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She stared coldly across the breakfast table at her son. At least he had gotten his looks from her side, for there was nothing with which to fault him there. Handsome he had always been, and even now, with a new bit of softness about the jaw, the faint wrinkles beginning to creep in about the eyes, and the indescribable air of dissatisfaction and anger that occasionally played across his face when he was not careful, still all in all, he was undeniably handsome.

There had been a time when she had found his company entertaining. But perhaps that had been in comparison to her late, not-in-the-least lamented stolid oaf of a husband, Otho Sackville-Baggins. It had been that infinitely self-assured stance, so very close to being condescending, which was part of the heritage of the Baggins line that quite infuriated her, she knew full well. To be constrained and put in her place by a Baggins male seemed to be her fate, and her temper was becoming difficult to check at the thought of her own son being the latest to do so.

Initially it had been her husband, but time and her discovery of the value of his excess fondness for strong drink had left him far more pliable, and by his last years, she was rarely inconvenienced by his notions of the proper role of a wife. That old relic in Bag End had proved to be far more cunning, charming the local folk just enough with his generous and lavish parties, but keeping them at a distance with his eccentric ways. He could get away with bringing in a foundling as an heir, despite a certain amount of unseemly mystery in his background, and now the upstart Frodo Baggins was the Master of Bag End and all that that position entailed, no matter his irregular relationships and disagreeable familiarity with strange folk from beyond the borders of the Shire.

But time had softened, as much as she found it difficult to admit, her antipathy towards Frodo, and had increased her disappointment in her own son. Indeed, life was not nearly as pleasant in Lotho's presence, and this was a truth that she could no longer deny to herself. As much as it rankled then, it was easier to let him think that her dismissal of Fredegar Bolger was for his benefit, for the sake of family harmony. Even though that was not the reality of the matter.

For, in fact, her son's cold, sneering implications had cut into her confidence deeply. It truly was, after all, impossible to believe that a young gentlehobbit, so undeniably personable and promising, really could find a female of her years desirable. Possibly there was the consideration of her finances, for she had never wished to investigate the status of the Bolger funds. But there was no doubt as to the fact that the young hobbit was rapidly reaching the age when marriage was inevitable, and certainly it did his prospects no good at all to be seen in her company on such a familiar basis. So it was best for the both of them that the relationship be broken off, and she had, efficiently and coolly, done so. The thought of the loneliness that thus awaited her nights, and the empty years that stretched before her, were matters to be disregarded and sternly put aside. Only soft, ineffectual females gave in to such hopeless futile wishing for what was not ever to be and she, she was a Bracegirdle.

There were other matters to be considered, however, and the foremost was the cause of Lotho's intermittent absences. "I hope," Lobelia speared her tomato with a savage thoroughness, "that there will be no repetition of the unsavory incident earlier this summer."

Lotho calmly buttered his roll, and popped it whole into his mouth, even though he very nearly could not chew it with his mouth shut. His eyes traveled from the butter knife through the dining room window to a point in the distance. His mother's remark was disregarded.

But Lobelia had expected that reaction. Rising, she abandoned her breakfast, and poured herself a final cup of tea. She started to leave the room, cup held gracefully in hand, but paused by his chair for a moment. "You may have rid yourself of the lad," she remarked with a grim detachment, "but not the problem. That was not your first offense, Lotho, and sending him off to the hindermost edges of the Shire will not cause the tedious inhabitants of Hobbiton to forget the matter. I would advise that the next time you feel compelled to give in to those urges that you find yourself a more willing, or at least a more bribable victim. Otherwise, have the intelligence to not muddy your own nest, and find a more lenient locale for such purposes."

Sam looked up, as soon as he was able to, with a bit of puzzlement. Frodo was generally more vocal in his appreciation of Sam's talents, and he had to, in all modesty, admit that he had become quite skilled at this. And since Frodo's appreciation was generally in proportion to the number of times he was brought to the brink and then led, panting and moaning, back away from it, and Sam was quite sure that it had been at least thrice, it was odd that his ears were not currently ringing with tributes to his efforts. But then he noticed that Frodo, despite breathing heavily, was biting his pillow quite fiercely and he recollected, with a nearly guilty start, that they did still have a pair of guests.

