d invite you to sit with Stella and me.”

“Nah—I get sentimental when I’m idle.” 

My contagious laughter gets her going too. Then we trade stories—harvest aches, the nerve of some people, the latest news.

“I heard Polo Boffins up in Bywater is after Goldie Took,” she whispers. “She’s set on Milo Burrows—but everyone says he prefers Perry Chubb.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Poor Milo. My aunt told me folks are unkind to moss mates here.”

She nods. “And poor Perry. He keeps to himself, so I dunno knows who he’s after—but all this speculation’s no good for his family.”

Coals smolder in my belly. Why can’t people just leave them alone? I sink onto the bar. “I hope I’m never in such a romantic tangle.”

“We need someone to give us interesting things to talk about,” she says. “It’s what the uppers are for: jobs, the occasional charity, and gossip.”

I lift an eyebrow. “What about you? Everyone knows the barmaids—do you have a lover to feed the grapevine with?”

She snorts. “Don’t like a’body I know, and no one’s trying to take me behind a barn. ‘Sides, I’m too busy to meet anyone new.”

“Oh, come now. You met me, and I like you.”

“You wore me down.” Her lip twitches. “Most people, I scare off first.”

“Da, I noticed,” I giggle. “It takes intelligence to understand your humor.”

“Bold of you to assume you have any.”

We roar with laughter. Heads turn around us, curious to know our conversation.

“What on earth is funny enough to make Aubrey laugh?” Erling Took asks.

“Only that you keep asking for more drinks,” she says drily. He chuckles, and she’s called away by other patrons.

I sip my lager and venture a look around. No Estella. Granddad’s deep in cards—and smiling, a good sign. Stories are told. Pipes are smoked. Across the tavern, Murphy catches my eye and raises his mug—“To misfits!” The sots with him howl and drain their beers. I huff and keep scanning. 

Orla and Fiona lean against the wall with friends. Orla notices me, gives a bitter look, and whispers to her sister. Fiona peeks over her shoulder and snickers. Soon, their group’s laughter carries across the tavern. What are they saying about me?

Then I flush, smoothing my old brown frock. It’s drab. I’m a little tall for it. I just threw it on automatically since Granddad was rushing to leave. I’ll dress better from here on out.

“Why, Diamond Cleeveholm.” Liam Goodbody saunters up—a little off-balance. “Here to give me trouble?”

“Sha—only as much as you deserve.” I grin. 

He puts his arm on the bar and leans close as a piper starts playing. “Your lovely sister around, or did you come alone?”

“No, I came with my Granddad—but he’s gambling. I’m waiting for Estella Bolger.”

We fall into an easy rhythm, talking about Musings Monthly, friends, work. He isn’t open with his mirth like he is around Opal, and has this strange habit of pausing before speaking, as if calculating the best response. But I don’t mind. He tolerates my oddities, sure enough.

“Your father must make it difficult to enjoy your tweens,” I say. “But, as you are here rather than at the workshop, perhaps you’re being irresponsible after all.” 

His smile loses some luster. “He’s a good man, my father. I feel well-prepared for when I take over the business…” He shakes his head and lifts his mug. “But tonight, I do my civic duty and raise a glass!”

I knock my cup against his, and we drink. Orla scowls at me from across the room—and I laugh. Hopefully she fancies him and I have her jealous.

Estella suddenly taps my shoulder. Her eyes are puffy, and she whispers in my ear. “Um, can we sit somewhere quiet, Di?”

I frown, glancing at her fidgeting, gloved hands. “Da, of course.” But it’s unusually busy. There’s nowhere quiet in here. “If you find a spot, I’ll get the drinks.”

I wave Aubrey over for a refill and a Green Dragon Brew. Then, foolishly, I push through the crowd, balancing the drinks, my shawl, notebook, teacup and saucer. Ale splashes down my arm and onto the feet of unsuspecting hobbits.

“Sorry, Mr. Griffo!” I flash a sheepish smile. “Full hands, tight squeeze!”

“Hmph, well,” he softens, “dinnae cry over spilt ale, they say.”

“I thought it was milk? Spilt ale is a tragic thing.”

“True,” he chuckles. “Your loss more than mine, I s’pose.”

I brighten. “Thank you, sir—I only thought your feet were thirsty.”

He guffaws and claps my shoulder. I edge through to Estella, standing by a round windowsill in the back. Once my hands are free, I perch beside her.

“So what’s wrong?” I ask.

“Hm? Oh—nothing.” She throws back her mug.

“Estella, you’ve been crying. And since when is Miss Perfect late?”

She sighs, hesitating. “Merry’s back from Buckland, and brought me a book I’ve been wanting. Said it’s mine to keep…” She drops her voice. “Inside was a bookmark. He pressed poppies—my favorites—and wrote ‘Exquisite Estella’ in calligraphy.”

I snort. “All right? What’s wrong with a sweet gift?”

“Everything!” she hisses. “He said he was thinking of me!”

“And that’s… bad?”

There’s a pause. She lowers her eyes. “Every time I think I’ve forgotten him, he makes some lovely gesture—and I’m right back where I started.”

I clasp her gloved hand. “You’re afraid he’s leading you on?”

“Ugh—he leads plenty of girls on,” she grumbles, dabbing her eyes.

“Oh, like Pansy Wells? I saw them kissing at Lithe.”

“What?” she snaps. I flinch back. “Little wench—some garish, low-born lass trying to trap him, no doubt!”

“Stella!" I scold, swatting her. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to be mad at Merry?”

“Aye…” she huffs. “It’s just that he’s always charming three girls at once! If he’d only treat me like a friend, consistently, I could be done with this.”

My heart cracks for her. “So… you’ve never been sweethearts, or anything?”

She shakes her head. “He and Fatty have been jolly friends as long as I can remember.”

“Maybe that’s why—it’s risky to admit feelings to friends…” I glance away, face suddenly hot. There must be some reason Khamíd hasn’t written yet. “You might get refused, or grow apart, or make things awkward for all your siblings one way or another…”

“Or he still thinks I’m a snob,” she says, jolting me back to the present. “It’s awful loving a rake, Di. Don’t ever fall for one.”

“Oy—you love him love him?”

She heaves a sigh. “I wish I did not.”

I gape for a moment, then embrace her. “Maybe he’ll settle down in time. He’s still young.”

“He doesn’t believe in marriage—wants to be a bachelor like his cousin Frodo. But Merry’s no gentleman if he’s kissing girls with no intention of keeping them!”

“Hold on—I thought folks could have multiple swains here?”

“Well, girls can accept flowers and pecks from whoever they like if they’re unattached, but lads should be steady in their pursuit. Especially if—like Merry—they’re over thirty.”

“Strange…” I scratch my chin. “So, Pippin and Fredegar?”

“Fatty’s had his share of proper lasses, but has kept to himself for a few years; and Pippin’s not serious about anything yet.” She leans in to steal a sip of my lager. “Had a common girl in the Marish once. Dropped her soon as his mother heard.”

The pub’s noise swells. I absently hand her my mug. “Things are simpler in Long Cleeve. If you like someone, you tell them; and if they’ll have you, you court.”

She blinks. “Just like that? No parental permission?”

I shrug. “Helps if they approve, but the choice is ours.”

“My goodness—so people just marry whenever they please?”

I flinch back. “No? Marriage comes later, once we’re of age. Is it not so here?”

She gapes. “Real courting starts when you’re marrying age—when a lad asks your father’s permission. Then you have a formal chaperone, and you wed in a few months. It’s like… a practice engagement. Tweens might have swains, but it’s lighthearted—picnic groups, a peck on the cheek. Everything else is saved for the wedding night.”

“Everything?” My eyes widen. “Even winching?”

“Is that what you call snogging?” She snorts. “Improper. Impolite.”

“What if you don’t suit? I’d prefer to know who I like before I wed them, thank you.”

Her brows shoot up—and she laughs. “Well, if you must, be discreet. But I will scold you if I hear about you kissing in public. And don’t even think about sneaking off to haylofts like some common girl. That’s vulgar—reserved for the classless Pansys and Merrys of the world.”

I beam. “I wasn’t thinking about it until you said it. Would you know if haylofts are fit places to snog?”

She tries not to smile. “Behave. You’re a gentlewoman, and people will talk.”

“We’re bottom rung—you can hardly consider my family gentry,” I say. “What? Going to make me wear silk gloves and pretend I’m posh?”

“You mean these?” She smirks and holds up her hands. “Only if you take up archery. They hide how much I practice.”

“Let me guess—it’s unladylike to shoot the wand?”

“Women don’t shoot at all outside Tookland,” she says, grinning like a child stealing sweets. “Father let me learn my heritage as a passing hobby, though Mother hates it. But they don’t know I’ll soon have perfect technique and no broken nails to conceal. Can’t let on that I’m better than the lads, you know.”

“Use Merry as a target next time,” I mutter. She laughs, and I soften. “Estella… why haven’t you just told him how you feel?”

“Don’t start,” she winces. “It’s not fit for a lady to speak first.”

“Sorry…” It seems a silly rule. Then again, aren’t I waiting for Khamíd to speak first? I don’t want to think about it—so I glance across the tavern. Granddad’s friends are egging him to lead a song. He doesn’t seem too tipsy yet. Smiling, I turn back to her. “Now I understand why your poems are so good. They come from the heart, as you say.”

“You got it,” she says morbidly, finishing the last of my ale.

“At least you’re getting some artistic capital out of this whole business.”

She nearly sends Honey Lager through her nose. Her very improper giggles bubble between us, lifting my spirits. Maybe not so perfect after all, I think fondly.

Before I can steer the conversation toward poetry, the piper quiets and Granddad stands on a table. He sings out:

‘Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone.
All her lovely companions are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes and return sigh for sigh

So soon may I follow when friendships decay,
And from love’s shining circle the gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown—
Oh who would inhabit this bleak world alone?^[35]

The bittersweet verses fill the room as the patrons, including myself, sing along. When the last note fades, there are cheers for something livelier, and folks start up a drinking chant.

“That was so beautiful,” Estella sniffles into her napkin. “And it’s just like my life!”

I bite back a sarcastic objection. “Ehm—want to go?”

She nods, wiping her eyes. “I cannot have people speculating why I’m crying.”

I gather my armful of objects and we pardon ourselves through the wall of hobbits. But just as we reach the corner, the door swings open—and Merry, Pippin, and Fredegar waltz in.

I spin on my heel. “Don't panic—I don’t think he saw us—but Merry just came in.”

“WHAT?” She covers her face and hides behind me.

“Go on—tell me when they’re distracted at the bar, and we’ll slip out.”

“You’re too tall to miss—and when he sees you, he’ll see me—and he can’t see me like this!” She gestures to her red eyes. But even distraught, her clear skin, braids draped like elegant serpents, and fine figure make her as stunning as ever.

At a tap on my shoulder, I whirl around, fearing the worst—

“You all right, Diamond?” Liam asks. With hobbits packed shoulder-to-shoulder, I draw him closer to Estella and me, keeping my voice low.

“Fine, but—eh, do you think you could help us sneak out?”

“Yes, please!” Estella begs.

He chuckles, surprised. “Ah… sure. Of course. Do you need a distraction or—”

Pippin spots us, waves broadly, and nudges Merry and Fatty.

“Too late!” I cry. “Time for the contingency—we run for it.”

I reach for Estella’s wrist—just as a glass breaks nearby. Everyone flinches to look, and someone behind bumps me into Liam; he catches me in an apparent embrace—but, being drunk, he stumbles and we crash to the ground. I land on top, elbowing his ribs; he flinches in pain, knocking our heads together—then Aubrey’s saucer slips from my hand and shatters on the floor.

There are three, eternal heartbeats of silence before a dozen hands reach forward to help. But it’s an awkward business: the floor is sticky with spilt drink, too many knees crowd and too many questions are asked about our injuries. Then, once we assure everyone we’re unhurt, the teasing begins.

“Uh-oh, better pull them off each other! They’re underage, you know.”

“The girls from Long Cleeve are very eager, aren’t they?”

“Brian, you’ll need to protect the lads from her—not the other way ‘round”

“You ought to give her a good talking to, stop her flinging herself at lads!”

I freeze. I flush. Raging coals flare in my belly, but an ice sets in my heart. Why would they say things like that, when “flinging oneself at lads” is so frowned upon? Granddad chuckles uncomfortably a little ways off. Does everyone really think so little of me? I reach for Estella—but she’s gone. Smart. Saw her chance and ran. Normally, I wouldn’t mind taking the fall for a friend, but I’ve never had my insides melt so completely.

“Diamond—” Liam touches my shoulder. But I shake him off and flee.

I burst into the cool night, duck into the alleyway, and lean against the wall. Hot tears pool in my eyes. I let out a shuddering breath.

“Ohhhhh, I hate this place!” I whisper, clutching my chipped teacup for dear life. “I’m so sorry, Aubrey. Your present was beautiful—I didn’t mean to be careless with it.”

All this—just when I felt like things were going better! The Shire will never be my home away from home. And wasn’t I a fool to hope? Estella didn’t stay to see if I was all right. And neither Liam, Granddad, nor anyone else challenged all those mean words.

Mamma’s accusation echoes in my head: “You let it happen, just like you let my sister die!” Granddad let the town’s mockery fall on me, too. Is he a coward? Did he also turn away from Mamma and Aunt Syringa when they needed him? At least Estella has the excuse that she left before the mockery.

I look up at the starry sky, sniffling. “I just want to go home,” I whisper, pressing my eyes. “Blast!” I left my notebook in there—and Mamma will scold me if I return without Granddad.

I am a Cleeveholm. I steel myself. Hardy as thistles and asters. With a deep breath, I conquer my emotions. Pretend.

But just as I march up to the door and reach for the handle, Liam opens it, holding my notebook.

“I think you dropped this,” he says.

I’m struck still—then pull him away from the nosy eyes inside.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you over,” I mutter, hugging my elbows. “Are you hurt?”

He shrugs. “I may have some bruises, but it looked worse for you.”

“Don’t remind me!” I groan, blinking fast. “I don’t know why people say such awful things. Are their thoughts filtered through a broken sieve?”

“I know—the spotlight’s not always fun,” Liam sighs. “Folks are bound to pick apart anyone in the public eye, but they don’t mean to be cruel.”

“Don’t they? They humiliated me.”

“They’re drunk.”

“Even when they’re not!” I throw my arms up. “Thank Elbereth I’m from Long Cleeve—soon I can leave here and never ever come back!” I turn toward the wall to hide the tears spilling down my face. 

“So you really hate it here.” The hurt in Liam’s voice startles me. I glance back. “That’s too bad. I’m sure the folks who thought they were your friends would be disappointed to know you want to leave them behind.”

I deflate. “Liam, that’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“What did you mean, then?” He knits his brow. “How do you think the rest of us deal with rubbish? Act like we have no friends to share the load? Despair at the slightest inconvenience? The world is more complicated than ‘Long Cleeve good’ and ‘Tuckborough bad!’”

Silence stretches on. A lump forms in my throat. I let the tears fall.

“I’m sorry,” I sniffle. “I don’t hate everything here, but… I’ve just never seen people be so unkind, and I honestly don’t know what to do about it.”

His shoulders slump. I wipe my eyes.

“Sha, you’re right—I’m such a wretched girl!”

And suddenly his arms are around me, squeezing me as tight as my brothers do. For a moment, I’m stunned. Then I squeeze him back.

“I didn’t mean to make it worse,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

I smile through a sniffle. “Me too.”

He pulls away, dabbing his own eyes. “Just don’t think so poorly about everyone because of a few obnoxious hobbits.” 

My lip twists up. “Like you?”

“Like me,” he chuckles. 

I nod, fully drying my face. “Well… I should get Granddad. I’ve had enough for tonight.”

“Aye, me too.” He winks and strides off. “Oh—and say hello to Opal for me, if you would.”

“Da, of course,” I say.

Once I’m composed, I face the tavern again, but I don’t bother stuffing down my anger. I fling the door open and walk in with my head high. But no one pays heed to me—no looks or laughs. I glance around, confused. 

“We told ‘em off, don’t you worry,” Merry mutters, edging by me with two mugs.

“Really?” I jump. Not far, Aubrey flashes me a quick smile from the bar. I return her look. “Thank you, Merry...”

He just grins. “Estella all right? She looked out of sorts right before you—”

“She’s fine,” I say quickly. “I think… just leave her be, for a bit.”

Merry nods, but his concern lingers as he makes for his booth. He sits by Pippin, who’s studying me: his brow is creased; half his lip curls up. But when I meet his gaze, he quickly looks away, swirling his mug like he’s thinking hard. Eager to tease me later, no doubt. But I’m in no mood. I roll my eyes and march up to Granddad’s booth, the masses parting for me with half-glances over their shoulders.

“Granddad, it’s time to go,” I order. His friends mutter some teasing words behind their hands—something about my tumble. My cheeks light with fire.

“Oi, I’m not finished winning!” he chuckles, face ruddy. “And dinnae talk to me like a child—”

“Now you listen here!” I bark, pointing a finger. All the gaffers jump. “I am taking you home this very instant! It’s far too late, and you’ve had far too much to drink, and we have a full day tomorrow!”

After a long pause, he starts to rise. “Sound more like yer mother every day,” he grumbles.

His friends laugh. “Nay, she has far more command than Saoirse!”

Fuming, I clutch my chipped teacup and sticky notebook—my misfit trophies—as I settle our tab and drag Granddad all the way home.

Chapter Text

The first week of Winterfilth^[36] signals the start of the apple harvest. Crisp air carries the scent of ripening apples as Seamus and the other field hands prune branches and thin the damaged fruit. Granddad surveys his small orchard while I stand by, watching and learning.

“Weeeeell,” he says, stretching his braces, “it’ll be another bountiful year. A shame apples are so common. Makes this grove more trouble than it’s worth.”

I plant my nose against a trunk like Nana used to. The bark smells sweet, sappy—it’s almost enough to forget the sting of three weeks ago. My friends have been kind, mostly calling on me here so I don’t have to go to town; and field work has kept me busy and out of sight, too. Only one month until Papa comes—and not a day too soon.

“Oh Dad, how are we going to manage?” Mamma pinches the bridge of her nose. “Even if all of us harvest nonstop, we’ll never get everything before it spoils.”

Granddad clicks his tongue.

“Maybe our friends and neighbors would help,” I suggest. “Just like back home.”

“Diamond, you cannae expect folks to drop everything and lend a hand,” Mamma says. “And asking would be insulting.”

“Our friends wouldn’t be insulted!” I protest. “Aubrey says—” I stop short. Probably wouldn’t be helping my case to repeat that the ‘uppers,’ as she calls them, like to ‘play poor’ on occasion—especially the Tooks, ‘oddest folk in the Shire, asides you Cleeveholms.’ “Ehm, nevermind.”

Mamma waves me off. I glance from one end of the grove to the other, and an idea brings a smile to my lips. “At least, they won’t mind if we pay them in pie and cider.”

Granddad strokes his chin. “You think that’ll do it?”

“Oma Cleeveholm’s apple pie? Cider spiked with Mr. Goodyear’s family brew?”

“That’d do it for me,” Seamus chuckles.

Granddad and Mamma exchange a long look. “Very well,” Mamma says. I brighten. “It’s a good idea. And since it was yours, I think you should take charge.”

I blink at her. “Say what now?”

Preparations occupy my next two weeks: I set a budget, assign roles to my family, drag Jaden to the Tuckborough market for ingredients. Normally, I would loathe so many chores—but being in charge is exciting. And though Aubrey will be busy at the Barleyhouse and Pearl has manuscripts to copy, everyone else I ask promises to help.

“I’d do almost anything for fresh apple pie!” Pippin laughs one day when I run into him at the Old Oak. “Anything—that is—except make it myself. That would be a disaster.”

The night before the big day, Mamma, Opal, Granddad, Jaden and I spend hours rolling out crusts and crushing the early apples into cider. By midnight, all is ready.

“Do you think it’s enough?” I ask, biting my nails and sipping from my chipped teacup.

“Sha, do you think everyone needs an entire pie to themselves?” Jaden groans, trudging to his bed.

In the morning, I weave a few braids and lace up my fine green stay and skirt. Opal dons her prettiest midnight blue dress and pinches her cheeks. 

“Why are you all dressing up for a work day?” Mamma asks, eyeing us as we emerge.

“Mamma, honestly!” says Opal. “We need suitable outfits for public.”

Mamma grumbles something about vanity, but lets it slide.

It’s Highday, a half-day or free day for most laborers. Mrs. Banks, Cormac and Corbin are the first to arrive just after elevenses, and our field hands trickle in next. Seamus’s wife Katie brings their little ones. Ruby and Rosalyn, Opal’s friend Siobhan, Miss Camilla, Liam and his parents follow soon after. Mr. Goodyear helps Granddad slice apples in the kitchen. And of course, Pim, Pervinca, Merry, Pippin, Estella and Fredegar come too.

“Cut us a deal, Diamond?” Fredegar asks. “Just take us straight to the pie!”

“Sorry Fatty—no apples, no dessert,” I laugh. He exaggerates despair as I point them toward the Orchard. “Sha, it’ll be worth every ounce of effort!”

“Sorry Rory couldn’t come,” Pim says as the boys outstrip us. “He’s busy in Whitwell with our own orchards.”^[37]

“We’ll still make quick work today.” I smile and hang back with Estella, ducking under her lace parasol. “I’m surprised you came with you know who. Are you all right?”

“Perfectly fine,” she chirps. I narrow my eyes. “Don’t look at me like that—I’ve been keeping distant and platonic.”

“Is it working?” 

She just gives a tight smile and squeezes my hand.

Seamus passes out baskets by the orchard, and Jaden’s already off to grab more. I go around, holding ladders, moving bushels, making conversation so it feels less like work for everyone. Our regular field hands strip at a good pace. Opal and Siobhan load fruit with the Goodbodys, her shy, chirping replies cracking them all up. Pim holds a ladder and hoards three parasols, rambling on while Estella and Vinca do all the work. Pippin tosses apples from a tree down to Merry, who throws them unnecessarily far to Fatty, holding the basket. Cormac lifts Katie’s children, to their great delight, to reach the lower branches. He catches my eye from across the row and smiles softly; and I beam to see nearly all of my favorite Shire hobbits together—regardless of occupation, birth or education.

The autumn afternoon is warmer than usual, but the trees give good shade and we clean the lower branches before teatime. Most of my volunteers are hesitant to reach the upper canopies—so when Cormac, Merry, and Pippin offer to climb that high, we all pause to make it into a contest.

“Merry’s taller,” says Rosalyn. “I suppose I’ll side with him!”

“Aye, but Cormac’s a quick worker!” Seamus counters.

“Anyone game for a wager?” Liam bursts. Mrs. Goodbody raises her eyebrows, silencing the idea.

“I’ll bet my slice of pie that I will at least pick more than Merry,” Pippin declares.

“Ohhhh, that’s big talk, that is,” Merry challenges. “You’ll be hungry by the end.”

“Diamond!” Cormac calls, waving me over. “Will you be my catcher?”

“Of course!” I skip to his side, eager to be included, even though I’m terrible at catching.

“Right, lads!” Ruby booms. “Bruised fruit don’t count. Pickers get ready, catchers get set—and give us a good show!!”

The boys scramble up the ladders and rip apples off the vine. Fredegar and Jaden expertly catch below Merry and Pippin—but I fumble three in a row. Blast—we’ll never keep up!

Then an idea strikes me. I hold out my green skirt. “I’ve got it now, Cormac—just pause when I say so!”

He doesn’t reply, but drops apples faster. I yell “Hold!” when I empty my dress, and “Da!” when I’m back in position. And we build momentum from tree to tree. Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin are too busy taunting each other.

“Just remember, Pip: I was climbing trees before you were born.”

“I no longer fall for your lies, Merry my friend. You hate heights.”

“But I have Fatty—and he’ll not bruise a single apple.”

“Fatty knows you too well to like or help you!”

The onlookers cheer with mirth.

“Look Merry—we’re falling behind!” Pippin cries, finally noticing our progress. “Jaden, use your shirt to catch!”

“My shirt’s not big enough!” Jaden says. That doesn’t deter Pippin—and soon enough, Merry launches fruit at Fatty, urging him to do the same. Apples smack Jaden and Fredegar in the head, bouncing to the ground. Fatty yells for a ceasefire, and Pippin falls out of the tree from laughing. The orchard roars with glee.

“You’ll never win now,” I sing as more apples tumble into my skirts “But by all means, do try—we want the trees stripped bare to the top!”

“She’s manipulating our competitive spirits, Pip,” Merry mutters.

“Shall we give up then, Merry?”

“He’s just trying to slow you down so he can keep his pie!” I laugh. 

“Why Peregrin Took—I cannot believe you, resorting to trickery!” Merry says, playing along.

“Wha—Diamond, you cast some spell on him!” Pippin cries. I pause to clutch my belly. “Merry, I’ll stop if you stop, honest!”

“Oh-ho, I’m definitely not stopping now!” 

They double their pace.

Ruby soon calls the race. Cormac and I have filled five baskets, and only three apples are bruised. Pippin managed to pick one more apple than Merry, which is enough to dance a victory jig, apparently. We all finish the last of the orchard together and haul heavy baskets to the kitchen as one motley crew.

“Done already?” Mamma asks as we march up to the back porch.

“Hardly any under-ripe apples left, ma’am,” Seamus says. “We’re in bonnie shape for winter.”

Granddad and Mr. Goodyear are inside, already serving slices of warm, gooey pies—two for everyone—and tall mugs of cider. “Quick work, I’m impressed! Well done! Thank you all!” they chant as we file inside. Everyone raves about the cinnamon pastry.

“Opal made the crust,” I announce, kissing her head. “She’s quite the expert, da?”

“Excellent work, love,” Pippin tells her. “Truly, my heart knows bliss when I eat this!” Opal blushes, and credits me in turn with planning the day.

“Well done Di—it was delightful!” Pim chirps. “If you like, I’ll tell Mother you’re good with events, and maybe you’ll honor her with your talents one of these days.”

“I’d be glad to!” I grin and hug her. All the praise makes up tenfold for the censure I suffered three weeks ago; and everyone getting along makes today even better.

“I’m just glad we get thirds,” Fatty says.

“Aye, lightens the sting of letting Pip and Jaden win,” Merry snickers.

“Sha, we won fair and square!” says Jaden, mouth full. “‘Sides, Cormac and Di beat us all.”

“You’re just a sore loser, Merry,” Estella says archly. Jaden nods to her, grateful.

“Quick thinking with your dress earlier,” Corbin Banks teases me.

“It was innovative, even if you mortified Opal by flashing your petticoat,” Liam adds.

I flush. How was I so oblivious earlier? I swallow my embarrassment and lift my chin. “I do not balk at your Shirish prudishness. Maybe you should wear skirts during the harvest, and see how useful it is to use one layer for something practical.” 

They chuckle. “I would,” Liam says, “if you can convince me I look good in one.”

“That depends entirely on your vanity, Liam!” Opal says, and we all laugh.

Aunt Ruby passes around more cider, energetically saying, “Drink up, my darling applekins! This brew will make you dream you’re a tree—and you’ll fear axes all your life!”

Rosalyn and I giggle, and Mamma fondly shakes her head. Then Granddad strikes up a common song, and everyone joins in:

In orchards deep, where sunlight weaves
On ancient boughs, their bounty heaves
With fragrance sweet upon the air:
There hangs the apple, bright and fair.

When autumn’s breath doth gently blow,
And leaves like fire begin to glow,
Thy hidden charms, plucked from the grove,
Fill pies of spice and soft warm loaves.

From russet red to golden gleam,
In Bywater or Buckland’s lea,
From youth to age in summer's prime,
Thou art the treasured fruit of mine!

In cakes and tarts, in sauce and stew,
Thy crisp embrace tastes always new;
Or cider pressed in barrels old—
A draught more precious than fine gold!

“My favorite pie,” says Vinca, smacking her lips, “is whatever is in front of me. I can never remember what the last one tasted like while I’m enjoying one already.”

“Then you will always be satisfied with what you have,” I say. “That is wisdom.”

She grins. “Unfortunately, I don’t feel that way about most things.”

I loop my arm around her and meet the beaming eye of everyone in the room—neighbors, field hands, friends. And for the first time, Tuckborough feels like a family.

The farewells are slow—everyone helps us set aside the stores to sell to the grocers and the Tooks, and we halt for more conversations all the way through the house and to the front garden.

“Diamond,” Cormac trots up to me. “Thanks for being my catcher. Wouldnae’ve won without you.”

“But you were as concentrated as the sugar in those pies! Nothing could distract you from the job.”

“All right, have it your way.” He chuckles, blushing. “But… it was fun.”

“Da, I should coerce my friends into doing free labor for us more often,” I tease.

He leans close and kisses my cheek, lingering for a moment. I stiffen in surprise. “Thanks,” he mutters, and hurries off to his family.

I blink. What was that? The warmth of his lips still tingles on my cheek. We’re just friends… right? But even in Long Cleeve, that kind of cheek kiss means something more. I think of Khamíd’s fine black eyes, churning guilt in my stomach. Maybe I liked it. But what does that make me—a fickle, disloyal person?

I shake myself. I’m probably just overthinking things. We’re friends. That’s all.

Thankfully, no one mentions it, though they certainly saw. Once they leave, I trudge all the way to the dining room where Mamma sits with a cup of tea. I lean over and rest my head on top of hers, wrapping my arms across her shoulders.

“Good job today,” she coos. “A great success. I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you, Mamma. Happy harvest.” We take deep, healing breaths to ease our aching bodies, and I relax into her.

“So, are you gonna tell me what you’re doin kissing boys?” Mamma gripes suddenly. “Expressly after I’ve told you time and time again that you’re too young for that kind of thing?”

I flinch back. “What are you talking about?”

“Dinnae play the fool. I saw Cormac give ye a kiss.”

My cheeks burn. “Friends kiss cheeks!”

“Not in Tuckborough, they don’t! And that was no peck.”

“That isn’t my fault.”

“You didnae do anything to stop it.”

“I didn’t have time to do anything but stand there!”

“Well…” she falters, still scowling. “Fair enough, I s’pose. But why was he kissin you?”

“What do you want me to say?” I throw my hands up. “It’s not like I was expecting it!”

She eyes me, suspicious. “Has he kissed your cheek before?”

“No.”

“Watch your tone, missy!”

“Mamma, this isn’t fair!” I groan. “I’m in trouble for something that isn’t my fault, and you don’t believe me when I tell you the truth—why should I bother saying anything to you?”

She lets go a long sigh. “I’m sorry, Diamond. I should trust your word. I know you’re a good lass. You can be thoughtless and selfish at times—”

“Mamma!”

“It’s just that…” She cups my cheek. “You’re growing up too fast, love. I forget that you’re nearly twenty-two—which, to be clear, is still too young to encourage a lad’s attachment or galavant with a hoard of beaus—but you’re not a child anymore.”

“I know.” I lean in to rest my head on hers again.

“I’m just worried about next year, with him being such a close neighbor and helping in the fields and all—” Her fingers jump to cover her lips.

“Next year?” I frown. “What does that matter? We’re going back to Long Cleeve soon.” 

She doesn’t respond. I lift my head. 

“We… are going back to Long Cleeve soon, da?”

She winces. “Aye. But only until Rethe.”

I gape at her. “How long will we…”

“From planting through the harvest.” 

My stomach drops. “When were you going to tell us?”

“Oh, Diamond…” She blinks hard. “I was just waiting for the right time.”

“But what about Papa? And Si? And Malachite?” My chest aches with a profound longing for my family, for the hills of Long Cleeve, the Blue Mountain peaks, my swift pony, all our neighbors and cousins, Khalíl, Khamíd—

“Your father and brothers will fetch us in a few weeks, then we’ll all be back home through the holidays.” Her voice cracks. “Four months with them is plen—plenty of time.”

Numb, I stare unseeing through the ground. “And after that? Is this permanent?”

“We’re just going to have to take it a year at a time, darling.”

“What if I don’t want to come back?” I ask, flames creeping up my throat.

“I need you, Diamond. Today is a perfect example of what you’re capable of.”

“So I don’t get any choice?” I squeak as a sob tenses in my shoulders.

“Diamond, oh, oh.” She wraps me in a cradling hug as I start to cry. “I know you miss your home. I do too—so, so much. But we’ve a family member in need. It’s not forever.”

“It already feels like forever.”

Her tears drop onto my cheek. “I thought you were settling into life here quite well—spending time with your grandfather, exploring my old stomping grounds. You’ve made so many bonnie friends, too, who helped us today. Is that not something?”

I hesitate. “I just… I feel sundered from my past when we’re here.”

“Well… maybe we can do something about that. But change is a part of life, my sweet. And if you grow accustomed enough to Tuckborough, going home may be an unwelcome disruption in the routine you’re building here.”

I gasp, shoulders shaking. I don’t want everything to change. That’s why I memorize my memories, catalog every sensation—so nothing slips away. But life is shifting beneath me like sands at the Gulf of Lune. What if I lose my old friendships and old dreams? What if I betray my past—or myself?

“I hate growing up.” I blubber and bury my face in Mamma’s shoulder.

Chapter Text

Winterfilth fades into Blotmath with ever greying skies. On the final day of harvest, we make corn dollies for Seamus to bless the fields. He chants the Old Hobbitish phrases—not that he or any of us understand them. The Tooks host the town Harvest Fest, and after that, I help till and plow the fields against the wind and darkening days. It’s not as grueling as harvesting, so I have more time for calls, walking, and counting the minutes until Papa’s arrival. 

And thankfully, Cormac never mentions the kiss. It’s as if we’ve silently agreed to forget it.

“Di, Opal, are you free next Highday?”^[38] Pervinca asks, dining at Harfoot Hollow one evening. Despite our humble table, she and Pim eagerly accept our invitations whenever both of their parents are in town.

“I believe so,” I say. “Unless Papa and our brothers arrive then.”

“Well, I’ll be thirty-one soon, and next week is our family birthday feast for Blotmath. Would you join us?”

“That’s wonderful!” “Happy Birthday!” “Congratulations!” We all chorus.

“Is it all right that we’re not family?” Opal asks.

“La, you practically are, with how often we see you,” Pim giggles. “Besides, we already asked Father, and he insisted.”

Opal and I give Mamma a pleading look. 

“Very well,” she sighs, smiling. “Unless your father arrives that day, you may go.”

We clap and shower her with gratitude. Jaden’s shoulders slump, disappointed he’ll miss out on a bottomless buffet. But Opal and I promise to bring leftover sweets and remind him that he’ll have our brothers all to himself—and he cheers right up.

~

We don’t have to hold our breaths for long: Papa, Malachite, and Si roll up to Harfoot Hollow on the following Heavensday. Jaden hears the hooves and wagon wheels first, and yells, “It’s Papa!” We drop everything and rush outside.

“Haló my darlings!” Papa bellows, full of enthusiasm as they drive up the lane. Si and Malachite holler affectionately. “Och, mo taz^[39]—it’s good to see you all again!” 

He jumps down from the driver’s seat, his golden mane bouncing with every step. He scoops up Jaden and gives Opal and I suffocating hugs. We cry and press him close.

“Glad to see you haven’t forgotten me!” He kisses our foreheads. Then his gaze locks onto Mamma, and he flashes a devilish grin.

“Ope—nooo ye don’t, Jasper!” Mamma laughs. “Dinnae come near me, not with that look in your eye!” 

Papa swaggers over, takes her in his arms and dips her into a deep kiss. It’s awkward—we groan and jeer until he sets her upright—but it’s also sweet. I’ve missed seeing them so happy.

Mamma smacks his shoulder, though she looks pleased. “I missed you, Jasper.”

“I missed you more, my darling Saoirse.” 

Papa hugs Granddad next as my brothers clamber down to greet us.

Obsidian is recently twenty-seven—Mal’s best friend, a remarkable four-foot two, and Jaden’s idol. He’s shy like Opal, with Mamma’s temper and darker looks—though Papa’s bright eyes stand out from his face.

“Look—a dobber!” he says, wrapping me in his arms.

“Love you too, bug brain.”

“Sha, that’s exactly the kind of mistreatment I’ve been lacking,” he cackles.

Malachite is the spitting image of Papa—except brown-eyed, and a little shorter: his blonde waves are pulled into a loose ponytail, a couple braids tucked throughout; a broad frame; a strong nose. As the oldest, he’s almost like a third parent—patient like Papa, commanding like Mamma. He’s just as musical as Opal, but he and I share a Poet’s soul. He’s always been my guiding star.

“Oh, missed you missed you!” Mal pulls me close. “Though, not as much as the livestock.”

“Wheesht, Malachite!” I laugh through joyful tears.

We eat a boisterous lunch that stretches into teatime. Then while our travelers nap before dinner, Opal, Jaden and I rush to the market to buy two dozen frosted biscuits to celebrate. Folks tut after our “wild” behavior as we sprint laughing through the streets—but I can’t bring myself care. Personally, I thank Long Cleeve for our “barbarism.”

Ruby and Rosalyn join us, and Granddad opens two bottles of Old Vineyard after dinner, which we drink late into the evening. We hear all about Malachite slaying the wolf, our neighbors and friends, herding dogs and ponies. Then we share all the songs we’ve learned and written since our parting. Besides the North Farthing tune Jaden picked up from his friends, Malachite plays a ballad that outshines the rest. 

Down on my knees, tattered and torn,
I remind you the promise to me you had sworn.
Remember, my love, I’ve been transformed—
I’m a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn. ^[40]

We sit in awe. I recall Estella’s words—that love poems must come from the heart—and wonder about his lass, Caly, and my Khamíd. Oy, we have much to discuss.

The next morning, we know to clear out so Mamma and Papa can “reconnect.” Granddad, Opal and Jaden take Si on the grand tour of Tuckborough, while I steal Malachite for a long walk in the woods bordering Great Smials.

“You would love Isengrim the First,” I say, tugging at my dingy grey-green scarf. “His phrasing is old-fashioned, but the rhythm is precise. Very bold and descriptive.”

“And you borrowed his anthology from the Great Smials library?” Malachite asks.

“Da. Opal and I are close with the Took sisters—they let us borrow whatever we like.”

“Goodness, you actually made friends?” He nudges me.

“And they adore us, so they’re clearly brilliant,” I boast. He rolls his eyes. “Pearl knows every book in her family’s collection; and Pim and Vinca are wonderful. We see them most every day. In fact, we’re feasting with them tomorrow.”

“What! You’re ditching us on our first Highday back together?”

“We practically had a Highday feast yesterday.”

“All right,” he snickers. “Still, one can’t have too many Highday feasts.”

“You only think with your stomach and never consider Granddad’s wallet!” I wave him off.

There’s a pause. He falls serious. “So… are things really that tight?”

I bite my lip. “I don’t know the details but… Jaden and I had to work in the fields all harvest. Not a single day off, even when the hands went home—unless we took time without asking.”

His brow creases. “I’m surprised Mamma would put you through such hard labor.”

“She was doing even more herself,” I say quickly. “We tried to spare Jaden and Opal from the hardest tasks, but we never would’ve finished on time without all of us pulling long days.”

“Granddad must be in serious debt.”

My knees tremble, and I wrap my arms around his middle. He returns my embrace without hesitation. Four months with only his letters have been hard enough. How can I bear to lose him again in the spring?

“Mamma says Jaden, Opal and I have to come back to Tuckborough next year,” I whisper, nervous that saying it will make it happen sooner. “Granddad won’t stay in Long Cleeve, and we can’t leave him alone.”

He squeezes me, and lets me go. “Da, I heard.” 

We walk in silence. I run my fingers through tall grass and caress tree trunks as we pass, shaking hands with the forest. Are they stretching out to me, asking me to stay? A few squirrels crash through the dead leaves; the occasional bird warbles from a bare branch; but otherwise, there’s a quiet peace, a drowsy beauty in the air. Do I even want Tuckborough to want me?

“Do you mind?” Malachite asks. “Seems like you’ve made a decent home here.”

I pause for a long moment before answering. “I… like some things—but I miss home.” I pull my coat close. “I don’t know if I’ll miss Tuckborough, or if Long Cleeve will feel the same now…”

“People may change faster than places,” he says gently. “But the hobbits and Dwarves back home still care deeply for you.”

I scowl at him from the corner of my eye. He is too perceptive, sometimes. “But what if… what if I’m different—in a bad way? What if I left a piece of myself in Long Cleeve and can’t find it again? What if I’m used to a larger town now, and can’t be happy in such a remote place?”

“If your heart leads you somewhere, you should follow it. Don’t be afraid of changing your mind.”

“I can’t just not be afraid!”

He elbows me. “You used to be so loyal to Runner. Then we got Tess, let you train him up, and he became your new favorite. Was it so bad to change your mind there?”