He gave an understanding chuckle then as to Frodo's predicament, and by way of apology, started to trail light kisses up Frodo's stomach (with a nice bit of roundness to it at last, he noted approvingly in passing), and continued slowly up the side of Frodo's still heaving chest. By the time he reached Frodo's mouth, Frodo had sufficiently recovered that he was able to wrap his arms around Sam and roll him around to his back, pinning him under his lithe body by means of wrapping a softly furred foot under and around one of Sam's legs, and leaning on his elbows over Sam and keeping Sam's hands fixed over his head by his wrists.

"That was quite diabolic of you, Sam. You know we are not alone here tonight." The voice was low and husky despite still being a bit breathless, and Frodo finished his comment by giving Sam a slight nip on the ear. The instigator of Frodo's dilemma very nearly squeaked at that judgment, but still managed to innocently open his eyes wide.

"I'd not remember you remindin' me of that fact a moment or two ago, dearie," he replied, raising a foot to stroke slowly down the back of Frodo's leg.

"Why, Samwise!" came the soft chuckle, still quite close to his ear. "What I do need to remind you of is that it is Fatty in the room next to us, and a very disgruntled Fatty, I might add. Not the normal Merry and Pippin, who would not notice what we did if we knocked on the wall and yodeled the chorus of There is an Inn in Bree."

"Ah, now," Sam sighed in mock disappointment, his foot gliding slowly over the hollow at the back of Frodo's knee, and his hips making ever so delicate an adjustment under those of Frodo. "I suppose we'd best be behavin' ourselves for awhile, then."

"Oh, I don't believe I said that," came the purred reply, directly before another nip, this time followed by a delicate nibble on the tip, caused an involuntary gasp and arch of the back by the lowermost party. "Just believe in giving fair warning, that's all."

Just as well, for Sam, but a moment later, hastily grabbed for the pillow himself.

May gave her brother a quick glance over the top of her teacup, and gave an inward silent sigh. It still amazed her that despite his years of living with gentry that he had not yet managed to attain some rudimentary social skills. He was a sweet-natured thing, without a doubt, and had always been there for reassurance and support for her as well as her sisters, as the two older brothers she could scarcely remember never had been, but the deceptions of polite society continued to be beyond him. It was time for him to leave, to remember some fictitious errand to run for Frodo, time to murmur a thousand excuses, all at least faintly plausible, and then vanish, leaving only herself and Folco to complete tea with the Burrows' sisters. Mistress Burrows had already managed to excuse herself, with a meaningful and excited glance towards a very pink Iris, and certainly she and Pansy were escort enough for the two new acquaintances.

But Sam would sit there, and swirl his tea absently in his cup, and look rosier and more uncomfortable by the moment, and say absolutely nothing. At last she reached the limit of her patience, and impatiently blurted out, "Samwise, dear brother, did you not have to fetch a sack of flour from the mill for Mr. Frodo?"

Sam turned awkwardly to her, cup still frozen in midair, before he blinked, and stiffly replied, "Why, thankee May, that indeed I have to do." He hastily set the cup down on the small table next to his chair, delicately covered with some sort of frilly lacy cloth, and just very nearly missed upsetting the whole affair as he scrambled to his feet.

Folco's eyes widened at this exchange, only realizing once it was too late that Sam meant to abandon him here, and he quickly took on the desperate look of one to whom glib excuses were a completely unknown accomplishment. Pitifully but silently, his mild dark eyes implored Sam not to leave him alone to the mercies of these females, but Sam sternly gave him the slightest of shakes of his head, and informed the Misses Burrows, as well as his sister May, that he would be most glad to return to escort Mr. Boffin back to Bag End in an hour. He then saw himself quickly to the door, without a glance back. He felt sorry enough for the poor young gentlehobbit, no mistake, but he had to live with his sister May, and it did not bode well to cross her when it came to affairs of the heart.

Sam whistled happily as he made his way to the mill. Actually, polite excuse or no, it was true enough that their supplies were running low, what with the surfeit of guests these past few weeks, not to mention the dreary weather, and a sack of flour would indeed not go amiss. His thoughts were far away, mostly being centered on what a certain dark-haired hobbit might be doing at the moment, and on whether it would be at all possible to manage to get the two guests out of the smial for about an hour without the company of their host. An hour would be sufficient time, he had calculated, for neither he nor Frodo were prone to taking their time. Unless, of course, it was quite early, for he had noticed that, first thing of a morning, Frodo seemed to have all the patience in the world, not to mention amazing control… And it was just about at that point that he very nearly ran over Rose Cotton, preparing to enter the mill herself.