I roll my eyes. “That is entirely different. I still love Runner, but Tess is my dog.”

“But you don’t live in fear of finding another dog you love, do you?”

I purse my lips. “I might, if I had to lose Tess or never see him again.”

“Sha, don’t be dramatic! You can like living in Tuckborough as well as Long Cleeve. And if you prefer one, you can still visit the other.”

“But you can’t be close with people when you never see them!”

“You can with the people who matter.”

Flint strikes in my belly. I bite back a sharp retort. “But… what about those who still matter to me, though the distance is too much?”

“If you want to hang onto them, you will. And if they won’t to do the same, maybe they don’t deserve to be close to you.”

I slow to touch a growth of mums, vibrant amidst the Blotmath brown. The red blooms are Khamíd’s favorite—or, they were. Did he not write because he doesn’t deserve to be close to me?

“Did you know Mamma and Granddad almost didn’t hold onto each other?” I murmur.

Malachite plucks a flower and tucks it behind my ear. “I suppose. Their interactions were always tense.”

“Hm. I never noticed before coming here.”

“Shocking, considering how self-obsessed you are,” he snickers. I punch his arm.

“They had a big row in Afterlithe—about her moving away, not visiting—everything, really.”

“Mamma never got along with her parents, from what Papa’s told me. Even as a tween.”

“Really?” My eyebrows lift. “I thought it was the crops and money and town that drudged it all up.”

“The Harfoots were never tight-knit like we are. I think she was close with Syringa before moving to Long Cleeve, but she died when Si was toddling.”

We reach the rounded riverbank. Malachite picks up a rock and skips it across the stream.

“I don’t think it’s just their history,” I say, flinging a stone. “Mamma gets wound up here, and has yelled at all of us—but folks say all kinds of nasty things about Long Cleeve, so I understand. If we behave well, they credit Granddad. If we do something ‘wild’ or ‘unusual,’ they sneer: ‘That’s what we’d expect from Long Cleeve folk!’ It’s awful.”

He laughs, skeptical. “Do people actually say that, or does Mamma say people say that?”

“Och—that’s not the point,” I snap. “The… Proudfoot sisters! And the Tunnellys—and… well, it’s just all around.”

“So what? Don’t associate with them. There’s plenty of hobbits in Tookland.”

“I can’t help it when the Proudfoots are neighbors, and Mr. Griffo is the grocer, or I pass others on the street.”

“Still—little jabs are hardly the worst thing you could face.”

“Ugh!” I stomp my foot. “Why can’t you just believe me?”

He blinks, frowning. “I do. Just don’t blow this out of proportion. What happened to being worried you’ll miss it here?”

“I—” I stutter, fuming. “Look, I don’t have to have tea with someone to hear people shame my habits, my upbringing, my roots! And the worst part is, I do feel ashamed sometimes, because for some idiotic reason, I want to fit in!” I throw my last rock, and it crashes into the stream. “What if I start to think like them, Malachite? What if I forget who I am, and where I belong?”

He studies me. “Di, you don’t really think you’ll become a crabbit old sod, do you?”

I glance down, smooth my graenik skirt. “I dunno. Maybe I’ll just become like Mamma—ashamed of Tuckborough at home; ashamed of Long Cleeve in Tuckborough…”

Mal releases a long, heavy breath. “I don’t know everything what kept her away all these years, but I don’t think it was shame for Long Cleeve.” He drapes an arm around me. “Might want to ask her again. She may have a different answer after your time here.”

“If it wasn’t Long Cleeve, wasn’t it the canting Shirish hypocrites?”

He chuckles. “There are hypocrites, gossips and vipers in every land—even in Khôrun Luin. The worst offenders are the loudest, but they don’t speak for everyone.”

I scrunch my brow. “Why won’t the rest silence them, then?”

“They should.” He shrugs. “It’s just easier said than done. How would you silence your own family, or a friend who’s out of line?”

I snort. “Easy: lay into them. And if it’s public, all the better—shows folks you mean business. Just ask Granddad how I embarrassed him.”

He laughs and we start to walk up the hill. “All right then. Next time you hear someone shaming you, be the first to speak against it—politely, if you can. Better to be clever than lose your temper. And, maybe more folks will follow your lead than you expect.”

My lip twitches up. “Sha, maybe I will.”

He tries to trip me as we stroll out of the forest toward the Old Oak. Two figures sit at its roots, smoking and talking with animation.

“Why Pip, what do you know? That can’t be Diamond, can it?” A loud, sarcastic voice carries on the wind. As we approach, Merry nudges his cousin.

“Hiya Merry, Pippin!” I grin. “How are you?”

“Better now that you’re here, I reckon.” Merry laughs and raises an eyebrow at Pippin, who completely ignores him. “Who’s this?”

“Oh I’m sorry—this is my brother Malachite. Mal, this is Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took.”

“Merry and Pippin, is it?” Malachite releases my arm to shake their hands. “I’ve already heard a good deal about you two—something about apple picking…”

A good deal? My cheeks heat up. Malachite gives me a sideways glance.

“If Diamond said I fell out of a tree, she’s lying.” Pippin nods confidently.

Malachite chuckles. “Nay—it was something about you pelting Jaden with apples?”

“Uh oh—Merry, I dinnae think I can take this fellow myself.”

“I’m staying out of this,” he returns.

“A fine cousin you are! You could at least distract him while I run.”

“You’re a horrible runner! I’ll be laughing too hard to be any help.”

Our mirth erupts. Malachite’s laughter is deep like mine—contagious, thunderous—building until we giggle more at the laughter itself than anything said.

“So when did you arrive?” Merry asks, taking a draw from his pipe.

“Got in yesterday with our father and brother,” says Malachite. “We’ll be leaving in two weeks or so.”

Pippin’s shoulders slump. “That is very soon, indeed.”

“We’ll make the most of it, eh tchave?”

“You’ll be back, though?” Merry asks.

“No, not for a long time,” Malachite says, stretching the pause a beat too long. Pippin watches him, and Merry’s glance flicks to me. “But Diamond will be returning for the planting season. Seems our grandfather isn’t ready to move to Long Cleeve.”

“Brilliant!” Merry claps Pippin’s shoulder with overt enthusiasm. Pippin scowls at him. Something funny stirs in my chest, and I don’t know what to say, so I clear my throat.

“Will either of you be at the Birthday Feast tomorrow?”

“Aye, that’s why I’m in town,” says Merry. “It’s my mother’s birthday month.”

“Lovely! I’ll see you there.” I nod and make to turn away.

“Wait—you will?” they ask in unison.

“Da. Vinca invited Opal and me.”

“Oh,” “right,” they mumble, nodding.

“You know,” Merry adds, “it’s also Pippin’s birthday month.”

“Wheesht—happy birthday!” I exclaim. “Goodness, Blotmath is popular for you Tooks.”

“And how old will you be?” Malachite asks.

“I turned twenty-six on Trewsday,” says Pippin.

“What!” I squeak. “Sha tchave, don’t tell me your birthday already came and went?”

He grins. “It’s true.”

“No, that can’t be right. My family didn’t receive any mathoms^[41] from you, so you cannot be twenty-six yet.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes widening. “I didnae think you would want one, since you’d have to lug it all the way to Long Cleeve.”

“No one gives mathoms because others want them.” I tut. “Very unkind of you, Peregrin Took. Still never planning ahead or taking anything seriously.”

“See?” Merry cuffs Pippin’s head. “I told you they’re twelve-mile cousins,^[42] with how close they are to your sisters!”

“Ach!” Pippin waves him off. “All right, yes, I’m sorry. It was unthinkable for me to neglect you. I’ll give you a present tomorrow.”

“And one for Opal?”

He blinks. “Right—of course!”

“Very well.” I narrow my eyes playfully. “But anything other than useless junk I shall consider a rebuke.” 

I smile, tongue peeking between my teeth; he mimics me; Merry snickers.

“All right, we’d best get on.” Malachite nods to them and takes my arm. “I expect I’ll see you again before we leave town.”

“Happy to meet any friend of Diamond’s,” Merry says, bowing.

“Welcome to Tuckborough!” Pippin sings.

We follow the path back homewards, ducking into the trees. “So,” Malachite says, “is that the fellow you’re worried will make you happy to stay here?”

I snort. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought so.”

“Ugh! Malachite!” I protest. He only laughs, so I collect myself. “I am not certain of whom you speak, dear brother. Please elaborate.”

“Pippin, of course.”

“Pippin?” My brow knits. “Honestly, Merry would be a more likely guess, and he’s too old for me.”

“Come, you two have a spark. And Merry was really playing it up.”

“No, they tease each other constantly,” I argue. “And he’s so childish—who could think of him as a romantic prospect?”

He taps his chin. “Hmm, who else do I know is childish?”

“Oh please—I can be serious whenever I want to be.”

He gives me a humored side-eye. “He’s more lively and clever than Khamíd. I see why you like him.”

“I don’t like him!” I bark.

He flinches back, hands up. “All right, sorry. I misread.”

“I’ll say.”

He huffs and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “So then… Khamíd still?”

I sigh. “I don’t know, Mal. It’s been so long, and he didn’t write.”

He winces. “I think he meant to, but the Guild’s been busy. But it’s all right not to know. I was just… curious to see where you’re at.”

I should’ve known. Khamíd never lets duty slip for his own wants. In so many ways, he’s better than I am—and maybe I’d be a better person by his side. And yet… we’re so different. He’s serious where I’m spirited, patient where I’m impulsive. I love music; he loves the forge. His feet are too grounded to fly. 

I look at the ground, blushing. “I’m still deciding about Khamíd.”

Malachite smiles. “He always asks after you when he’s visiting from the city. And I think he made you something.”

“Really?” I perk up.

“A few things, actually—some Papa said he can’t give you yet.” 

I gulp. “Oh,” I mutter, voice shaking.

He pats my back. “That a little scary?”

“Do you think he’s… you know, sure about me?”

“Hard to say, but my guess is: yes, definitely, absolutely.” He nudges me. “A lad had better be sure if he wants my sister for a sweetheart.”

I laugh a little. “I guess it’s nice that someone’s thinking of me, even knowing all my flaws—though I’d prefer to hear it from him. Maybe all the strangeness is just because he’s my first.”

“Your first what?”

“My first… eh, fancy, I suppose.”

He chuckles. “Ah. I was worried you’d say something else.”

“What?” I frown. He shoots me a look—and I swat him. “I’ve never kissed anyone!”

“Right. Got it.”

I roll my eyes. “Maybe Mamma’s right, though, with all her lectures about beaus. I have more than ten years before I’m of age.”

“You shouldn’t expect something permanent, but you don’t have to be of age to love someone, or to kiss someone; and you don’t have to marry them to be with them.”

“Sha, is that what you told Calanthe North-Took in a hayloft?” I tease. He waves me off. “Really though—it’s just that ten years is a long time. A lot could change. And Mamma doesn’t want me to settle on someone too young and outgrow them.”

“There’s wisdom in that. But then again, we change our whole lives.”

“Oy…” I deflate.

“I know, but you can still know yourself. I talked to Papa about Caly—”

“Wait, really?” I gasp. He never tells me much about his romances. “So you’re serious about her?”

“No—well, I thought I was—but I don’t anymore. We left off sweet, though. No hard feelings.”

My heart sinks. “Why? I liked her for you…”

He sighs, rubbing his neck. “Papa said that if you settle down, it should be with someone who you can love through all their stages, and who can love you through all of yours. You see Di, we’re never the same person twice. I’m very different than I was at twenty-two, and will be different again at forty-two, and one-hundred-two. You don’t just marry one person, but all the people they’re going to be.”

My stomach twists. “But how can you possibly know you’ll love all the people someone will become?”

He shrugs. “Partly a choice. Partly, I think you just know.”

“And… Papa and Mamma knew?”

“Da. And he said they’re both proud of how they’ve changed.”

My eyes fall to the ground, searching for life in the decay. The world is so different than it was a few months ago. It will be brand new by spring. I wonder if anything will feel familiar as the years pass?

“Do people fall out of love, Malachite?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “But I hate that term. It doesn’t just happen to you, like falling from a chair—maybe there’s hurt, mistreatment, miscommunication, or a failure to accept someone’s growth.”

“Even if you really loved them once?”

“If you only love who they are in a moment, and can’t accept who they’re becoming, then da. You might resent them for it. But that’s on you—expecting someone to suppress themselves is the most unnatural thing in the world.”

I don’t want to think about it anymore. Instead, I smack him. “Honestly, you sound like an old man sometimes. Are you really thirty-one?” I snicker. “So… no Caly?”

“No Caly.” He kicks a pile of leaves.

I wince. “Does that make you sad?”

“It did for a little. But, I knew I’d changed my mind, so why go on pretending? Best to let the past go.”

My chest clenches. I prefer daydreaming and reminiscing in memories. Can I really let the past go? Is it premature to think of it?

“I’m not sure I’m ready to,” I murmur. “But, I suppose I’ve been considering it, without realizing, since a boy here kissed me on the cheek.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What? Who? Pippin?”

“No, it wasn’t Pippin!”

“All right then, if you say so,” he chuckles. “Then who was it?”

“Ehm… his name is Cormac Banks. He lives just down the way.” I point down Delving Lane as we step out of the woods.

“You sure it was more than a friendly peck?”

“I think so… People are generally averse to anffection around here—it’s very strange—but that’s why it was so surprising.”

“I see.” He scratches his chin. “Was it welcome, or no?”

“I don’t know… It didn’t make me unhappy—not that I invited it—but it was nice, I think—and awkward? I mean, I’m flattered, but… Stop looking at me like that!” I punch him. He laughs. “Thankfully he hasn’t mentioned it, and we’re still friends.”

“No,” Malachite contradicts.

“Wha—what do you mean, no?”

“He’s just waiting for you to talk about it first.”

I lift my chin. “Well, then I guess we’ll never talk about it.”

“Diamond…”

“No thank you! I wouldn’t know what to say, and Mamma already confronted me on it—”

“He kissed you in front of Mamma and he’s still alive?” 

I burst into laughter. “Wheesht! I was the one who got a talking-to, not him.”

He laughs. “So do you like this Cormac?”

“I can’t like him and Khamíd.”

“Why not?” 

I blink. “Because that’s not how it’s done! I’m not a rake.”

“You’re allowed to be confused about who you fancy. You’re only a rake if you lie about it or string them along—and only lads can be rakes, anyway.”

I heave a sigh. “Well, I… I’m not sure. Maybe I could someday? But no—I want him as a friend now. I can’t think about anyone else before I go back to Long Cleeve and figure out where things stand with Khamíd.”

“I respect that.” He smiles as we step up to Harfoot Hollow. “I’m starving. Lunch?”

I nod eagerly. Malachite reaches for the doorknob—but we freeze. There are voices inside. Mamma and Papa’s love is a standard nuisance in our household, but still highly uncomfortable.

“On second thought,” I whirl around, “let’s go find the others in town.”

Mal nods and we dash down the lane. “Oy, they’ll be going at it until next week!”

“Maybe we’ll get another few siblings,” I groan, and we both make a gagging noise.

Chapter Text

Diamond Cleeveholm came to in a field of starlight. She squinted at the tall, luminous grass. Everything was silent—save a faint ringing on the unseen horizon. She pushed to her feet, brushed her cotton smock, and turned in place. But there was nothing to ground her—just darkness between the stars and that strange, purple grass.

“Diamond…”

A woman’s voice reverberated through the abyss. Diamond glanced around for the source, but the field was empty. 

“Diamond…”

Echoes of the celestial music rippled over her like wind, like water—Diamond knew she had to find Her. She jogged, searched, compelled by a strange urgency—

“Diamond.” 

The girl whirled. There stood Vala Elbereth, shining white as snow, hovering above the grass. Her beauty was terrible—too great to behold—for light poured from Her in waves.

“My Lady!” Diamond gasped, collapsing. She tried to bow her head, but couldn’t look away from the Mother of Starlight, Queen of Valinor.

“Dear child.” Elbereth smiled tenderly. “Lift up thy heart: there are perils ahead. Be a Light for the Shire, or thy folk shall fall with the coming shadow.”

Diamond trembled, overwhelmed and entirely unable to speak.

“Thou hast courage, Diamond. Take hold of it! After twain summers, thou must not return to the west. Take up thy blade; hold out ‘til the last; be brave and merciful, for thou shalt be pierced by the fear of thy kindred.”

The Lady bent and kissed Diamond behind her ear. And she felt her heart cinching, her fate bound to Tuckborough as if with twine. Pride surged in her—vigor, awe, and the greatest fear she had ever known. She didn’t want this. But Elbereth shone, and Diamond remembered her courage. 

“I could not refuse You anything, My Lady.”

“Listen for My voice,” Elbereth sang. “Heed My dreams. Call on My stars when thou hast need.”

Tears sprang to Diamond’s eyes. She wanted to fall into the Lady’s arms.

But she started falling through the stars instead. A muffled voice pulled her back: Elbereth faded, the ethereal light dissolved. She clawed at the grass, trying desperately to stay.

“Don’t leave me!” Diamond cried. “I can’t be a light on my own!”

Her stomach plummeted and she awoke with a start.

~

“Diamond!” 

My eyes snap open. Opal holds a lamp, jabbing me with her elbow. “Sha… what?”

“You were talking in your sleep and getting all clingy. Woke me up.”

I blink. “Oh. Sorry.” What a strange dream… It felt more real than reality. I want nothing more than to go back to Her.

Opal snorts. “It’s all right. Pretty strange, though—you never talk in your sleep.”

“Really?” I grin. “Then… how do you know I’m awake now?” 

She swats me. I throw my arms around her. 

“Is that you, prince charming? I want to snuggle!”

“Och! Knock off and let me sleep!” she giggles. “Wait, what’s that behind your ear?”

I frown, feeling the spot where Elbereth had kissed me. “What? What is it?”

Opal holds the lamp close, squinting. “Since when do you have a birthmark?”

Every hair stands on end. “I… I don’t know. Not like I can see behind my ear.”

“Hmph.” She shrugs and rolls over, blowing out the lamp.

But I’m wide awake. I replay the vision, trying to burn every detail into memory. The Lady’s voice and light fills me with longing. Hope. Dread.  

It was only a dream, I tell myself. But Her words remain: Be a Light for the Shire. Take up thy blade.

There are perils ahead.

Chapter Text

My dream hums in my skull all day. Thou shalt be pierced by the fear of thy kindred. I shudder. What does that even mean? 

I pull my hair into the first simple plait I’ve worn since childhood. Dreams just feel real sometimes, I tell myself. But more vivid than my burgundy winter dress? I smooth the subtle graenik skirt, hoping I won’t look too out of place tonight. Still, wouldn’t it be incredible to rescue the Shire from some peril?

A smile twitches on my lips, and I shake off the ridiculous thought. “Ready Birdie?”

“Da!” Opal fluffs her curls—loose in the youthful Shirish fashion—and spins before the mirror. “Just wait: everyone will think we have new dresses, since we saved these for tonight!”

I chuckle, joining her to admire our reflections. “Good thing Mamma and Papa always give us in nice clothes for Yule. Now—let’s not be late!”

We skip proudly to Great Smials in the fading light. Tom the doorman welcomes us to the mansion; another servant takes our cloaks and scarves; a third whisks us up the Ballroom stairs to the vast Banquet Hall.^[43] But as we enter the room, my confidence wavers. 

The chairs are already more than half taken. Appetizers are passed around liberally. Youngsters blaze past us, nearly knocking Opal off balance—but it’s the bright outfits that take me aback: vests gleaming with rich embroidery; silk and velvet skirts shimmering in the candlelight; ribbons adorning every girl’s hair. Our efforts were fruitless. We are still unmistakably outsiders. And how silly to dream that all these fine Tooks, most of them strangers, would ever follow my lead?

Opal grasps my hand. “Don’t leave my side.”

Nodding, I take a deep breath and search for Pim and Pervinca—our rocks, our advocates—but they sit at the head table, surrounded by family and entirely unapproachable. Eglantine glances over and lifts a single brow, assessing me. A polite nod. I swallow hard.

“Oi, Di!” Merry waves to us from a table across the room, where he sits with Estella and Fredegar. Thank Elbereth. My hand tightens around Opal’s and I weave through the crowd, begging a hundred pardons until we finally reach them. Fredegar tips his head politely, already piling his plate high. We sink into the chairs beside him.

“Look at your new dresses!” Estella exclaims. Her smile is warm, but next to her loose ringlets and purple gown, we look like right bumpkins. Opal and I exchange a pained glance. “Oh, don’t be like that—it’s good to stand out, as pretty as you are.”

Opal blushes, muttering thanks and returning the compliment. I grab a glass of wine and take a swig, summoning as bright a smile as I can. “We’re lucky that you’re here to take all the eyes off of us—you’re too gorgeous for anyone else to matter!”

“Told you.” Merry smiles tenderly, teasingly at her. She beams. The air seems thick and close between them, distorted by the strength of their attraction. What happened to keeping her distance? 

Fredegar clears his throat. Estella and Merry drop their eyes, the moment dissolving. Curiosity eats me up.

“Sha, but I feel I’m always doing something wrong here,” I sigh. “Clothes don’t really matter in Long Cleeve—or, not like here, anyway.”

“It’s not the clothes as much as you think,” Fredegar says. “Estella makes herself pleasing to others, and I’ve never heard a bad word against her.”

“You’d never let anyone speak ill of your family,” Merry snickers. “But he’s right, Di—you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

“I’m friendly!” I insist, hostile. The three of them laugh—even Opal chuckles.

“But you have opinions—and loud ones at that,” Estella says. “My mother always says ladies should keep sweet and quiet. But, as the Miss Bolger of Budgeford, I get more grace when I speak out than you ever will.”

Opal lowers her eyes. “She’s probably right, Di.”

I frown. “We’re allowed to have opinions—and it’s my opinion that that’s complete rubbish.”

“Thing is,” Merry takes a swig of wine, “people will say what they will. Wouldn’t you prefer they speak well of you?”

“Well…” Of course I want folks to speak well of me—but it’s something more. That dream put funny ideas in my head about being adored, trusted, followed. I give him an arch look. “How do you get away with violating decorum and keeping your reputation?”

Fredegar bursts out laughing. Estella rolls her eyes. Merry leans in, grinning. “I know exactly how far I can push before folks push back. It’s good to know your own limits—but it’s better to know everyone else’s.”

“Right. Noted.” I shake my head and search the room as the conversation carries on.

There are too many Tooks to count. Light of the Shire, my bum. Pim, noticing us, stands and waves with her entire arm—just before more talkative relatives ambush her. Rory feeds a toddler sitting on his lap. Pearl nods, exasperated, as a fellow from Musings rambles. Vinca speaks passionately with Merry’s mother and Paladin; and Eglantine, smiling cheerfully beside the Thain, pointedly ignores him. At the next table, Pippin makes two pretty girls laugh—Orla and Fiona.

“I didn’t know the Tunnellys were relatives of the Tooks,” I say.

Merry turns to follow my gaze. “Ah—they’re here for their sister-in-law Clover, I believe, who has a birthday this month.”

“Related by marriage?” Opal muses with little interest. “How unfortunate for the Tooks.”

My eyes linger on them unintentionally. What are they laughing about? And hold on—why is Orla touching Pippin’s arm? She says something that makes him belly laugh. Then as folks settle for the dinner bell, Pippin pulls out two chairs for the sisters and plops in between them. Is he just being polite? My jaw tightens.

Out come clean dishes and silverware. The staff passes mountains of food down from the ends of each table: platters of pork and potatoes, piles of soft cheese, buckets of sprouts and squash, boats of creamy mushroom sauce. Everyone greedily loads their plates. But my gaze gravitates toward Pippin, making merry with Orla, Fiona, and half his table. Elbereth would never need me while Pippin’s glowing like the full moon.

Eventually, Paladin stands and rings another bell to quiet the room.

“Welcome everyone!” his voice booms. “I’ll keep this short: Happy birthday to everyone born in the month of Blotmath. Can I please have the ribadyans^[44] stand?”

Around the room, a number of hobbits rise from their seats, including Clover Tunnelly, Merry’s mother, Pervinca, and Pippin. Paladin counts off, and everyone sings a chorus of the birthday song. The room claps and whoops—and demands dessert. Paladin gives the signal to release the cake.

“I wonder how Paladin can afford such lavish feasts every month,” Opal mumbles.

Merry chuckles. “The Thain has rights to most of the land and houses in Tookland—that is a significant income.”

After folks finish their cake and help themselves to another serving of dinner, they start trickling out to the Ballroom. We rise and follow.

“You came!” Vinca exclaims, pushing through the crowd and pulling my sister and me into a hug. “Pippin said your family arrived—I know you’ve been missing them, but I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Hellooooo my darlings!” Pim says in her sing-song voice. “Are you up for a performance? Father and I are terribly bored, and want to be dazzled!”

Opal’s eyes sparkle. “Can I borrow Rory’s fiddle?”

I elbow her for the pretension, but Pim says, “La, of course! He’s getting it now.”

I laugh, relaxing. “Very well—we’re at your command! But I insist upon dedicating the first song to Vinca.”

“Oh you charming minx!” Vinca croons and clutches my hand.

“Yes, yes, let’s get you downstairs with some instruments in your hands!” Pim says, herding us into the stream of people flowing out the door. 

A little ways ahead, Pippin talks to a group of younger relatives—but they sprint off at a word from him, and he turns back to Orla. My fingers tense around Vinca’s arm. Loosen up, I order myself, or you won’t be able to sing well. Besides, Pippin wouldn’t get duped by Orla of all people… right?

We descend to the Ballroom and squeeze through to the stage, where Rory’s violin, a harp and stool are already waiting. Opal tunes and bows a little warm up, turning some heads.

“So what’s your plan to maximize our enjoyment this evening?” I ask as Pim helps us onto the platform. “Should we find you after our set?”

“La—a plan matters very little at these family gatherings,” Pim giggles. “Just enjoy yourselves!”

She turns outward and cries in a loud voice: “Get ready for the loveliest music you’ve ever heard from the loveliest ladies you’ve ever seen! Diamond and Opal Cleeveholm will graciously start the dancing, so let’s welcome them!”

The thrill of the room’s attention fills me with focus. Orla, Elbereth—I forget everything but the display. Opal and I exchange a nod, and get to work. 

The crowd clears a space for dancers as I strum the introduction for a song Papa wrote long ago. Opal’s fiddle flares to life. I sing with all my heart. The tune is spunky and rustic—folks pick up the chorus quickly, chanting along. By the finish, the Tooks are rowdy and ready for more. Vinca applauds with fervor. I catch Pippin’s eye—he gives an encouraging wink. Beside him, Fiona claps, slow and sarcastic, and Orla just scowls. A smug grin flickers on my face. 

But Opal starts the next tune—a jig of her own invention—and Orla grabs Pip’s forearm. He readily follows her to the dancing circle. 

Fighting to keep my eyes from rolling, I make my entrance just in time. The young hobbits move lightly while the older, fatter ones laugh at their clumsier steps. Merry and Estella twirl gleefully together. Pim and Rory’s feet fly with expert precision. Folks can’t get enough.

Knowing people need a breather, we shift to one of Malachite’s ballads. Opal bows the introduction while I strum gentle chords underneath, my voice taking center stage.

I couldn’t utter my love when it counted,
Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now!
I only took all your goodness for granted,
Ah, but I’m singing like a bird ‘bout it now!

I held back the words, they could not be borne—
Now I cry and I weary of the fate you had warned.
Remember, my love, I’ve been transformed:
I’m a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn!^[45]

Pippin dances slow with Orla, but he’s watching me. Something in the song won’t let me look away from him, and my Long Cleeve accent comes through stronger than usual.

As ignorant child my purpose confounded,
Ah, but I’m flying like a bird to you now!
And when I met you, your nourishment grounded,
Oh, and I’m flying like a bird to you now!
Then I fled on adventures with so much discounted,
Ah, but I’m flying like a bird to you now!
Back to my darling, my reasons expounded,
Oh, and I’m flying like a bird to you now!

I was housed by your warmth, but left you forlorn—
Now you’re cold and I weather your darkening scorn.
Remember, my love, I’ve been transformed:
I’m a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn!

I smile as my fingers pick out the bass line, completely at home shining from the stage. Estella and Merry are swept up in each other—but Pippin is swept up in the ballad with me. Courage floods into my very bones. I could do anything if Elbereth needed me.

I need your sust’nance near and surrounding,
All my repentance is going to you now!
But the cries of your fury are loudly resounding,
All my repentance is going with you now!

Down on my knees, tattered and torn,
I remind you the promise to me you had sworn.
Remember, my love, I’ve been transformed:
I’m a shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn!

He’s still staring, but now that the song’s spell is over, I squirm. Maybe he thinks I was singing to him? Goodness, I hope not—songs are just incantations, ensnaring listener and performer alike. 

Opal nods to me, pulling me out of my thoughts. I stand and smile brightly at the throng.

“Eh, thank you all very much for welcoming us here tonight! We were delighted to share our family’s music with you.” The Tooks and relatives shout their approval, clapping extra fervently when I gesture for Opal to step forward. Then we curtsy together and hand the instruments off to other musicians—

“Play something outlandish!” someone cries.

“Let’s hear one for the Dwarves!” says another. 

My head whips—Orla’s hands drop from her mouth. She and Fiona snicker. Pippin is beside them, giggling and shaking his head. I pretend I didn’t hear. But the rest of the crowd slowly starts cheering in agreement, and Opal beams at me.

“They love us!” she says. “I can play the Danâza Zighana, and you can do the dance!” 

I glance between her and the room. If folks think it sounds strange, we’ll be mortified and the Tunnellys win. Then again… Tooks are ‘the oddest folk in the Shire,’ and more adventurous than most. If they love it, we win. And Merry did say to win favor with sweetness. 

“Please Di?” Opal begs. “I want to really show them what I can do.”

I nod, and we step back onto the stage. “Very well!” I call out. “Far be it from us to refuse anything to the esteemed Tooks of Great Smials, the most generous of hobbits. Happy birthday to our ribadyans; I hope you enjoy this traditional song and dance from the Blue Mountains.”

People cheer and stomp as I slide the harp aside. Since Dwarven ladies wear their hair down for the Zighana, I comb through my braid to loosen wavy tresses. Someone whistles. I wave them off, laughing. 

Then Opal strikes the first chords.

I swish my burgundy skirts before and behind me—wind stirring tall grass—and drift into the memory of dance lessons back home. My bare feet take light steps with the spiccato: rain on the ground. My hips sway with liquid precision. I dip and shake my shoulders. The weight of eyes, the gasps, the quiet reverence—I raise my hands toward the clouds and spin. I bend far backward, reach one hand forward and circle my hips as I pull myself upright. I beam, picturing Mamma and Dahlia Dhundrarlun showing us the steps. I hop. I stomp with the forceful chords. And on Opal’s cue, my hair and skirts twirl around me in a final flourish.^[46]

We gleam out at the crowd, but the applause is muted, hesitant. Some gape; others whisper; all while many young lads whistle and hoot loudly, and elders swat their heads. My eyes dart to Pippin—red in the face with eyebrows as high as they will go. Flames lick up my cheeks. Was it truly that outlandish?

Pim hurries up to thank us and shoo us off the stage, promising the crowd that we’ll play again at Great Smials—“but for now, you can enjoy dancing with them instead!” A number of folks cheer a little too eagerly, making Pim flush. Hooray we are finally off the stage—or hooray for dancing with us?

“Well… we did it,” I mutter to Opal. “Can’t tell if that was a good idea.”

“It was—I’ve never played that song better!” she squeals close to my ear. “What wasn’t to like?”

I give her an odd look. Usually, she understands these things more than I do. But before I can press her, Adelgrim Took bounds up.

“I’ve never heard fiddling like that—finest in the Shire, I reckon!” he says to Opal. She brightens, and he extends a hand. “Care to dance?”

To my surprise, she follows him to the dance floor with her head held high. And just like that, I’m alone in a sea of hobbits—remembering plenty of names but knowing almost none beyond a polite introduction. Yet their eyes follow me; their whispers trail behind as I shuffle in search of my friends. No one approaches.

“You like a good time then, miss?” a lad asks.

I snort, confused. “Da? Who doesn’t?”

He and his friends guffaw and turn away. My throat tightens. Might as well toss out that ridiculous dream about being important in the Shire.

Suddenly, Fredegar pops out of nowhere. “Dance?” 

I smile, relieved. “Love too!” And I take his hand just as the ceili begins.

“I’d no idea you and Opal had such talent,” he says. “Very fine fiddling and singing.”

“Thank you, Fatty. We’re grateful to have a willing audience.”

“Aye, looked like you were having the time of your life up there! And your dancing was…” He pauses, wincing. “I can tell you’ve practiced a lot.”

His pitying smile strikes me with a shudder of embarrassment. “Ehm—Estella and Merry seemed to be having the time of their lives, too! They seem well-suited.”

“Well-suited?” He furrows his brow. “Why do you say that? The three of us learned dancing together as children, so they’re practiced partners.”

“And they were lost in each other’s eyes,” I chuckle. “Did they patch things up?”

He startles back; and when our dance ends, he mutters something about finding Merry. Was I wrong? Is Merry leading her on again? My insides twist.

Another lad solicits a dance with me, but Vinca swoops in before I can accept.

“Oh, no you don’t, Doderic!” She grabs my waist and hand. “This song is mine, so you’ll just have to wait your turn!” She spins us onto the dance floor, both of us breathless with laughter. 

“That was marvelously unconventional,” I giggle.

“I’ve been working up the courage to pull such a stunt!” She winks. “Anyway, thank you so much for coming and performing. I’ll thank Opal next—she set that fiddle on fire!”

My heart glows with pride. “Da, she’s amazing.”

“And your dancing was very alluring, I must say,” she teases. “Everyone was at very least impressed by your confidence. And Fatty made sure folks are not scandalized to waltz with you, so no harm done.”

“Alluring?” I frown. Is that what people are fretting about? Shame and anger stir in my chest. I don’t understand why they think that, but I concentrate on Malachite’s advice, blocking out the dissenters and telling myself I don’t need to be ashamed of Long Cleeve.

“Pervinca, you’ve never told me why you don’t dance with lads,” I say, shifting focus.

“Oh. That.” She rolls her eyes. “Family is fine, but I’ve no patience for other lads, or the whole game.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s kind of a sister thing, see? Before, lads never wanted to dance with me, per se, since they’d go on and on about how beautiful my sisters are, asking who they’re interested in, if I could put in a good word for them. And with Mother always eager to get Pim and me married, she’d ask a million questions about every boy I danced with after a ball.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “Why’s Eglantine eager to marry you two off? Is that a posh thing?”

“If you ask me, she’s annoyed and wants us out of the house,” Vinca snickers. “But that backfired, since Rory spoils Pim and lets her live here while he’s in Whitwell.”

“She doesn’t want to live with him?”

She shrugs. “He’s a simpering fool for her. I’m sure that was more appealing than actual love—plus, marrying got Mother off her back for a time, and Father bequeathed the Whitwell farm to them. As for me—the plain, boring one of the family—”

“You aren’t plain! Or boring!”

“I don’t think Mother would agree,” she says with a grim smile. “But she does not want her precious Peregrin to have to support two old maids. Pearl is one enough.”

“Do you not want to marry?”

“It’s a… delicate situation.” She glances away. “I’ve no patience for lads, as I told you.”

I nod. How does she manage to be so unorthodox without raising eyebrows and tongues against her? Maybe it’s her family’s standing—or that she was born here. But I don’t press her on it. “And why does Pearl get a pass?”

“Ah—after Pip, she’s Mother’s favorite. Never been attracted to anybody or anything. But as the librarian, she makes herself useful, so Pippin will not regret supporting her. Not like freeloading old me!” she cackles.

“Oh Vinca!” I chide, though I’m rather unsettled. “Would he regret supporting either of you?”

“I should expect not—I was only making fun,” she says. I relax. “Pippin and I are close—less so since Father’s ascension—but we made a pact a couple years back: he promised I would always be welcome in his house, marrying anybody or nobody as I please.”

My eyebrows arch. “My, he’s a better brother than I expected.”

Her smile grows, triumphant. “And I promised to paint his family portraits and help him with romantic conquests. I suspect he’ll appreciate my services ere long.” 

We both laugh. It’s hard to imagine him ever being serious enough for love.

When our reel ends, Doderic wastes no time cutting in for the next number. Rory and Pim dance together for the jig, looking so in love one moment, and parting indifferently the next. Perhaps Vinca’s right, that their affection is one-sided—a marriage to appease Eglantine.

After dances with a few more partners, I catch sight of Estella. It’s true I can’t save the Shire—but maybe I can save her from Merry’s foolishness. I wave her over.

“Let’s take a turn outside—it’s too hot!” I loop my arm through hers and she follows me, beaming, out the back exit. The night air is cool, almost shocking. I look at her earnestly. “So… what’s happening with you and Merry?”

She falters. “Me and Merry?”

“Well, yes…” My throat sticks, searching for careful words. “It’s just that you’ve been hanging on his every word—”

“And?” Her eyes flash. Her tone sparks irritation in my belly. My nails dig into my palm.

“And I thought you were trying to move on?”

She juts her chin, voice rising. “So what if I changed my mind? Who are you to judge? Are you waiting to swoop in or something?”

“Ai-ai—of course I’m not!” I cry, hands raised and brow furrowed. “Oy, where is this coming from, Stella?” I’m only trying to help.

She blinks, deflating with a heavy exhale. “Sorry. But Fatty said the same thing a moment ago, and it vexed me exceedingly.”

I bite my tongue. She folds her arms and glares at the sprawling gardens. My anger dissolves as quickly as it always does, and I’m left to sink into myself, reprimanding my sharp words. I’m not a Light for anyone. 

I reach for her hand. “Estella, I just… I don’t want to see you hurting all the time.”

Her eyes flick to me, then quickly away. But she relaxes an inch. “Thank you, Diamond.”

Sha, what would Malachite say? Something gentle. Something reassuring.

“I’m sorry—let me try again,” I murmur. “I noticed you and Merry looking delighted with each other. Did he… say something?”

“No…” She presses her lips, hesitant. “He just—I don’t know, the last few days he’s just been rather attentive—invited me hunting with the lads, riding, just sitting in the parlor…” She faces me, taking my other hand eagerly. “So today, I wanted to dress up a little, just to see—and he’s scarcely taken his eyes off me!” Her grin grows wide, pleading and desperate. “Diamond, it feels so good to be seen by him finally!”

A pang twinges in my chest. “All right. If he’s treating you as you deserve, amazing. Only… you’ve told me before about his cycle of attention. Promise you’ll be careful?”

Her smile fades. The hope in her eyes yields to pain. “I promise.”

I squeeze her fingers, yearning to lift her mood. “I don’t think he wants to hurt you—”

“I know.”

“—But he clearly can be a bit of a selfish twit, because he’s done it before.”

She sighs, resigned. “I know.”

Wind stirs the skeletal trees. Her skirts rustle against mine. Was it wrong to talk with her? She chose to open up to me about this, so it seemed right, trying to look out for her. But now… I hate myself for meddling.

“Listen, I really butted into your business,” I wince. “That was uncalled for, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

She softens, a weary smile breaking through. “No—you mean well, darling. And it’s easier to hear it from you than my brother.”

But she won’t hold my gaze. I pull her into a hug. “Come back in? You can dance with Merry the rest of the night if you like.”

Her laugh is brittle, forced. “No… I think I’ll just turn in, love.” We peck each other’s cheeks as she pulls away. “Night, Di.”

I deflate as she slips away, leaving the door yawning open. The more I try to step up, to belong, the more I isolate myself. I heave a sigh. Mamma always says I live in too many daydreams—and she’s probably right. I need to wake up.

Back in the Ballroom, I’m in no mood for dancing, and there’s no sign of Opal. I quickly find Vinca and ask her to lead me anywhere else. We step into a large parlor filled with tweens. Some play at quoits—with rings of fine oak instead of rope—others, indoor skittles. But on a sofa by the hearth, Pippin, Orla, Fiona and a few others shriek with laughter as Bucca Took mimes some ghastly animal.

“Vinca, it’s your birthday, so I’ll play whatever game you like,” I whisper, trying to swallow my vexation.

She quirks an eyebrow at me, but doesn’t move. And as Pippin jumps up to take his turn, he spots us and jogs over. I smile. Thank heavens he isn’t balking after I practically serenaded him.

“You finally found the real fun—it’s about time, too,” he says. “What kept you?”

“Oh, you know, just Di being too polite to turn down any fella who asked her to dance,” Vinca teases. “I had to rescue her from Doderic by leading her myself.” 