He immediately flushed a bright red, although certainly Rosie couldn't have possibly had any way of knowing where his thoughts had been, and somehow managed to cough to clear his throat, nod his head towards her, and simultaneously trip over his own feet on his way into the millyard. Rose gave him a warm smile though, and nodded readily back. " 'Tis the last of the rain we'll be seeing for while, I'd be hopin'," she greeted him cheerfully as she gave the clouds on the horizon an unconcerned glance.

"Well, I'd not know about that," Sam offered, constitutionally unable to lie even for the sake of social politesse. "It's been a rainy September, no mistake, but I'd be thinkin' we'd not seen the last a'it."

Rose gave a short laugh, and playfully glanced over her shoulder as she made her way into the mill first. "You'd know best, Samwise, who better than a gardener?"

Sam grinned, but said nothing as he followed her in. The great wooden mill was shadowy and chilly inside, with flour dusted over every surface throughout and the constant grind and creak of the great stone millwheel making it difficult to continue any conversation. Old Sandyman gave his customers a curt nod, and Rose motioned to the sack of flour, silently offering her coins. This was the normal method of exchange, since Old Sandyman was more than half deaf, and the heavy wheel made normal conversation impossible. But Rose had just picked up the sack when the miller turned and gave a hoarse shout into the shadows behind the mill.

"Hi there, Ted, ye great clout, cannot you see the lass could use a bit o'help w'the sack?"

Rose immediately colored and shook her head in refusal. "Oh, no, Mr. Sandyman, I'm fine enough, don't you be worryin' about it, not at all," she declined the offer, somewhat breathlessly.

But old Sandyman pursued the offer relentlessly. " 'Tis no trouble, not a bit, my lass," he insisted gruffly. "We can't be havin' you tote that heavy bag all the way back up the hill, now, can we? Hi, there, Ted! Curse you, where'd you be?"

Ted issued from behind the mill at that last shout, and Sam suddenly felt that it was more than time that he step into the picture.

"Don't you be troublin' yourself, Ted," he walked up behind Rose as Ted gave him a sullen glare, clearly not expecting Sam to make such an offer. "We're going the same way, she and I, an' I'd be givin' her a hand," he added, as Rose gave him a quick grateful glance.

Sandyman said no more, and Ted melted back into the shadows again, but not before Sam caught, out of the corner of his eye, a fearsome glower directed by the old miller toward his son.

May and Pansy noiselessly peeked through the crack of the half-ajar drawing room door. Nothing, apparently, had changed since the last time they had looked in. Folco Boffin sat stiffly in his chair, his hands awkwardly resting on his knees, and his ear tips noticeably scarlet. Iris was demurely gazing into her teacup, as if trying to find her fortune in the leaves that had floated to the bottom of it. Not a word, as far as the onlookers could determine, had been exchanged between the two of them since their companions had left the room on the pretext of refilling the honey pot.

Pansy gave a quiet hopeless sigh as she turned back to May, but her smile was quirked with amusement, and she pointed her head back down the hall to the kitchen. "Didn't I tell you, May?" she burst out with a giggle, as the two lasses reached the safety of that room. "Alike as a couple of peas in a pod, those two. No hope for them at all."

"But you'd not have noticed the pair o'them the night of Mr. Frodo's party, then," May insisted, shaking her head with a perplexed air. "You'd not be able t'keep the both o'them quiet. They were talking about those silly wooden pins and the way the ball should roll, and all manner of nonsense. But now just look at them. I'd not understand it, no ways."

"Well, I daresay I wasn't paying that much attention to them," Pansy had to admit, still grinning. "I thought that cousin of his, Mr. Bolger, was much more dashing. And is it really true about him and Mistress Sackville-Baggins? Stars, but that's hard to imagine!"

May couldn't help but give a short laugh at that prospect. "Aye, ain't it just?" she gave a wicked smile. "Ah, well, I suppose there's naught to come of this," she continued, gesturing to the other room and shrugging in disappointment. "Let's go save the poor things. I did tell Sam I'd bring Mr. Boffin to the mill by and bye."

Lotho Sackville-Baggins opened the door of the smial and gave the stranger standing there a cool gaze. But he said nothing, and waited until the other hobbit politely bowed, and inquired as to whether or not Mistress Sackville-Baggins might be found at home.

"I daresay she is," her son replied coldly, "but I really don't see that that is any concern of yours."

"I expect she might have opinions of her own on that matter," the younger hobbit returned quickly. "I would appreciate it if you'd let her know that she has a visitor."

"Ah, so you're the young whelp from Buckland way who has been sniffing around her," Lotho drawled, showing no indication to inform his mother of the other's presence, but rather lounging against the doorway with a malicious smile. "I'm not sure what your game is, money, I suspect, but no matter. It's quite off."