“Vinca!” I chuckle, swatting her. “Don’t fib. Half the lads were terrified of me.”

“Your performance intimidated the weak-of-heart!” Pippin laughs. “You and Opal played a truly wonderful set.” 

He turns to elicit the agreement of the group—some assent more than others. I bob a curtsy. Fiona rolls her eyes. 

“Aye, Diamond, that was quite a spectacle,” Orla says, overly sweet. “I’m shocked that you and Opal were willing to exhibit yourselves like that.” 

What is that supposed to mean? She and Fiona egged us on! I grind my teeth at their suppressed snickers.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pippin says lightly. “I enjoyed every song.”

Pervinca and Bucca echo him. I offer a grateful smile—only for Fiona to cut in.

“You looked like quite a temptress up there, Diamond! Is that how lasses in Long Cleeve get beaus?”

Temptress? The word scalds. My cheeks burn. Pippin rubs his neck; Vinca tries to hide her grin; Bucca and the other lad blush.

“Come play a round of Pantomime!” Pippin says abruptly, dragging us to the sofa. He introduces everyone—Orla and Fiona, Bucca and Andwise Took, and Celandine Brandybuck.

For the first round, I’m with Celandine, Andy, and Pippin. We quickly fall into a tight rhythm—especially Pippin and me, guessing each other’s gestures in record time. It’s like all the hours we’ve spent at the Oak Tree, knowing each other’s mind with merely a look. The group’s energy and laughter surge—despite Orla and Fiona sending dour glances my way—culminating when Bucca tackles Pippin to sabatoge our imminent victory.

It’s only fair to swap teams for the second round. But I’m yoked with the Tunnellys. At first, when Orla refuses to acknowledge my answer, I think she can’t hear me. But she ignores my repeated guesses until Fiona or Celandine repeats them—giving a smug nod, even as our team falls behind. Then when I’m miming, she talks loudly to Pippin instead of paying attention. The group’s glee falters, our smiles becoming more and more forced. Eventually, even Fiona blushes on her sister’s behalf. But Orla won’t take the hint. My blood boils—can’t she find a way to needle me without spoiling the game for everyone?

“Orla, would you kindly push off already?” I snap.

She gasps, drawing a hand to her collarbone. “Well I never—did you hear her?” she squeaks. “It’s only a game, Diamond!”

No one else speaks. Their gazes shift along the ground, their bodies frozen. I swallow hard as my face heats up. Why do I always let her get a rise out of me?

“Diamond, I just remembered—I have something for you!” Pippin jumps up, smashing the tension.

“Sha, right now?” I say, glad for an excuse to disappear.

“I don’t want to forget again.” He grabs my wrist—my heart jolts—and pulls me after him. “We’ll be back, but don’t wait for us to keep playing!” 

I wave goodbye to Pervinca, who laughs and winks in reply.

Pippin slows his pace and drops my hand as we weave through the Ballroom, careful not to draw attention, until we burst into the back gardens.

“Finally some peace!” He grins and rolls onto the trimmed grass, patting the space beside him. I sweep my long hair over my shoulder as I lay back to look at the stars.

“What an… interesting game of Pantomime,” I begin.

He plants a hand on his face. “Dinnae start. Orla and Fiona are old friends, but they’ve hardly left me alone for an instant all night. Orla was wearing on me, if I’m honest.”

I let loose a peal of laughter, relief washing over me. “Probably fancies you.”

“Oh no!” he groans. “Do you really think so?”

I lean close. “Do you have any other theories, sha’tchave?”

“No, you’re probably right,” he chuckles, shoving me playfully. “What was Pantomime about, though? Did you get on her bad side before today?”

“Opal and I think she and Fiona always want to be the center of attention. I bet she got jealous of our performance…” I pause, knowing that he must have read her better than I did. “And… maybe felt like I was competition, or something.”

“What? But you were on the same team.”

I know he’s feigning ignorance; I don’t know why, but I can play along. “Not for the game—competition to get you, or something. Since she fancies you.”

He turns a tantalizing grin on me. “Well? Are you competition?”

Embers rise to my cheeks. I swat him. “She doesn’t have any competitors, considering she’s not even in the running.”

He giggles. “Ach, by the way—I danced with Opal earlier, and gave her the mathom I promised. Then she got all shaky and said she had to leave, but declined my offer to walk her or fetch you. Do you think she’s all right?”

I chuckle to myself. It seems Orla isn’t the only one with a childish fancy. “I’m sure she’s fine. Just gets overwhelmed sometimes. She would’ve sent for me if she was ill.”

Pippin nods, easing up. “I also have a mathom for you, though not with me.”

“Well I never—Peregrin Took, not a hobbit of his word!” I gasp, doing my best Orla impression. “I suppose I have no choice but to be disappointed in you.” 

He jabs my ribs. “I dinnae have it on me, all right? It’s in my room. Shall we get it?”

“And miss out on these perfect stars?”

“Oi, come on you layabout!” He rolls to his feet. “It’s cold, but we can walk under the sky for a ways.” 

He pulls me up. As we walk, I hug my elbows against the chill air; he stuffs his hands in his pockets and whistles Malachite’s Walking Song.

“You’re still whistling that old tune?” I ask.

“Aye, and I remember the words, too!

How I love icy sun trickling soft through the trees,
How I love sweet bird song wafting near on the breeze—
But more than walking in winter groves,
I yearn the love of my youth from long ago!

“I’m impressed!”

“What can I say? You’ve not performed it publicly that I know of, so it feels like our secret.” 

I smile at the ground. I like having little secrets with Pippin.

With the moon set, the winter constellations are especially bright—not so different from my vivid dream. I say a silent prayer, thanking Elbereth for creating such beauty. I wonder what She really looks like? The Dwarves taught me about the Valar and the stars, and I tried to teach Nana—she never caught on, but was always eager to listen to me explain again. Khamíd’s star map might have helped her, if he hadn’t given it to the Smithing Guild.

My chest aches for both of them. Why didn’t he write?

“Do you know the constellations?” Pippin asks gently.

“Da, somewhat,” I say, blinking away the mist. I trace them out—Valacirca, Wilwarin, Menelmecar—explaining their meanings and stories. He watches me, as curious as always to hear about the world beyond The Shire. Flame flickers in my belly. But his attention is never prying, never cruel, never goading me like some beast on display.

“And on the horizon is my star sign, Telumendil—lover of stars. I named my pony after it.”

“Good heavens, I only know their common names! Did the Dwarves teach you?” he asks. I nod. “I’m surprised they use Elven words.”

“They once had more dealings with Elves, and picked up some of their language and lore. Dwarves have their own star names, of course, but Khuzdul is forbidden to teach to outsiders.^[47] I only know a few phrases.”

“That’s amazing,” he gasps. We arrive at a side entrance and duck inside. “My relative, Bilbo Baggins, knew several Dwarves. He helped them reclaim their home in Erebor a long time ago—but I always thought he learned his stars and everything in Rivendell.”

“I forgot that you knew Bilbo! He’s famous in the Blue Mountains—his companions were living there before that journey, you know.”

“I never made that connection with you before,” he marvels. We turn down twisted hallways, passing a handful of folks.

“I would’ve liked to meet Bilbo,” I sigh. “Dwarves say he was very welcoming to outsiders. And that wizard they went with would be interesting, too.”

“Oh, you mean Gandalf? I’ve met him!”

I gape. “Really? What’s he like?”

“I was a wee lad. But he knows me and all the Thains. As far as what he’s like…” He taps his chin. “You’ve probably heard of Bilbo’s farewell birthday?”

“Everyone has.”

“Merry and I tried to steal some of Galdalf’s fireworks, but he caught us. He was very tall and very frightening. But later, as a teen visiting my cousin Frodo, twice Gandalf was there while I was. He remembered me, and was very kind. Teased me about the fireworks, even.”

My smile stretches. “The Dwarves back home would love to hear about that.”

We finally reach his family’s apartment, and his bedchamber door within. “You can wait here or come in as you like,” he says. “I’ll just be a moment.” 

Pippin slips through the door and lets it swing wide. I settle for a single step in and a peek around. It’s much cleaner than I expected: very little clutter, only a couple of dusty books on the desk and some spilled pipeweed on the windowsill. The hoard of mathoms he surely distributed this week is the only explanation.

He pops out and hands me a paper box. “Happy birthday to me!” he laughs. 

Wrinkling my nose, I untie the twine and lift the lid. Inside is a disc, a slice of oak, with a hole drilled near the top and a loop of twine running through. Beautiful green hills are painted on the front, and Good Yule! on the back.

“Sha tchave, what is this treasure?” I ask, brows knit in astonishment.

“It’s an ornament for your Yule tree! The wood is from the Old Oak—that branch that fell in last week’s storm—and the painting is of Tuckborough, so you dinnae forget your friends here.”

My eyes widen. “You made this?”

“Aye—well, I got a little help from Vinca to get the picture right. I’m useless as a painter.” He watches me, hesitating. “What do you think? A mathom worth the wait?”

Gratitude bubbles from my belly out through my limbs. I throw my arms around his neck. I’ll miss all the good hobbits here, the quiet woods and green fields. The twine that ties my heart to the Shire pulls—that was just a fantasy, I remind myself—but I feel it nonetheless. If my fate must be woven to this place, at least I know I have dear friends.

The wave of emotion fades like a dream upon waking. I blink back tears. “I love it. Thank you, Pippin. I shall not forget my friends here.” 

He grins as I pull back, avoiding my eye. “Here, let me help with that…” Once the ornament is back in its box, he ties the twine again. “Good. Safe and sound.”

I clutch my head. “Oy, I’m so tired all of a sudden.”

“Do you want me to walk you home?”

I nod. Then a smile tugs. “Although… I might have another dance in me, if you do?”

He chuckles. “Always.”

The Ballroom is much emptier when we return. Pippin stuffs my box in his pocket to free up my hands, and we line up for the Strip Willow.

“Are you fond of dancing?” I ask when we join hands. “Earlier, it sounded like you would much prefer a game.”

“I’m fond of dancing with you.” He sets his tongue between his teeth.

“As is everyone,” I declare. 

He snickers. “I had to keep up appearances earlier, or Orla would’ve been dancing with me all night.” He spins me and we part again on either side of the strip.

We don’t see Pim or Pervinca, Fredegar or Merry when the dance is over, so we wrap up extra dessert for my brothers and head out.

“Just seeing the lass home, Tom,” Pippin tells the doorman as we don our coats.

“Of course, Master Peregrin.”

Pippin whistles as walk to Delving Lane. I make him mimic more and more difficult melodies. He mentions he’s never seen my hair fully loose, so I explain our ritual of braiding: the meditation, intention and honor each plait holds; how trusting another to handle your hair—creating something stronger together in the sight of Vala Mahal—signifies a deep bond. He grows thoughtful, then asks if I have any more “not-quite poems” to share.

“You wouldn’t be able to understand them.” I wave him off. “Not a serious bone in your body.”

“I can learn!”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” 

We laugh, coming to the door of Harfoot Hollow. A strange silence falls between us. Pippin seems uncertain, glancing here and there; but eventually, he gives a yawn and a stretch. 

“Well, thanks for coming. This was one of the best feasts, so your attendance was timely.”

“I credit Vinca for inviting me,” I giggle, “but we had fun evading Orla, da?”

“Da.”

I roll my eyes and hold out my hand. “Don’t forget my present!” 

He pulls out the now-tattered paper box and sets it on my palm with a satisfied grin. I drop my act and say, “I’m sorry I won’t be here on my birthday to return the favor. But I’ll send you and your sisters a letter.”

“The betrayal!” He clutches his heart. “When’s your birthday? How old will you be?”

“Malachite and I share a birthday on the third of Afteryule. I’ll be twenty-two.”

He trills an impressed whistle. “You’ll be a proper gammer in no time.”

I laugh and shove him. There’s another pause, prickling with something I can’t quite place. I clear my throat. “Eh—anyway, appreciate the ornament… I’ll be seein ye!”

He replies in kind. I step inside and close the door on the night, smiling to myself.

Chapter Text

After a week of dinners, introductions, and music nights at home, we finally drag Papa and my brothers to the Bramblewood Barleyhouse. Papa is too friendly even for the most hesitant Tuckborough hobbits to resist—folks crowd around him, eager to hear his stories and share their own. At least his charm helps Mamma have a good time. 

Half the young ladies in the pub beam at my brothers and giggle when they walk by. “They’re so tall,” “so strapping,” “such handsome faces!” Even Orla and Fiona sigh, shooting me glances as if they can’t decide whether or not to clear the air with me before approaching them. Meanwhile, lads grumble that my brothers look shaggy and in want of a haircut. I roll my eyes, complacent, satisfied.

“Who’s the barmaid?” Si asks as he slides into the booth beside me and hands me a mug. “Do you know her?”

“Da, that’s my friend Aubrey…” I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

“See for yourself.” 

I lean forward. Malachite gesticulates wildly at the bar, and Aubrey’s brow is wrinkled with amusement. 

“She was very droll with him, so he tried to butter her up—hoping to get a free drink, no doubt—but she was having none of it! Then he blushed and started babbling like a dobber.”

My jaw drops into a grin. “Is he already drunk?”

“Sober as a saint.” We snicker and wait for Mal to join us.

“I see you’ve met Aubrey,” I tease as he settles across from us. “How do you like her?”

“She’s very, ehm…” Malachite mutters. He won’t look at us, though, and takes a long draught of beer. Si and I exchange a knowing grin.

“Wonder why you were acting like a complete oaf then,” Si says. “Maybe because she wouldn’t bat her lashes at you so easily?” Si and I make doe eyes at him. 

Malachite flushes. “Not sure what you mean.” He drains his mug as he stands. “I’m getting another.”

“So you can dazzle Aubrey with your wit again?” I call after him. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Si and I roll in our mirth. 

“He’s not used to being the butt of a joke,” says Obsidian, wiping his eyes.

“We should give him more practice, or he’ll think too highly of himself!”

“What, you mean like you?”

“What?” I scoff, playfully offended.

Si quirks an eyebrow. “The Shire’s given you and Opal big heads.”

“I don’t understand you.” I wave him off, but a sliver of insecurity pricks me. “Opal and I are the same as ever.”

“Really?” He peeks at me over his mug. I elbow him. Why does he always have to dig in? “Come on—Opal thinks she’s the greatest musician that ever was after you went to that birthday feast, and you’ve made very good friends with your reflection recently.”

“I have not!”

“We waited twenty minutes tonight because you couldn’t decide on a dress!”

“Sha, how can you blame me?” I gripe. “I don’t have anything nice to wear—only five dresses with me, and one is for field work!”

He rolls his eyes. “What’s wrong with this one? I thought you loved burgundy.”

“I wore it too recently!” I moan, sinking onto my elbows. “And the color is so dark compared to the fashion here…”

“That still leaves three other options.”

“It’s too cold for my green or blue outfits—they bulge awkwardly with warm layers underneath—and my brown kirtle is a shapeless garment for children!” I whine. “Honestly, Si, don’t you know anything?”

“I know that you didn’t care about how you looked until now,” he says grimly.

I huff. “Dressing well is just what’s expected for ladies of my station.”

“Ladies of your station?”

“Yes! Granddad owns land, after all!”

He eyes me for a long moment, and shakes his head. “This place has changed you, Di. You and Opal haven’t stopped bragging about all the compliments people give you. It’s irritating.”

I fold my arms, bristling. “Why shouldn’t we be glad? We have to focus on the positives. And I bet you’d get a big head with all these lasses fawning over you!”

“You know why I wouldn’t,” he warns, then quickly rubs his mouth. “I’d never be flattered by compliments from hobbits with straw-for-brains. We were raised better than that.”

My jaw tenses. “Are you saying I’m forgetting my roots?”

“Evidently.” He takes a rueful sip of ale. “I’m not sure Khamíd would take to your newfound conceit and vanity, either. He liked you as—”

“Wheesht, Si!” I snap, fists clenching. How dare he weaponize Khamíd against me! But my mind latches onto that word—liked. We glare at each other for a long moment. “Malachite would’ve told me if I changed for the worse.”

“He’s a pushover, and less willing to ruffle your feathers than I am. But trust me, he sees it. He just thinks you’ll both come off your high horses after a little time back home.”

“I’ve had enough.” Grumbling, I rise and climb over his legs, elbowing and stepping on him as I go. Vera Foxford and Flora Cooke instantly swoop in like hawks. I peek over my shoulder—Si gives me a wide-eyed, panicked look as they descend on him. Good. He deserves a little discomfort.

I don’t get very far before Eglantine gently pulls me aside. Her cool, formal gaze twists knots in my shoulders—and I have little patience for lectures at present.

“Diamond, I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” she begins carefully. “Your dance the other night—spirited as it was—raised a few eyebrows. I admire your confidence, but perception matters, and some found it rather… unconventional, shall we say?”

Pervinca’s words ring in my head: alluring. But it wasn’t supposed to be. I jut my chin. “I was only sharing a bit of home with everyone.”

“There’s a time and place for such displays.”

“Don’t you think a performance is the time and place for displays?”

“Don’t be insolent, child,” she says sternly. I bite my lip. “Certain things are normal in Long Cleeve but are not in Tuckborough—things that ladies shouldn’t do when representing their family.”

“But… I didn’t do anything wrong. The Zighana isn’t crude or indecent.”

“Look around.” She leans close, nodding toward a booth. “See how they clip their gazes at you and mutter into their mugs?” She inclines her head toward another, and another—all the same.

I gulp. “I—what are they saying?”

“People are not so forgiving of girls as my family is. I would know.” She pats my shoulder. “Mind yourself, child.” And she glides away. 

Shock and shame burn in my belly—but it only fuels my frustration. If I heed her warning, I prove that Tuckborough is changing me. If I resist, folks will shun me. Didn’t Malachite say that suppressing yourself is unnatural? How do I know which part of myself to listen to?

I stride to the bar for another drink. There’s no way to win.

~

Our days left in the Shire dwindle rapidly. So, Jaden and I head to Great Smials to return the last of the books we borrowed—dragging Si and Malachite along to see the mansion. Everyone is out except for Pearl, who answers Malachite’s questions about anthologies and fetches a History of the Battle of Greenfields for Si.

“This is amazing!” he exclaims, flipping through the pages. “Do you mind if I…”

“Help yourself!” she says. Si plops onto the chaise, Jaden leaning over his shoulder. “You’re descendents of the Bullroarer, no?^[48] That makes us family, though very distantly.”

Malachite nods. “Our great-grandmother was a North-Took, and a couple more before her. And there are still two households of that line in the Tower Hills.”

“Well, we’re glad your sisters have reconnected with us. Pim and Vinca have given them an honorary induction to our family.” 

“Ah, so that’s what happened,” Si mutters. Malachite and Jaden snicker. My chest tightens. I haven’t forgotten my roots, I assure myself.

Pearl snorts, turning to me. “Are you excited to go home, Diamond? What are you most looking forward to?”

“Da, I’ve been very homesick,” I say pointedly in Si’s direction. “I look forward to many things—seeing friends and family, riding my pony—”

“Really?” Si asks with saccharine surprize. “I assumed physical activity was beneath a lady of your station, as it would muss your hair and dress.”

“Excuse me?” I scoff.

“A lady can exercise and keep tidy,” Pearl says.

“Well, with all Di’s talk about being too good for field work…” Malachite shrugs, grinning.

I flush. I never said that! What if Granddad or Mamma heard such a fib? And I don’t act like I’m too good for fieldwork… right? Then again, Tuckborough thinks gentlewomen shouldn’t labor, and perception matters…

My blood boils. “I still run and ride!” I am still a Cleeveholm, hardy as thistles and asters!

“True enough,” Jaden says, drawing out a pause. “But she’ll be cross all winter without so many folks to admire her.”

My stomach drops. Being alluring and unconventional is bad enough—they don’t need to pile vain and conceited on top. But Si and Malachite roar with laughter, and Jaden nods, smug. Three against one, with Pearl spectating. Furious, I stomp over, cuff Jaden’s head, and tell him to behave.

“Yes, yes, you’re very fierce, Di,” Malachite teases, throwing an arm around my shoulders. I shove him off.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Si snarks. “She’s too proud to get her hands dirty anymore.”

Shock and shame engulf me where I stand. But the more I protest, the more their laughter rings and their needles sting. My face is red. Blood rushes in my ears. And Pearl chuckles from the sideline, shaking her head. “Thank goodness I only have one brother.”

I storm out of the library. There’s no way to win.

~

On our final day in Tuckborough, Opal and Mamma help me receive guests while Granddad takes his leave around town and the boys pack the wagon. All of our friends and neighbors—save Estella and Fredegar, who left for Budgeford a few days ago—stop to bid farewell, wish us a safe journey, a merry Yule, and urge us to hurry back. I return their warmth, trying my hardest to remain myself.

“I cannae see why you’re not all staying here!” Marsha Proudfoot says. “The air and company must be a great improvement from what you’re used to.” 

I bristle. Blast these Shire folk! I’ll be glad to be spared their company. Still, perception matters, so I force my brittle smile to hold. What would Merry have me say?

“Have you ever been to Long Cleeve, Miss Marsha?” I ask.

“No, neither of us have ever been out beyond Michel Delving.”

“And we dinnae plan to!” May adds.

“Well,” I chuckle, “you know what they say: it’s best to remember the wisdom of silence in matters one knows nothing about.” 

May gapes. Marsha fumbles an excuse that I’m mistaking her meaning. I sit taller, pleased with my wit—oh no. Maybe I am conceited. I stuff the thought away for later torment.

Aubrey’s dry sarcasm soothes my mood—just the fact that she carves out time to call cheers me. I sit close beside her, laughing, while Opal and Mamma talk with another visitor—when Malachite bursts into the parlor. He freezes, staring at Aubrey, mouth hanging open like he had meant to speak.

“What is it, love?” Mamma asks. “You done packing already?”

“Papa, eh, sent me to fetch you…” he mumbles.

Mamma follows his gaze and snorts. “All right. How about you help entertain our guests for me?” And she sweeps out the door.

Malachite nods, vacant, and scurries to the seat across from us. Aubrey quirks an eyebrow.

“Are you well?” I ask. “In the head, I mean.”

“Never been better!” He rubs his palms on his trousers.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re acting strange.”

He scowls at me. “No I’m not.”

“So you’re not always this nervous?” Aubrey tilts her head, smiling faintly. “That’s disappointing.”

“I—no, well, I’m not sure.” He gives a fluttery laugh and clears his throat. “That is to say—”

“Maybe he’s intimidated by you, Aubrey,” I tease. Malachite shoots me a look.

“I do have magic powers,” she drolls. “I try to use them for good, but unfortunately for your brother, I delight in the discomfort of everyone.”

I laugh heartily, savoring his stammering and lost expression. See how he likes being mocked for a change. Aubrey’s grin grows. When Mamma returns to send him back to packing, he quickly stands and bows.

“Ehm, anyways—nice seeing you again, Miss Brown.”

“Always a pleasure to watch a young man cower before me,” she says.

His eyebrows jump, a smile flickers, and he hurries out.

“Sorry about that!” I giggle, wishing Aubrey would never leave my side. Maybe she’ll put Si in his place for me, too. “I really have no idea what’s gotten into him.”

“No bother.” She winks. “You know I like to scare lads off.”

Liam promises to host us for dinner upon our return. Peony and Perry ask me to teach them the harp next year. Merry, Pippin and some cousins stop to say goodbye on their way to hunt. I crush Cormac in a hug after we exchange reading materials to finish over the winter. Opal cries with her friend Siobhan. Katie and her bairns embrace us—announcing that she and Seamus are expecting another. We shriek with joy. Oh, I shall miss it here.

But our parting with Pim and Pervinca is the most bitter of all. They clasp our hands as we reminisce about our summer and fall, make grand plans for next year, and marvel at how it feels like we’ve always been close. I dread their departure. And when the moment comes, my chest aches and tears spill down my cheeks.

“Promise you’ll write,” Pim sniffles.

“We will,” Opal blubbers. “Though only once a month—the post is dreadful out there!”

“Don’t know how I’ll manage without you,” Vinca says, wrapping her arms around me.

“Me neither.” I squeak and lose composure. “I don’t know if I—if I belong anywhere, Vinca. I don’t know who I am. But you and Pim make me feel less alone.”

She strokes my back. Soon, Opal and Pim join in our embrace and I squeeze them tight, trying to memorize the warmth and strength of us together.

The evening is heavy, but Sterday dawns with the promise of home. Will Tess remember my voice? Will Telumendil understand why I haven’t ridden her? Will Khamíd still like me? The uncertainty makes my pulse stumble. They’ll know I miss Tuckborough, somehow. They’ll sense the twine pulling me back, the strange mark behind my ear—and I don’t know if I can face them when they do.

There’s no way to win.

Bundled and chilled, the eight of us take our final leave of Ruby and Rosalyn. More long hugs. More loving words. But eventually, we climb into the wagon, and wave goodbye.

“Be well! We’ll see you in spring!” Papa calls as he snaps the reins; and we’re off before the town sits down to second breakfast.

~

As the sun sinks low, I sit beside Papa on the driver’s bench in comfortable silence. Opal and Granddad doze in the back of the wagon, and the others walk on the road behind us. But a hint of anxiety creeps into Papa’s shoulders. 

“What’s wrong, Papa?” I whisper.

He takes a slow inhale. “Nothing, I hope. But do you see that?” He points to a hill in the distance, where a few dark spots move near the edge of a copse. I would write them off as animals—if not for the wisp of smoke rising from their midst.

“That’s a campfire,” I say. “Travelers? Maybe Dwarves?” 

“Could be. But this is no-man's land. I hardly ever see a soul this far west of Michel Delving,” which we left at first light, “and they’re far off the road.”

My eyes widen. “You don’t think they’re dangerous? There haven’t been bandits in these parts for a hundred years.”

“Not until this autumn, at least.”

“What?” I gasp.

Papa hesitates, then sighs. He never keeps important things from me. “Dwarves have been migrating west, bringing news of darkness stirring near Erebor and Rhûn. And they’ve seen more Big Folk roaming around The Shire’s borders—some making trouble, some keeping to the shadows. Then, about two months ago, Postman Toby galloped all night to reach Long Cleeve.” 

A chill courses through me. “Was he running from Big Folk?”

“Maybe. Said he was camping not far from here when someone robbed him in the night. He woke to his pony fussing—someone had cut her lead, driven her off, and taken his purse.”

“At least he wasn’t harmed,” I murmur. “But if they stole his steed, how did he gallop to Long Cleeve?”

“That’s the strangest part!” Papa leans closer. “At dawn, he went to track her down—and within a quarter hour, he found her tied to a tree, his purse beside her and not a copper missing.”

“So the bandits had a change of heart?”

“Who can say?” He shrugs. “I’d almost think it was wights or mewlips causing mischief, save there’s no barrows in these parts.”

I frown. “Maybe Tobold made it up?”

“He was shaken—he feared something real. Refused to go back alone until Khallal^[49] gave him a weapon.”

“What will we do if they come upon us?”

He smiles, though his eyes are wary. “Don’t fret, darling. Your brothers and I are good with blades.” He turns up a corner of the linen bundle at his feet: a steel hilt glints beneath. “And we’ve set night watches in the village and surrounding settlements. By tomorrow night, we’ll be in safer country.”

Take up thy blade. “Can I get a sword?” The words leap out of me. Maybe my brothers would take me more seriously with steel in my grip. “I’m supposed to learn anyway, da? I’ll be old enough to herd the sheep overnight by myself before long.”

“Maybe. But I don’t want you fighting Big Folk—or wolves, if there are more of those about. Violence isn’t our way, save out of necessity.”

“What!” I whine. “But I can be brave, whatever Si and Mal think! And a fight may come to me whether you want it or no, so I’d best be ready in any case.”

He laughs. “Right again, my dear. But first, we’ll have to properly train you. And you won’t be traveling alone in spring—your brothers and I will see you safe to Tuckborough.”

I flinch. That is a long trip. “Is that why you fetched us this time, even though we came without you in the summer?”

“Da.” He kisses my head.

“Thank you.” I lean into his arm. “I know it’s hard for you to leave home in other hands. Still, I’d feel better wielding something.”

That evening, we camp in a grove screened from the road. Papa only allows a small fire despite the bitter wind, so we huddle close around it, hiding the light. Later, while we pull our bed rolls and blankets into a warm pile, Papa, Si, and Malachite take turns keeping watch. 

Near midnight, I slip away to relieve myself. As I tiptoe back, Si calls softly from the log he’s perched on, whittling by starlight.

“What is it?” I whisper, settling beside him.

“You’re wearing your old brown kirtle.” He looks hard at his hands, shaving a stick—but the accusation is gentle, distant. “I thought frocks were for children—not ladies of your station.”

Guilt prickles my skin. “I don’t know…” I glance away. “It doesn’t matter when I’m just around you all.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My family isn’t waiting for me to mess up,” I huff. “You don’t get it. Out there, I have to watch every word, every gesture—or  folks find fault. And I always spoil things without even realizing.”

Si flicks his wrist too hard, breaking the twig. “Why do you care what Shirish people think of you?”

I open my mouth and close it again. My hands clench, itching for something to grasp—I swipe his penknife from him. “I hate when people make little jabs at Long Cleeve.” I dig the tiny blade into the log. “I feel like… if I can just show them I can be a proper lady, it’ll prove that Long Cleeve isn’t backwards and primitive.”

“You don’t owe them proof. And Long Cleeve doesn’t need defending.”

“But I want to—at least to my friends.” The bark creaks as I pry it off. “I want them to care about my home… and about me.”

“Real friends don’t make you ashamed of yourself or where you come from.”

Bare branches rattle in silence. I tug at my cloak, chilled by his words.

A distant snap jerks our heads toward the trees. Si jumps up, a finger to his lips. “Stay close.”

My pulse hammers as we crouch and slink through the brush, moving as silently as only hobbits can, far from our camp. My smile grows with inexplicable excitement; my fingers tighten around the penknife.

There’s another crunch—boots on detritus. We peer through the darkness. Si moves us between a bush and a spruce, nodding to our left. Something peeks out from a tree—an arrow? Si weighs a rock in hand, rears back, and flings it hard.

It tumbles through the undergrowth. Then, shuffling—the flash of a cloak, the ring of steel drawn, the creak of bows loaded—Si presses me behind him, drawing his bastard sword—he turns to a flicker on our right, blade clanging against steel. The enemy’s weapon barely shudders.

My throat closes before I can scream. The vein in Si’s neck throbs as he shields me from the hooded Man.

“Halflings?” the Man says, confused. That alone douses half my fear. “What is your business here?”

Obsidian shakes himself. “What is your business drawing weapons on travelers as they sleep?” he spits. I touch his back, silently begging him to keep his temper. “Come any closer, and we’ll scream bloody murder—and our clan will finish you off.”

The Man chuckles. “Is that right? And how many hobbits does it take to finish one of the Dúnedain?”

Dúnedain? “Please, sir,” I say, tucking Si’s penknife back into his belt, “we mean you no harm. But you did frighten us.”

The Man’s gaze settles on me, his frame easing. After a pause, he lowers his weapon and signals the archers somewhere behind us to stand down.

But Si raises his blade. I give him a pleading glance, which he ignores.

“My kin have watched the Shire’s borders for years,” the Man says. “But there is trouble brewing. Ruffians are lurking nearby, and we have been tracking them.”

“Done a piss poor job, then, if you can mistake us for Big Folk,” Si growls. The Man’s grip tightens around the hilt of his sword.

“Si!” I hiss, pushing his arms down. He resists. So I sidestep him and bob a curtsy. “Sir, I apologize for my brother.”

The Man gives me a long look—then sheaths his blade and bows slightly. “Thank you, Mistress. We meant no offense or injury.” 

Mistress? My, he’s rather polite. I like the sound of a title.

“We will be on our way—we do not want those bandits making trouble for you.” He nods to Si. “Not that a man like yourself couldn’t handle them.”

Si blinks, hesitating, and grudgingly stows his sword. “Well… now that we understand each other, we may part in peace. But I must warn you not to sneak up on us again.”

“Ah i-eliad Elbereth ‘u len.”^[50] He raises a hand and withdraws, melting into the night.

For a long moment we wait, rooted to the spot. What did that mean? Sounded like he invoked Elbereth. Si takes my elbow and leads us back, glancing warily over his shoulder.

“Who was that Man, if not a bandit?” I ask.

“Papa’s mentioned the Rangers before.” He shrugs. “Noble Men who choose to be vagrants, or something.”

As we sink onto the log, my pulse finally calms. “You were very rude,” I grumble. “Could’ve goaded him into cutting our throats.”

He smacks my arm. “Next time, stay quiet and don’t step out from my cover. Got it?”

“I can handle myself!”

“Hardly.” He loops his arm around me. I squirm, still prickly, but he holds fast. “You scared me. Don’t do that. Just because a Big Fellow lowers his guard doesn’t mean he’s harmless.”

I settle, softening. “I’m sorry.”

We sit silently for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the night, shivering together against the cold.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he whispers at length. My brow knits. “Not to Men. Not to the wild. Not to the bloody Shire.” He rests his head on mine, and I lean in. “Come back.”

A lump swells in my throat. “Do you really think Opal and I are so different now?”

He lets out a breath. “No, not too much. But Mamma’s always said the Shire crushes anyone different; and then I see you two acting like brats—well, more than normal.” He grins. I swat him. “Anyway… I just want my sisters to still be my sisters. So don’t yield; don’t lose your spirit. It’s what makes you both special.”

Don’t yield, the stars whisper.

I squeeze my arms around him. “I’ll try,” I murmur. He kisses my hair. “Those Rangers said bandits were nearby. Do you want me to wait up with you?”

“Nah. I’m sure they’ll handle it.” He smiles weakly and shoves me away. “Go to sleep, brat.”

I pinch his cheek and tiptoe to our sleeping family.

“Hey Di?” he says. I glance back. “You look pretty, in your brown frock. Even though it’s for children.”

My heart melts. “Love you, bug brain.” I crawl under the pile of furs, and sleep quickly takes me.

~

We spend two more long days on the road—with no trouble and no Big Folk. At last, the hills of Long Cleeve stretch before us in the fading light, with snow-covered mountains looming beyond. Opal, Jaden and I run the last mile. Hobbits and Dwarves step out of their homes to yell a greeting or catch us in strapping hugs.

When our house comes into view, my feet fly to the barn. I press my face into Telumendil’s coat, and she nickers with glee. Tess bounds over from his straw bed—I fall to my knees and let him lick my face. Then we race up the wrap-around porch, the border collie barking all the way, and burst into the house. 

“Mandy! We’re here!” 

Mandragora, the widow we lodge, runs from a back room. “Och—bless my soul, you’re finally back!” She gathers me, Opal, and Jaden into her arms. We cling to her. “Why, you’re chilled through! Sit by the fire—I’ll fetch tea and soup, and then baths for all!”

We warm ourselves on her cinnamon-cardamom milk tea, talking over one another. The fireplace crackles as if eager for news. The house groans with relief at our return. Soon the others come in, and Mandy brightens as Mamma and Granddad dance into her outstretched arms. Laughter, stories, and the chaos of unpacking keep us up late into the night.

Opal and I take hot baths to scrub away the strain of travel, and I sigh as we climb into the sheets. It’s wonderful to be back in a soft bed. Yet as we settle in, damp hair braided in scarves, the silence feels heavy. Foreign.

I shudder and pull the quilts close. Tomorrow will bring old routines and reunions with the village. My stomach twists—like insects unfurling their crisp wings inside me. What if nothing feels the same? And Khamíd… He may not return from the city for a few days; but if he does, perhaps tomorrow I’ll know where we stand.

Flames cast shadows of tall figures on the rafters. Smoke stings my throat. Embers drift down like tattered paper from the ceiling. I shut my eyes to the gathering crows, the distant screams, the call of Elbereth ringing in my ears. But my heart will not rest. 

There is no way to win.

Chapter Text

I run through tall grass waving in the summer breeze. I float, no worries to weigh me down, my laughter buoyant at the edge of a grove.

“You were wise to suggest sneaking away,” I say as Khamíd catches up. We link arms and stroll into the woods. “Now we can eat blueberries until we burst—no sharing required!"

“Da, that’s all I had in mind,” he replies, voice light but unreadable.

I raise my eyebrows. Was Opal right? Maybe he’s going to admit his feelings, or even kiss me. The twittering of birds and the buzz of bees crescendo.

He points to a beehive hanging above us. “See? Fresh honey!” Khamíd pulls a knife from his belt.

I stay his hand. “Wait—it’s dangerous, and they’re too high up.”

He hesitates, then sighs and stows the knife away. “All right. Just thought you’d like a treat.”

“Being with you is a treat!”

He chuckles, cheeks coloring—or did I imagine it?

We keep walking. From the eastern horizon, a pillar of smoke curls up—ominous, misplaced. I turn my eyes away.

We find a bush sagging with fruit, and rake handfuls of berries into our palms until our fingers drip blue. Sharp sweetness bursts across my tongue. The conversation flows as easy as water—even if I can’t remember the words we spoke. I wish life still felt so effortless.

A flake of ash lands on my wrist. Faint screams echo from afar. A whip cracks like thunder. There shouldn’t be fire and fear in this memory. I ignore it—they can’t reach me here.

Then Khamíd draws close until a tree presses against my back. He gazes at me—closer, closer—his berry-stained fingers brushing my cheek. I forget how to breathe. I know this never happened, but I close my eyes, part my lips in anticipation. Oh finally, finally—

He halts just before our lips touch. “Since when do ladies of your station have Dwarven swains?”

I blink. “What did you say?”

Pim and Pervinca appear behind him. “Oh, deary, you’re covered in juice!” Pim whispers loudly. “Come, you must wash up before anyone notices!”

I cover the cheek Khamíd touched, smearing more sticky juice.

“Don’t worry—you can borrow one of our dresses,” Vinca adds.

I look down. My brown frock is filthy. Berry stains soak deeper, thickening like blood, crusting like scabs.

Cormac kisses my other cheek. “So you’re staying with me, right?” he asks. Khamíd’s eyes flash with betrayal, and the taste of berries turns sour in my mouth.

“I thought Tuckborough is where you belong,” says Aubrey, balancing a tray of broken teacups rattling like old bones. “We need someone to give us interesting things to talk about.”

An arrow whistles by my ear. “We have to make them pay, Di!” Estella lowers her bow, glowering. “Why are you hesitating? Take up your blade!”

Eyes turn our way—Pippin, the Proudfoots, all of Tuckborough are watching. Khamíd reaches for my waist. I stiffen, pushing him away, unable to explain. I want to be anywhere else—anyone else.

“Not that we need you anyway,” Khamíd says, stepping back. Flames leap across the grass, separating me from everyone. The world burns like paper. One by one, everyone turns to smoke. “But you can’t stop what’s coming. You can’t be Elbereth’s Light—you’re just one person.”

I crumple—lost, alone, fire licking up my blood-stained hands—

I jolt awake beside Opal, chest heaving, brow soaked. I wipe away the berry blood, but it’s only sweat. I scan for danger—the room is empty. Cold and unfamiliar. The walls are square instead of round—it’s all wrong. 

No, I remind myself. This is normal. 

I sink into my pillow, heart aching—not just for the easy sweetness of that summer memory, but for the Shirish friends I left behind, that I’m doomed to disappoint. I shouldn’t be missing Tuckborough, I scold myself. But something pulls taut inside me; a calling to the Shire I cannot resist and cannot name.

Oh stars, what if I have abandoned my roots?

Absent-mindedly, I scrub the memory of blueberries from my cheek.

~

After a late breakfast, Opal and I ride far into the Tower Hills. Opal is not fond of galloping, so Telumendil and I quickly outstrip her. It’s even more invigorating than I remember—the brisk air in my face, the steady rhythm of Lulu’s hooves, the leap of her body under mine. I will never tire of the joy of the race. We come to a cliff and pause, gazing out at my beloved Long Cleeve: huts pepper the hills, people mill in the distance, sharp mountains line the horizon.

My grin falters. The view is familiar—but like a favorite dress outgrown. Every hill, dear as family, seems flattened by the winter sun. The expanse no longer stretches endlessly—did the world shrink while I was away? I could ride easily to the edges now. The wonder will return in a few days, I tell myself. I dismount with a sigh and ready the picnic for us.

We head home for an afternoon of receiving guests, donning our finest wool skirts and bodices. My grin stretches as wide as it will go when I embrace extended relatives, neighbors, and friends who welcome us back.

“Sha, what are you dolled up for?” cousin Berylla teases.

“Hope you didn’t let them Shire folk get to ya,” chuckles Zahira fondly. “You’re too lofty for us now—finding formality in every occasion!”