"What a charming conversational style you have," Fatty replied, politely stifling a yawn, and giving no indication of leaving. "How very amusing. You must be the son. We've possibly met, though I really can't remember. But you see, I actually must hear from the fair lady herself that she is not in to visitors. No offense, my good fellow, but I don't see any point in listening to your views on the subject."

"I told you," Lotho's face darkened and he unconsciously dropped his nonchalant pose. "She is not in. You'll need to go fortune-hunting elsewhere."

"Oh, fortune-hunting, is it?" Fatty coolly raised an eyebrow. "Apparently you are not familiar with my family. However, I see no reason to enlighten you, despite how very droll your speculations are."

"Well, I'm telling you that you'll not be seeing her, and that's the end to that," Lotho growled, abandoning any pretense to politeness. Not used to being crossed, his fist clenched at his side, but there was something about this hobbit, young and abnormally lean though he might be, that gave him pause, and made him refrain from acting on impulse.

"Have it your way," Fatty shrugged, "but I've come to call on the lady, and call on her, I shall." And with that, he leaned comfortably back against the ash tree that grew by the front door, and tilting his hat more comfortably toward his face, settled in to wait.

Lotho slammed the door without another word.

At least half an hour passed, before the door re-opened. This time, however, it was the lady of the smial who stood there. "Mr. Bolger," she said in a low voice, with a bit of strain about her mouth, "I believe my son informed you that I was not at home to visitors."

"Why, yes, he did," Fatty gave her a gallant bow, springing quickly up to his feet again. "But I was not sure if it was actually your wish or his, you see."

Lobelia stared into the distance for a minute, her mouth tightening bitterly. "Apparently, there is very little difference between the two," she said after a moment's silence. But then she turned her eyes back to him, and there was pain she was unable to hide in them. "Go, Fredegar," she murmured softly. "Forget an old woman's folly."

"No," Fatty replied quickly and firmly. "I'm afraid that that is quite impossible. I will go, but only for now. I will be close by, and I will return. You will not be rid of me easily, my dear lady. Not until I am truly convinced that it is your, and only your, desire. You are the mistress of my heart, you see, and that is not an easy position to cast aside. Good evening then, but not farewell." And with a bow, he turned and walked proudly down the sandy lane, leaving her standing in the doorway, watching him walk away with a longing look that he could not see.

It was a perfect smoke ring that Fatty blew towards the fire, but the look in his eyes was dark, and his brows were fiercely knit. "Confound the scoundrel," he suddenly burst out. "Does he think he can keep her trapped there forever? For the life of me, I cannot understand why she pays that villain any mind at all."

"Because he is her son," Frodo mentioned mildly, "and all the family she has. Not to mention myself, I suppose, but we've never been on chummy terms, you know."

"Well, yes, of course," Fatty growled, jamming the pipe in his mouth once again, and puffing strenuously on it between words. "I mean, maternal devotion is all very well, but that hobbit, from what I have been given to understand, is a blight upon the Shire, a loathsome boil on the neck of decent hobbit society."

"Aye, every bit of that is true, no mistake," agreed Sam, with a slight smile, "but there ain't a mother alive that will admit it of her own."

"Pah," responded Fatty, eloquently. He lapsed into silence after that comment, staring at the crackling flames in the study hearth in a brooding manner. Frodo and Sam gave each other a surreptitious glance, and then Frodo strolled over to the fire, poking it casually into renewed life, and Sam took a few pillows and lap rugs out of the old chest, passing them out to the guests. There was a blustery, chilly wind howling about this night, and the room, despite the gay flames, was a bit drafty. Folco, who had been quietly sitting in the corner chair, blinked as he collected his thoughts, which had obviously not been on present company, and cheerfully accepted the proffered items. But Fatty shook his head, somewhat impatiently, and continued to scowl at the fire.

Sam returned to the settle, where he spread the pillows and rugs out for himself and Frodo, and they were soon quite cozy underneath, fitting together quite unselfconsciously. "Look," Sam murmured to Frodo as they tucked their legs under the rugs, and pointed to a small table next to Fatty's seat. Frodo then saw what had struck Sam, and arched his own eyebrow up, returning Sam's concerned glance. A dish of biscuits had been left at Fatty's side, and they were still untouched.

"The question therefore is," Fatty suddenly burst out in an impatient voice, "how to remove the vermin from the premises. Any suggestions, my good hobbits? You have had the dubious distinction of knowing him far longer than I."