I know they speak in jest, but their words set my teeth on edge. I thought sly remarks and needling quips were a crude Shirish novelty. But hearing the same undercurrents dressed up in familiar voices—I shudder. It grows harder and harder to ignore that twine pulling in my chest.

During a lull, I’m finally able to sit at my pedal harp, embrace the curves and roll through a warm up. I mean to slip into my favorite songs—but have to wave off the Tuckborough tunes that come to mind in order to summon one from home. Opal knits in the armchair, humming along. 

“Isn’t it the time of year for Greensleeves?” she asks.

I brighten. The ancient melody is the first real song I learned as a girl, and my fingers find it easily. I can play with much more feeling than I used to—but it comes out melancholy, mournful. What happened to the Yule wonder that once carried me off? I try to improvize, add new flavor—anything to rekindle the magic—but there’s still something haunting about it.

Dahlia and Khallal Dhundrarlun step into the sitting room before I can finish. Opal and I gasp and jump up—the region's Dwarven patriarch and his wife are proud, well-connected, and carry authority like axes. But they’re also Mamma and Papa’s best friends. We rush over.

“The goirls are back!” Khallal laughs, taking our heads and pressing his brow to ours. He’s all edges—angled jaw, beard trimmed sharp as his judgments. The precision suits him.

Dahlia’s gold nose ring gleams as she kisses our cheeks and strokes our hair, a warm smile spreading across her round face. “Tuckborough must have agreed with you, for you both look more beautiful than ever!” 

“Och, we missed you terribly!” Opal cheers. We run our hands affectionately over their baubled braids and invite them to sit. They ask us about our time away, how Aunt Ruby is faring—all the same details we’ve recited a hundred times today.

“And how was your journey home?” Khallal asks. “Any trouble on the road?”

“Ehm, yes and no,” I say carefully. “I’m sure Papa would prefer to tell you.”

He nods. “Very well. I’ll go find him—after you delight me with a song!”

We curtsy, and I return to my harp as Opal breaks out her violin. She begins Khallal’s favorite Dwarven Csárdás, and I strum the simple accompaniment. The elders beam—after so many years, Opal has perfected the folksong’s challenging techniques. I gaze at her, proud, awed. But when two figures slip into the room, I quickly turn my focus to the harp, fearing who I might see.

“Incredible!” Khallal applauds. “I am more amazed every time you perform, Opal.”

My eyes flick to Khamíd and dart away.

“It sounds more difficult than it is,” Opal says, bashful.

“Thank you both. Now—I’m off to speak with Jasper!” Khallal rises, bows, and steps heavily into the hall.

“And I think I’ll go find your mother,” Dahlia says as she stands and sees herself out.

Then only four of us remain. Khalíl, their older son, only recently came of age by Dwarven reckoning, his neat beard still boyishly short. He has his father’s face, but softened around the edges—gentle, lenient. We ambush him first.

“You took all day to come!” I chide.

“Your beard has filled out!” Opal cries.

“Da, I’m surprised you recognize me,” he laughs.

Finally, I face Khamíd. He’s taller. Stronger. As beautiful as ever. I take in his slender face, the stubble on his jaw, his piercing coal eyes—hoping for something to stir. But my heartbeat is steady. My cheeks are cool. I’m only at a loss for what to say. 

He gazes back, hesitating. Maybe there wouldn’t be this vacancy between us if he had cared enough to write. It’ll just take a little time, I assure myself. Falling out of love isn’t like falling out of a chair.

“Good to see you, Khamíd!” Opal chirps, throwing her arms around him.

“Hey you two,” he says, voice as smooth as butter.

I smile and embrace him too. “Missed you.” But my hand brushes light and quick over one of his braids. Then I pull back, and plunge into hostess mode.

We sit and run through the standard reconnecting questions. But when we ask after their kin in Khôrun Luin, they pause and lean close.

“Our people are well,” Khalíl says, “but there’s been news. Dark news. An emissary came from the Lonely Mountain while you were away.”

“They say there’s evil stirring, and orcs are gathering in the Misty Mountains,” Khamíd explains. “Dúrgrim^[51] is mustering arms anticipating their call.”

“That sounds dreadful,” I murmur. “I hope not too many of your people will go?”

“It’s not decided,” Khalíl says. “But it’s our duty to stand with our eastern kin. Even I would lend my axe, but our parents insist I’m too young.”

“Aren’t you?” Opal grins as he feigns offense. 

“Well, even if you weren’t too young, I cannot imagine you slaying anything in battle,” I say. “You don’t look fierce enough.”

“I can be fierce! I am deadly!” he declares.

“Da? I’ve never seen that side of you,” Opal teases.

“They’re right, brother,” Khamíd chuckles. “You can’t even best me, and I’m terrible with an axe.”

“You are grossly exaggerating!” Khalíl shakes his head, lip curling the more we laugh.

I ask Khamíd about his apprenticeship, and he waxes poetic about how he’s quickly moving on from crafting delicate jewelry and ornaments to smelting ore for weapons—mostly because the eastern Dwarves need supplies for war.

“In a year and a half, the guild expects to have at least two thousand arms ready to send East. My master says I’m the fastest learner he’s trained—and I’ll be shaping armor soon. It’s supposed to be difficult, but I’m sure I’ll take to it quickly.”

He goes on about the minutiae of his craft. “It takes only a week for me to make a sword—of course, I’m not making any sheaths or scabbards…” Yet there are so many trade secrets he can’t share, it’s difficult to follow. Khalíl dozes, Opal yawns, and though passion becomes him, even I lose patience. This is his life now—the anvil and the Guild have more claim to him than I ever did. I force myself to nod along, focusing instead on his handsome features.

“Anyway,” he says, standing. I frown. “Loved seeing you both, but I really ought to get back to Khôrun Luin.”

“But—didn’t Khalíl just fetch you this morning?” Opal asks. “It’ll be near midnight when you get there, and you’ll have ridden more than twelve hours in a day!”

He bows low. “I only got leave for one day, unfortunately. But I’ll be sure to return on the end-of-week holiday.” 

Opal and I give him another hug, and he marches out—peeking over his shoulder at me just before he’s gone.

“End-of-week my bum!” Khalíl sighs, muttering a Khuzdul curse. “I swear, he hasn’t spoken of anything besides his apprenticeship all year.”

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask, defensive. “I’m glad he’s excited about it.”

“Oh, Di, of course you take his side.” He rolls his eyes, grinning slightly.

I fold my arms. “Maybe you’re just jealous that he’s passionate about his calling.”

“Passionate?” he snorts. “Our cousin tells me he works straight through most end-of-week holidays; and when he does come home from the forges, he’s in Bata’s workshop from dawn ‘til dusk.”

“That does seem a bit much,” Opal murmurs. I twist my fingers.

“It’s an obsession. And I have plenty that I’m passionate about, thank you very much!” He waves his arms around, making Opal and me laugh despite our unease. “Including Dangers and Dragons. Did Si tell you about it?”

~

Two weeks stretch on—baking for the holiday, herding the sheep, music, leisure, social calls, boredom. Boredom. Boredom. There are few people in Long Cleeve, and fewer our age. I miss the variety of company Tuckborough offers. And Khalíl was right: Khamíd is usually in Khôrun Luin; and when he does come home, it’s only to rattle on about his apprenticeship, reshoe a pony, or repair a neighbor’s tool. I wish he’d stay longer. I wish he wanted to be here—with me. 

Eventually, though, my siblings and Khalíl get tired of waiting for him to take a day off, so we start Dangers and Dragons without him.

We sit in a circle by the fireplace, throwing strange dice and pretending to be adventurers. It starts clumsy, and the rules barely hold—but once we get the hang of it, we’re swept away with childlike glee—like before the forge stole Khamíd away, and the Shire stole me.

“You sneak into the High Council,” Khalíl narrates, describing the scene. “Where do you hide, and what are you doing?”

Jaden scratches his chin. “Can I crawl under the table and pick the Elves’ pockets?”

Khalíl snickers. “Give me a dexterity check.”

Hours of this escape pass. But just before dinner, Khamíd saunters in.

“Sha—there you all are,” he says, smiling and dipping a quick bow to each of us.

“Nice of you to finally stop by,” Khalíl grumbles.

“Sorry—Sabina needed help with her queue, so I left a bit late.”

“You missed the entire day!” Khalíl snaps. 

My siblings and I freeze in our places. Though we’ve witnessed these brothers have a thousand quarrels over the years, there’s something sharper in their tones than usual.

“I said I was sorry, wheesht. I was doing something important.”

“Really? Really.” Khalíl scoffs. “More important than us?”

Khamíd’s gaze flicks to me for an instant, wincing. Then he scowls at his brother. “I can’t just sit around playing childish games if I want to prove myself!”

Are we really getting too old for these things? Malachite and Si don’t think so. And less than a year ago, neither did Khamíd.

“We all had a fabulous time playing this childish game!”

“The Guild is very demanding!”

“Working nonstop is your own choice!” 

Khamíd clenches his fists. “I have a lot to do, Khalíl, to become a master as soon as possible.”

“You’re leaving us behind all because—what, you think you don’t need decades of experience like everyone else?” Khalíl roars. “Honestly, you’re such an arrogant prick!”

“I just want to learn!”

“You want glory.” Khalíl calms himself with a breath, his stare leveled and deadly. “Amma hides her broken heart from you. Bata saves his sighs for when you’re gone. I’m only asking you to take one day—half a day, even—away from the anvil a week.”

Khamíd presses his lips together, simmering, seething— “And why would I want to leave the anvil for this? ” 

I flinch, cut deep. Si’s jaw ripples; Mal squeezes Opal’s hand; Jaden turns away. And Khamíd pales, brow knitting in remorse. He opens his mouth—and abruptly leaves the room.

There’s a long pause where none of us move. Finally, Khalíl heaves a sigh.

“Someone should go talk to him,” he mumbles, turning to me with a strange look, both pleading and blaming. “Diamond? He’ll listen to you.”

My cheeks heat up, but no one follows with a teasing remark. And it’s a chance to be needed, helpful. I clench my teeth and leave without a word.

~

I find Khamíd on the wrap-around porch, leaning on the railing and facing the mountains to the west. The light fades to an icy dusk. The air is sharp on my skin.

“Hi,” I mutter softly. He jumps.

“Oh—hai.” He offers a weak smile. “A quiet little hobbit.”

I join him at the railing. “We know you didn’t mean that last thing.”

“I’m glad.” He sighs. “That did not come out right—I meant Khalíl’s yelling, not you all.”

“But even if you had only hurt Khalíl, it wouldn’t have been better…” I trail off. He doesn’t respond. “Have you and him been fighting lately?”

Khamíd hesitates, tensing. “He just seems so—so—I don’t know, like he isn’t happy that I’m doing well. He criticizes my work for being crude, then criticizes how much time I put in, and I can only guess that he’s jealous.”

“You did get into the Smithing Guild at an unprecedented age, while he’s too busy learning to take over for Khallal to craft or delve in the mines. But—”

“I knew you’d understand.” The corners of his mouth turn up slightly. “He’s been trying to convince me that I’m crazy!” 

I furrow my brow. “I was going to say that I don’t think that’s the reason for all this.”

“Oh… Then what is?”

“Haven’t you listened to him?” A hint of frustration colors my words.

“He says I work too much, that I’m delusional to think I’ll distinguish myself.”

“He misses you, you dunce.”

He flinches back, equally surprized and skeptical. “He misses me?”

“You’re always at the forge, and it seems like it’s all you care about.” I turn toward the mountains, lips pursed. “You’ve moved on. Forgotten Long Cleeve. And I’ve hardly seen you in two weeks.”

“You’ve already been back two weeks?”

“Yes!” I take a trying breath and push a playful smile—a fib; a performance. “Sha, if you’re losing track of time, that’s probably a sign you’re overworking.”

“I’m just… so anxious to get better.” His hands curl and uncurl. “I want to be great.”

“You will be great,” I whisper, earnest. His forehead creases. “I know you’re impatient, but it would almost be a knock against your ancestors if you were an expert before fifty. There are many ages of craft to learn.”

“But if I just grind out the hard work, I can get there before…” He blushes and glances away.

He’ll be at the forge all his days, won’t he? “Khamíd, your fire will burn out young at this rate—and when you graduate, you’ll only be asked to take on more work. Why not enjoy life now? You don’t need to prove yourself to any of us.”

He hesitates, a curious look coming into his eye. “I… suppose you have a point.”

“Don’t you want a life? Friends? Find a nice someone to settle down with?”

He arches his brows, but I turn back to the darkening mountains. Icy wind whips the hair out of our faces as the silence drags on, knotting my stomach. Oh, all the tangles I’ll have to comb out later.

“And… this is what you take my brother to mean by his screeching?”

I swallow hard. “He wants you to be happy. And to not forget your friends.”

“Diamond…” He rests his hand on mine, but I am distant under his palm, pretending everything is fine. “I’m so sorry if you feel like I’ve forgotten you. Or your siblings. That was never my intention, I just…”

“You hear the forge calling to you?”

He nods.

“We’re all excited for you,” I say gently. “But we also want you around.” 

He smiles, his beautiful black eyes gleaming. I give him a coy look and slide my hand from his grasp.

“Perhaps I got so focused with work because life was terribly dull without you around,” he teases. But the words fall like snow on my ears—beautiful, cold, gently dousing any hope of a flame in my belly. “I’m glad you’re back for good. I missed you.” 

He watches me—with longing? It aches to imagine it—but my smile falters.

“I’m not back for good.”

He starts. “What do you mean?”

“Granddad isn’t ready to move to Long Cleeve, and he can’t manage Harfoot Hollow on his own.”

Khamíd shakes his head. “Why is he being so selfish? That’s not like him.”

His words are a slap—fresher because the same thought has crossed my mind many times. But it’s one thing for a Dwarf to be selfish, and entirely different to accuse a hobbit of such a thing.

“You don’t understand,” I retort. “Granddad isn’t selfish.”

“Then why don’t your siblings rotate a year? You can stay and Si can go, or something?”

“Mamma needs me.” As does Tuckborough, adds a voice in my head. I wave it away. “And Papa needs Si and Malachite. This is just… how it has to be.” 

I can’t look at him. His disappointment pulses in the air between us. “How long are you here for?”

“Until Rethe,” I mutter. “We have to be back for the planting season.” 

He simply nods. “All right.”

I blink. He won’t fight harder to keep me? “All right?”

“All right.” He says. “I agree that family is important. I’m glad you are there for your grandfather.”

A chill passes through me. My smile, a mask—is he pretending too?

“Something wrong?” he asks, reaching for my shoulder.

“Ehm…” I suck in a breath. “It’s just… I was sad I didn’t hear from you while we were in Tuckborough.”

“What?” He frowns. “Jasper told me he’d send news of my family.”

My head lolls. “You know it’s not the same. Why didn’t you write?”

He opens his mouth, shuts it again, takes a step back. “You know I’ve been busy.”

“Five months isn’t enough time to write a couple letters?”

“Well—you didn’t write either.”

A cold wind whistles by. I blink back tears. He’s right. Estella had said it’s work to maintain a connection, and I failed. I curl into myself as my teeth begin to chatter.

Khamíd slumps, relenting. “Here—you’ll catch a chill.” He removes his outer layer and drapes it over my shoulders. I pull it close.

“I don’t want to fight,” I murmur. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” he says. “Let’s just forget it.”

I nod, hesitant, for the silence between us is heavier than I’ve ever known. “Ehm, so… will you play Dangers and Dragons with us tomorrow?”

He snorts, though the pain lingering in the corners of his mouth mirrors my own. “Da. I have to see you all before you leave for another year.”

At a loss for words, I salute with mock formality and sweep through the door, to his apparent amusement.

Chapter Text

Long Cleeve is peaceful; but peace is like standing still as the world turns without me. I feel my smallness acutely. Would my life stagnate if I staid, my highest calling naught but savoring the mountain wind and the ease of old friends? Could I become more elsewhere? Someone worthy of remembering? I cannot bear to be forgotten—that is death.

—Diamond Cleeveholm, unedited journal excerpt, 1 Yule 1416

Khamíd smells of soot and iron now, sweat and exhaustion—but at least he comes home for longer. It’s partly the holiday, partly that he and Khalíl are back to bantering as if they never frayed. Life just took a little re-settling, as I expected it would. Our families linger after shared meals like memories resurrected. Tess, same as ever, races me as I ride, a streak of fur against the snow. The chores are the same. The livestock, the same. The neighbors, always lovely, always welcoming, always lighting the darkening days with hope and warmth. I love it. I love Long Cleeve—I do. I love that almost everything feels like old times.

Almost.

One night, the sound of weeping rouses me. The right side of the bed is empty. Concerned, I rise and follow the sniffling to a corner.

“Hey Birdie,” I coo. Opal jumps. “What happened?”

She shudders, struggling to catch her breath. “N-nothing happened.”

“Something had to have happened, else you wouldn’t be crying.”

“I don’t know…” She leans into my embrace. I press her to let me in, make a hundred guesses as to what’s wrong—but her breathing only intensifies. “I said I don’t know, Diamond!”

I guide her to bed, place her head on my lap, and sing her a lullaby older than the stars.

Sleep, sleep, my little bird,
Weary, tired little bird.
Lay your head upon the earth,
Lie under a cover of snow.

A bed of leaves to help you rest,
A blanket of kisses to keep you warm.
Close your eyes and do not fret,
And when you wake you will be reborn. ^[52]

Her eyelashes flutter as I stroke her face. I curl around her to sleep—but the next morning, she won’t answer my questions and pretends the episode never happened. Only a few months in the Shire and she’s already a skilled actor. She is different now, isn’t she… If Elbereth is haunting me, what is haunting Opal?

When Toby arrives from Michel Delving with the mail—and proof that Great Smials hasn’t forgotten us—Opal and I sprint to our room and break the seal. It’s long and thorough, but only signed by Pim and Pervinca—with a brief greeting from Estella.

“They’ve all gone to Brandy Hall for Yule,” I read. “Estella meant to send her own note, but her mother reads all her letters to ‘protect her propriety,’ and said Estella has no business writing to dwellers of…” I squint at the page. “Pim censored whatever Mrs. Bolger really thinks of us Long Cleeve hobbits.”

“Typical,” Opal mutters, a grin sneaking onto her lips. “But very strange—Mrs. Bolger seems nothing like the Tooks she supposedly grew up with.”

“Sha, that’s what happens when you marry someone as respectable as a Bolger,” I snicker. But once the letter is through, a heavy realization weighs in my chest: Mamma passed on the music and dances, poems and riddles she loved from the Shire—but Eglantine, Mrs. Bolger, and even Ruby cast off their maiden sensibilities with their names when they wed. That will never be me, I vow. I am a proud Cleeveholm, hardy as thistles and asters.

And yet I’m hungry for more. I could watch the East Road all day for a month, waiting for another messenger, another letter, more evidence that my Tuckborough friends miss me. Is it strange that I frequently reread Cormac’s poem, drink from Aubrey’s chipped teacup, and hold Pippin’s ornament?

At night, strange dreams find me—both of the Shire’s beauty and its destruction—with Elbereth’s mysterious commission sounding on repeat. Oftentimes I search for my friends in the dark, embers and ash settling on me like hot snow. I’m just anxious for Yule, I repeat as a prayer whenever things get too unsettling. The excitement of a party will set the last pieces aright.

~

On the last week of Foreyule, snow glitters on the Tower Hills and preparations for Papa’s Yule Party are in full swing. Khallal sends an entire butchered deer for the feast; Opal, Mandy, and Jaden bustle in the kitchen preparing it and a mountain of other dishes. Mamma and Papa polish floors and rearrange furniture to accommodate the hundred guests soon to come—almost too many for our house to hold. And Granddad is busy napping in the sitting room.

Malachite, Si and I stuff small burlap bags with mathoms to distribute to the guests for me and Malachite’s birthday. Then we dress the halls with boughs of mistletoe and holly, wreaths for every door, and red velvet bows along the stairwell. We stack hundreds of tiny candles on the mantels, the sills, and the tree to illuminate the longest night of the year. And the six-foot fir is our crowning jewel: strung with cranberries, silver bells, pinecones, and knitted snowflakes woven in years past—each stitch harboring a story, a ghost of the loving hands who made them. Opal’s and Mamma’s are the loveliest by far, but even Jaden’s are more symmetrical than mine. I rub them between my fingers, aching for those happy days. 