"Are you quite sure that will be all that needs to be done?" Frodo gave him a doubtful look. "I have never, after all, known Lobelia's intentions to be, erhm, vague."

"Trust me," Fatty replied with grim confidence. "All was well until his arrival upon the scene. Hence, once his vile presence is removed, all will be well once more. The lady will see reason, the scales of mistrust will fall from her eyes, and true love will prevail yet again."

"Ah, yes, undoubtedly," Frodo agreed, somewhat tenuously, trying to reconcile this vision of Lobelia with that of his mind's eye. It was proving to be a very nearly impossible feat. However, lovers see what no others do, he reminded himself, unconsciously giving Sam's hand, under the rug, a quick squeeze, and he returned his attention to Fatty's predicament.

"What we need," he said thoughtfully, "is a reason for Lotho to vacate his smial. Now, normally, he spends a good deal of time at either the Ivy Bush or the Green Dragon, depending on which will temporarily agree to accept his coin, but I am assuming that he is sticking rather close to home for the time being."

"Like a leech," Fatty confirmed glumly.

"No doubt," Frodo nodded. "So what sort of enticement could we offer? He is definitely fond of putting back a few half-pints, but I doubt if he would accept an invitation from any of us, and I can't imagine who else would care to spend an evening in his company. Besides, that probably wouldn't give you enough time. We need something that will take up some hours at least, I should think."

"Isn't Mr. Lotho a bit of a gambling sort?" Sam offered, unexpectedly. "Heard tell that he's won summat considerable on whist, from time to time."

"Ah, now, there's a thought," Frodo gave a thoughtful hum, "but once again we come back to the who."

It was then that Folco suddenly found three pairs of eyes riveted upon his unassuming person. He gave a slight start for, truth to tell, he had not been following the conversation closely, having been dreamily mulling over golden curls and dark brown eyes instead. Somehow, though, he had the uncanny feeling that he had become the focus of the conversation.

"Why, yes, that just might do it," Fatty murmured, the faintest rays of a smile beginning to break through the impenetrable cloud of his grim expression.

"I believe, excepting for the Burrows' lasses, Folco's presence at Bag End is definitely unknown to the residents of Hobbiton. No need to connect him with us, really," Frodo declared, a trifle smugly.

"Well, there'd be the rest o' the Gamgees and Cottons," Sam conscientiously clarified. "But they'd not be a'all inclined to let on, especially t'the likes o'Lotho."

"Indeed not," Fatty purred. "Look here, Folco, old thing. Ever played whist?"

The unseasonably chill wind howled through the streets of Hobbiton, but the Burrows' sisters paid it no mind, in their snug bedroom. "So Mr. Folco'd not be much of a catch," sighed Pansy, in some disappointment, as she sat behind Iris on their bed, brushing out her curls.

"I wouldn't agree to that, no, not a bit," Iris sat up quite suddenly at Pansy's comment, snagging her hair on the brush in the process. "Oh! Pansy, have a care with that brush!"

But Pansy had ceased all motion at this revelation. "What?" she asked incredulously. "Was there something I missed this evening?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Iris colored prettily and tossed her head in a spirited sort of way. "But I think Mr. Folco is so handsome, and wonderfully kind. I'm not sure what you mean by a 'catch', Pansy dear, but I assure you that Mr. Folco is definitely not not that."

"Why, Iris," her sister giggled in delight, spinning her younger sister around to face her, "I do believe you are smitten!"

And since Iris's shy smile gave her theory definite plausibility, she laughed again, and gave her sister a fierce hug. "Well, now, my dear," she said confidentially, as she snuffed out the candle, and settled cozily under the bedclothes next to her sister. "The only question is, how to get him to court you. For if there ever was a hobbit that needed a bit of assistance in that area, he would be the one. But court you, he shall. Not to fret, dearest, May and I will put our heads together on this one. You may as well set your wedding date now."

Since the room was quite dark, she missed her sister's suddenly startled expression.

Frodo and Sam lay in bed, tangled quite closely together. The wind whipped from one side to the other, pelting what remained of the morning glories against the window, and Sam gave an involuntary shiver. He did not like the wind, and he never had. It always made him feel, somehow, as if it could reach right into the smial, and tear him from Frodo's arms, and blow him over the hills and far away. That was quite a silly notion, he knew full well, but it didn't change how he felt. Quite unconsciously, he tightened his embrace about Frodo, and buried his nose against Frodo's shoulder, closing his eyes very tightly.