At last, Si hoists Malachite on his shoulders to crown the tree with a silver Evening Star. He keeps skipping back just as Mal reaches out, spinning, bouncing, until they nearly pull the whole thing over. We shriek with glee as Malachite scolds him. Then we all stand back to admire our work.

Everything gleams as it should. And yet, there’s something missing that I can’t quite place—some sense of anticipation, or fullness, perhaps, that is essential at Yule. I pull my fingers, desperate to make everything whole again.

My tattered paper box comes to mind—a slice of Tuckborough waiting to be claimed. I bound to my room and hurry back with the treasure.

“What’s that?” Si asks.

“An ornament. I nearly forgot it.” I place the disk prominently among the trimmings. It stands out, yet settles into place like it always belonged here. Warmth sparks in my chest.

“Where’d you get it?”

I suck in a breath. “Pippin and Vinca Took made it. A birthday present.”

“Pippin, hm?” Malachite grins teasingly. I roll my eyes.

Finally, First Yule^[53] dawns with merriment in the air. Presents greet us at the end of our beds—new clothes from Mamma and Papa. Opal and I tear into the packages: for me, a grey woollen skirt of subtle graenik, with a leather belt and ruffled blouse; for Opal, a bright green dress that laces up the front to show a billowing chemise underneath. I used to shrug at new clothes, but these have Shirish silhouettes. Mamma must have gotten patterns from the tailor before we left Tuckborough. My fingers stroke the fabric, savoring the novelty, the elegance, the muted Long Cleeve color and the promise of finally looking like a proper Shirish lady.

As the daylight fades, Opal and I don our fresh winter outfits, plait elaborate hairstyles, and admire ourselves in the mirror.

“This is the best Yule yet,” Opal whispers, squirming with excitement.

I kiss her hair in response. It is, and it isn’t. My chest twinges as I picture all our friends, laughing and dancing and eating without us. I wish we were in Tuckborough with Aubrey and Liam, or with Pim and Vinca at Brandy Hall—or better yet, that they were here with us. But Jaden’s voice echoes from the stairs, hollering for us to hurry up. With a breath, I fold my longing away and we plunge into the party.

Papa’s cousins roll barrels of ale through the door and bore taps in them. Their young children run around the common room, admiring the decorations and sneaking bites of food. Our musical neighbors swagger in and set their instruments up in a corner. And soon enough, hobbits and Dwarves pour through the door faster than they can be greeted, carrying platters and bowls to share. Si and I giggle as guests pile their coats and cloaks so high onto Jaden that all traces of the boy are lost. Diantha North-Took nearly jumps out of her skin when the tower of outerwear shuffles toward the drawing room all on its own.

The band strikes up a tune and the hungry guests swarm the buffet: smokey venison and buttery potatoes, roasted vegetables, spicy Dwarven dumplings, fiery cabbage stew, cheese and dried fruit and puddings galore. Folks toss kalácsok across the room—and when a roll flies too close, I snatch it out of the air and stuff the sweet bread into my mouth. Papa passes the ale around to get everyone feeling lively, and people clear a spot for dancing.

Is this really everybody? I search the faces, accounting for everyone I know in this corner of the world. I remember Yule being more crowded, more grandiose. Even though it took us days to deck the halls, the decorations seem embarrassingly home-made compared to the lanterns, flowers, and bright streamers at Tuckborough’s Lithe festival.  Is Yule at Great Smials and Brandy Hall more exciting than this? I fidget with my belt, stretch a wide smile and force hearty laughter as I wade through the crowd. 

I charm our neighbors as the evening wears on, sharing holiday cheer with as many as possible—but I’m not particularly merry, and they don’t particularly need me. I gulp spiced wine. I let friends and relatives dance me across the floor. I try to harness the unbearable elation Yule should impart—but it’s as elusive as smoke, even though my love for everyone is as strong as ever. Am I misremembering my own life? My heart yearns for the past, and flares resentfully against the Shire. Si was right: that place corrupted something deep within me and ruined my enjoyment of my own home.

Papa whistles sharp as a hawk to quiet the room. “Thank you all for coming to another Yuletide celebration! I wouldn’t want to spend this time of year with anyone but you lot.” 

The floor cheers in response.

“Please eat and drink your fill, and then: eat and drink some more!”

Noise erupts even louder.

“My family would love to keep the music going while our lovely musicians take a break.”

That’s our cue to join him. I sit at the harp, Malachite grabs the dulcimer hammers, Opal her fiddle, Mamma pulls out spoons, Si grabs his tin whistle, and Jaden stands uneasily at the front.

“This is a North Farthing song my son picked up in Tuckborough. We encourage you all to sing along—if you can.” Papa chuckles, and our neighbors lean in curiously. Malachite and I start the countermelodic line. Papa beats the bodhrán. Opal and Si join in when Jaden, trembling, begins the first verse:

Well in the merry month of Rethe, from me home I started,
Left the girls of Heath nearly broken hearted,
Saluted Father dear, kissed me darling mother,
Drank a pint of beer, me grief and tears to smother
Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born,
Cut a stout blackthorn to banish ghosts and goblins,
Brand new set of frogs,^[54] rattlin o’er the bogs,
Frightenin all the dogs on the rocky road to Hobbiton—

One two three four five!
Hunt the hare and turn her down the rocky road
And all the way to Hobbiton, Whack fol lol le rah! ^[55]

He stumbles on a few tongue-twisting rhymes, face flushing. I try to catch his eye, flash an encouraging smile—but he’s too stuck in his nerves to notice. Papa and Mamma sing the chorus with him to give him a breather. Everyone claps along, delighted, but Jaden speeds up even as it makes him fumble all the more, wincing like a burr is digging under his skin.

The room chants the final Whack fol lol le rah! and Jaden dips a bashful bow. We pat his shoulder as he takes Papa’s bodhrán and shuffles to the back, muttering how he hates being the front of a performance. 

“No sweat, lad,” Papa coos. The rest of us trade instruments and continue the set.

~

Opal and I run to the back of the common room and hide behind the Yule tree. I trade her a glass of Papa’s reserve whiskey (which came all the way from the Thistlebrook) for a chocolate bonbon.

“Good Yule!” We squeal and throw back the shots, quickly following with the dark candy. The burning cinnamon spirits make the chocolate taste deeper, richer. A fuzzy sensation bubbles up my throat and into my arms, and the night is finally delightful.

“How—how on earth did Jaden sing all those words so fast?” Opal hiccups.

“I’ve not the slightest idea,” I slur. “He’s the only one of us who could sing at that pace, even though no one can understand spittin like that.” We both crack up when I say ‘spittin.’

“Opal! Diamond!” Mamma yells from somewhere.

“Oh, shhh-shh-shh!” I laugh, trying to quiet us down but only making us giggle harder.

“Quiet, quiet, you,” Opal manages between gasps. We wheeze silently. We clutch our bellies, collapse against the wall, sink to the ground.

Suddenly Mamma is standing over us, hands on her hips and smirking. “Ah ha! The thieves are found at last.”

“Mamma,” I gasp, laughing, “why are you looking at me like that?”

“Stop, STOP,” Opal begs. “I’m dying!” Tears run down our faces.

“Sure ye are,” Mamma says in her motherly tone. “And what’ll that be in your hands, hmm? Dare I say—whiskey glasses?”

Opal and I glance at each other. “Maybe…” And we burst out laughing again.

“Hand them over!” she chides, holding out her palm. We pass her the cups. “Now, I dinnae wanna tell you again to stay out of the reserve whiskey! If you take a shot, everyone’ll want one, and there’s not enough for that. Mind, I’d have to sell one of ye to replace the bottle Ruby gave us! Now, sober up a’fore you make fools of yourselves.” 

We nod, guffawing again. Mamma rolls her eyes and chuckles as she walks away.

“Good Yule,” we call after her. Then my wooden ornament catches my eye.

“Sha,” I flip it around. “Good Yule!” That sends us into another fit.

“Where’d that come from? I’ve never seen it,” Opal asks, examining it closely.

“It’s a mathom from Pippin. He gave it to me at the birthday feast.”

Her brow knits. “He only gave me a paper weight!”

“A duck paperweight. You love ducks, da?”

She crosses her arms and grumbles, “It’s no handmade ornament…”

The drink sends me giggling again, despite how her eyes linger on the oak decoration, mouth curving petulantly. Unease smolders in the pit of my stomach. But soon she’s laughing too, and the moment is swallowed by mirth.

~

After sitting awhile behind the tree, we emerge for water and return to the party slightly more sober. Si and Khalíl dance the Hopak and Csárdás; Malachite laughs with our cousins (and avoids the wistful eye of Caly North-Took); Jaden is organizing a game with the younger children; and the band begins an old Longbeard waltz.

“Diamond,” says a low voice behind me. I spin around to Khamíd’s outstretched hand. “May I have this dance?”

Here it is—a chance for everything to go back to normal. I beam. “Certainly.”

Khamíd leads me onto the floor. I don’t know if it’s the drink or the song or the company, but I easily pretend I’m floating through a fairy story. His hand is light on my waist—more hesitant than before, as if this is our very first waltz. I stare into his eyes, forcing myself to recall every tender moment we’ve shared, to cling to them—running in the hills, dinners with our families, the first time he saw me cry. When he twirls me, I almost forget how everything has changed.

The song’s final chord rings out, but the bodhrán immediately starts into a quick reel. Khamíd and I grin, shrug, and pick up our knees to the lively tune. The whole village joins, even from the halls and kitchen—spinning, stomping, roaring with laughter. Mamma and Papa glide past hand-in-hand; Malachite sweeps Opal away; Khalíl and Si trade Gladys and Zahira back and forth; and Khamíd’s eyes shine at everyone. I throw my head back and laugh. This is the life I love—the bonds of kin and neighbor, the elation, the intimate belonging.

If only Tuckborough could have this.

A pang stops my breath and pulls me miles away. Aubrey, Liam and Merry may have never known the joy of such belonging; Cormac and Estella haven’t felt the ease of a community that will always accept them. Ruby and Rosalyn go without. Long Cleeve will be fine without me—but what would the Shire be like if someone brought this kind of hope there?

The song ends with a long whistling note. Everyone whoops for more music and more ale. Khamíd’s smile stirs a hollow lift in my chest—weightless, uncertain, impossible to understand—but the room is too loud to hear him.

“What?” I shout and lean closer.

“Too loud—” I think he says. “Outside!” He touches my hand, beckoning me to follow.

We step onto the snowy wrap-around porch, the icy air delightfully biting and the full moon illuminating the land. Catching our breaths, our forearms rest close on the wooden railing. My hair prickles at the proximity. Perhaps this is my last chance. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t spoil this.

“Once again, your father has thrown a Yule party even better than the last,” Khamíd says, his breath fogging the air. “He keeps surprising me. The best host around!”

I chuckle. “Papa spends all year scheming for Yule. But, he says the real secret to any good event is the company.”

Khamíd stands tall, even more handsome than usual… I glance at my bare feet just before he catches my eye. His smile grows and lingers on me, until his gaze shifts back to the Blue Mountains. “Well, your family does much to increase the fun for everyone in attendance.” 

The backs of our hands graze. A lump rises in my throat. Don’t spoil this!

“I’ve missed it here…” My fingers twist to brush against his. “Tuckborough is nice, but it’s not home.”

“Your home has missed you too.” Our fingers entwine. “Long Cleeve has been rather dull these past months without its Diamond.”

My eyes are drawn to his like a magnet. We’re standing close now, suddenly. My head spins—this isn’t too fast, I remind myself. I want this. I’ve been wanting this.

“I meant to write,” I blurt, “but I didn’t know what to say. I’m really sorry—I thought you would first, and when you didn’t, I thought it might be strange if I did, or perhaps you wouldn’t—”

“Hey,” he coos. “It’s all right. I’m sorry too. But you’re back now.”

Be a Light, the stars whisper. Don’t yield. Don’t lose thy spirit.

But I don’t want to think about how Granddad still needs us in Tuckborough, nor my indescribable pull to that place. I just want to study Khamíd’s face, consider his long black lashes, feel my heart racing, hands trembling. I want things to finally feel normal.

A corner of my mouth twitches up. “So… you missed me, eh?”

Instead of answering, he delicately touches my chin, tilts my face upward, and presses his lips against mine. 

Electricity jolts through me. It’s strange at first—part of me wants to pull away—but curiosity eclipses my hesitation. Maybe this will help me remember. Slowly, my fingertips drift up his chest, graze the stubble on his jaw, tangle into his soft, dark hair. He draws me closer.

But after the initial shock of excitement, there was a stillness in the air. In my lungs. In my belly. I expected a breathless passion, like in the stories, but this was mechanical: a strong embrace surrounded me; all warm lips and slippery tongues. His facial hair was just long enough to scratch my face, but not long enough to be soft, and was quickly irritating my skin. I considered these sensations clinically, analytically, rather than being swept up in a release of emotion. I kept kissing him, distractedly, trying to process it all. 

A hundred revelations slap me out of dissociation, and I step back.

“Is something wrong?” He lets me go, but searches my eyes for something to console or apologize for.

“No, it’s just—” I take quick breaths. What on earth did I just do? I can’t make any commitments here; I shouldn’t get his hopes up—I was an idiot. I spoiled everything.

“Listen, I’m sorry Diamond. If that was too forward or too fast, I’m so sorry. We can just—I never wanted to—just please tell me what’s wrong.”

“What happens when we get older?”

He blinks. “What?”

“I mean, we’re at the same stage now, but… you’re a Dwarf. You’re going to live hundreds of years. I’ll die of old age while you’re still in your prime.”

“What are you talking about? The way I feel won’t change.”

“We have changed—don’t you see it?”

“Don’t say that…”

“And what about your craft? I’d spend my days alone while you hammer away—”

“Diamond, please—”

“And we aren’t compatible for children—”

“Whoa! Hold on a minute—”

“You may not mind, but I’ve always wanted a family—”

“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves—”

“And then there’s Tuckborough. I still have something I need to finish there, but what will they think of me if—”

“IT WAS JUST A KISS!” he shouts. I bite my lip. There’s a frightened stillness between us, all sounds of the world muffled by snow. 

I let out a slow breath. “I’m sorry, Khamíd. I was just… spiraling a bit.”

He sighs. “It’s fine. Are you all right?”

“I think so.” I stare at my toes, hands fingering my wool skirt.

“Was the kiss all right, at least?”

I hesitate, shifting my weight defensively. “Well… ehm…”

“Look, do you love me or not?” he cuts in with frustration and hurt. “Because I love you. I have loved you ever since I have known you, Diamond. I cannot help it. And if you feel the same, we’ll figure this out.” 

I shake my head, just a little, as tears fill my eyes.

“We’ll talk through everything, take things slow, whatever you want. But I must know, else the waiting will keep torturing me.”

The few feet separating us grow exponentially. I want to run from his pleas and his pain. I feel further from him than when I was at Harfoot Hollow, and I hate it: I hate having to decide, hate staring at the crossroads of our friendship, hate the possibility of saying goodbye, of things changing between us. But I do love him. And he deserves the truth.

“I thought I… I really hoped I did, but…” I speak slowly, like an executioner loath to deliver the blow. “I don’t love you. Not in that way. I am so sorry, Khamíd.”

Tears spill from my eyes. Pathetic. He’s the one hurting—so why am I crying? I turn toward the mountains and hide my face, to protect him from my pitiful weakness.

He stands motionless, in the exact position I broke his heart, for a long time. Part of me wants to flee, part of me wants to comfort him—but I’m stuck waiting for the silence to shatter.

“Diamond.” He shifts to the spot beside me, staring until I meet his gaze. “Don’t feel bad. You can’t control who you love.”

My vision blurs. He wipes a stream from my cheek and somehow manages a smile. Then he steps back. 

“I also can’t control who I love. So I think some… space would be best. For a while.”

No. No no no no no. How can this be the end? There was never a time when we weren’t close. “Khamíd,” I whimper, “I still care about you. I still want to be friends—if that’s well with you.”

“So do I. But we can’t go back to the way things were.”

I can’t stand his far-off look. My stomach is a void, a vacuum, and my lip quivers. “All—all right.”

Except I’m not all right. I acted selfishly—not just with the kiss, but the flirting and the stolen glances for the last few weeks. The excitement of someone wanting me overpowered my judgment, my introspection. Despicable.

“Sorry I kissed you,” he murmurs.

“Don’t be. Please.” I drop my gaze. “It helped me to… know how I feel.”

He nods. “That’s good. I’m glad, then.” He doesn’t sound glad. I shiver, but not at the biting wind. He clears his throat. “Better go back inside, now that we’ve cooled off.” 

I resign, taking slow steps to the door, turning the handle, glancing back. “You coming?”

He takes a shaky breath. “I will, in a few minutes. Just need a moment.”

We exchange one final, sympathetic look. As I close the door I peek back over my shoulder in time to see him slump, one hand clutching the railing and the other holding his face.

I hurry upstairs to the washroom and rinse my puffy eyes. I don’t want to continue my hosting duties. All the joy of Yule is a distant, impossible memory. I just want to crawl into bed and sleep for a century.

“Diamond! Is Diamond in there?” Opal bangs on the washroom door.

“Please leave me alone!” My voice is sharper than I intend.

“Get out here! It’s an emergency!”

Granddad? I dry my hands and hurry out. “What happened? Is anyone hurt?”

She grabs my hand and drags me back to the common room.

“Opal! Tell me what’s going on!”

She doesn’t answer. My anxiety mounts as we approach the doorway, the warm air—and I’m met with a deafening cheer and cracks of confetti poppers.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!” Everyone sings. Completely shocked, my belly spasms with nervous laughter. I don’t deserve this.

A cake the size of Opal is rolled out from the kitchen. I glance at Malachite, equally surprized, and we fail to blow out our fifty-four candles in one breath. Then, just as I learned in Tuckborough, I don a happy mask while we do our traditional bit of shoving cake into each other’s faces. Everyone would know something is wrong if I didn’t play the part.

This is how everyone behaves in The Shire, I think begrudgingly, cynically, as I lick cream frosting off my chin. It’s shocking how easily pretending comes—like willing a daydream to come true. I am trapped between the inauthenticity and the necessity of it.

Maybe it’s a hobbit trait, to laugh through misery like this. 

Maybe it’s even a good thing.

Maybe I belong in The Shire after all.

Just when I think it’s time to make my escape, Papa whistles for the crowd’s attention once more. “In four days, my daughter Diamond will turn the irresponsible age of twenty-two, and my eldest, Malachite, will be thirty-two!” 

Enormous shouts of approval. I shift uneasily.

“These two have personally packed birthday gifts for each of you. Please only take one—I’m watching you, Mrs. Greenholm!” 

The group titters, and Mrs. Greenholm protests a little.

“But I also have special presents for our byrdings.”

Khalíl elbows his way through the masses and hands Papa two small packages. One goes to Mal, one to me. Everyone watches as he eagerly unwraps the finest pipe any of us have ever seen. It is carved from his namesake, the vibrant viridian gemstone, and has a shiny silver mouthpiece. He holds it up for our neighbors to ooh and ahh.

I want to hasten the evening’s end, so I rip open my box to discover an elegant diamond necklace. The small, bright stone is set in a white-gold aster pendant, and hangs off of a delicate chain. I catch my breath.

Since all of us were named after gemstones, Papa and Mamma usually give us gifts to match. But diamonds are too costly, so I got quartz, crystal, or other clever imitations growing up. Until now.

“How do you like it, sweetheart?” Papa asks. 

I concentrate and push forth a smile. “I love it, Papa. It’s beautiful.”

“Look at the back.”

I turn over the flower and read a familiar engraving, much like that steel map of stars. Khamíd’s work. I catch the meaning before the words blur—a title, a responsibility, a weight to carry—

The Diamond of Long Cleeve.

Before I can stop myself, I burst into tears.

Dear reader,

If you have made it thus far, hopefully with few grumblings and complaints, please accept my sincere gratitude. I thank you. I will be continuing Diamond’s story with Volume II: Tattered Paper next week, and I dearly hope you continue the adventure with me.

For those of you daunted to read a work-in-progress, please know that all four volumes of Diamond’s memoirs are written in full, and it is just a matter of editing each chapter and posting them. If ever I lose motivation to continue revising at my current pace, I will still be able to post the crude chapters as they stand. I promise you, reader, that this tale will not be abandoned before it is told.

Thank you for putting your trust in me. Now, let us take up our blades and walk proudly into the unknown!

 

Zen the Archivist
12th of September, 2025 of the 7th Age