But Frodo was particularly aware of Sam's opinions regarding a stiff wind, and soothingly murmured an endearment into Sam's ear, and stroked his back calmingly. "It used to howl about my old room high up in Brandy Hall, too," he suddenly said, softly. "The others were down in the older part of the smial, buried safely under the ground, and never heard it at all. And when I mentioned it the next day, they just thought I was exaggerating it, being fanciful. So I said nothing more. But it always did make me feel empty and more lonely than ever."

"Even here," he continued, as Sam raised himself on an elbow at his side and watched Frodo's sharp profile by the fleeting light of the moon, briefly covered and uncovered by wind-whipped cloud. "I always felt as if it could find me somehow, and pull me back to that drafty hall."

He turned to Sam then, smiling warmly and pulling him gently back down, clasping him closely again. "But, you see, Sam, now there's the two of us. So I think we are quite safe. Let it blow, my love, there's nothing it can do to us."

Sam found Frodo's mouth then, and kissed him slowly and quite thoroughly. "I do love you so, Frodo," he murmured when they broke apart.

"And I you, my own Sam," Frodo replied tenderly, stroking his cheek softly. The wind continued unabated beyond their bedroom, but the two hobbits inside were quite soon both peacefully asleep.

It wasn't until the next morning, at second breakfast, that the one flaw in the scheme was uncovered. Whist was, Frodo suddenly remembered, a four-handed game, and Folco would be in need of a partner who would be aware of the need to draw the game out as long as possible. The criteria for this person were somewhat demanding, as well. Obviously, it could not be either Fatty or Frodo. And in addition, Lotho would be undoubtedly disinclined to play with anyone under a certain level of society. After several pots of tea, a rasher of bacon, a full dozen eggs, and several platters of toast and jam, for Fatty was feeling far more chipper this morning, and inclined to make up for the night before, it was decided that Ned Proudfoot might be just the hobbit in question. So Frodo, Folco, and Fatty set forth immediately after breakfast upon their mission.

Ned was found, this brisk morning, in front of his smial, collecting the branches broken off by the previous night's wind-storm. He looked up, glad enough for the interruption, from his task and nothing else would do but they were soon at the kitchen table in his comfortable smial, enjoying yet another breakfast. Mistress Proudfoot bustled happily about, pleased to have such illustrious company, and Fatty rose to the occasion, giving her ample opportunity to demonstrate her rather considerable skill with a pastry, as Frodo and Folco did their best to keep up as well.

Frodo and Fatty had made the decision, as they walked to the Proudfoot farm from Bag End, that all should be laid before Ned, as their best chance of obtaining his full cooperation. Ned had shrewdly sized up Fatty, within a moment of discovering that he, indeed, was the young hobbit whom gossip had connected with Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, and the fact that he was a friend and guest of Frodo Baggins only helped his cause.

"So," he sat back comfortably in his chair with a broad grin, "you'd be looking to have me help you out with the matter of old Lotho Pimple, beggin' your pardon, Mr. Fredegar."

"Absolutely no need to," Fatty rapidly interposed. "A sentiment with which I heartily concur."

"And who wouldn't," nodded Ned comfortably. "Now, I must say, that it's been many a year since I've seen old Lobelia… Ah, beggin' your pardon again, Mr. Fredegar, but she and I are of an age, you see…"

"Once again, no need," Fatty assured him, for a second time. "She really doesn't fancy herself terribly young, I assure you. The lady has a firm grasp upon the facts of the matter. And Fatty will do quite nicely, you know."

"Erm, Fatty?" Ned lifted a questioning eyebrow, but convinced by the grins of the others, proceeded on. "Right, then. As I was sayin', Lobelia has been lookin' half her age lately, and once or twice in town, I actually saw her give a tradesman a smile, and then her dancing at the midsummer fest? Well, if that weren't a treat! So, as I mean t'say, I'd be that glad to help you out. Just say the word. But this whist, now, I'm not much of a hand with cards, so you'll best be giving me a few pointers first."

"Neither am I, Mr. Proudfoot," Folco mentioned quietly, "so it might be prudent if we both had a bit of practice to start with, or else the game will be over far too soon."

"It's Ned, son, if we are to be partners. And that sounds like a fine plan to me. Mayhap we could head to the Ivy Bush this evening. I hear tell old Barlycorn, the proprietor, won't let Lotho in any more, so he ain't likely t'hear of us from any of his hangers-on there."

This sounded promising, so after a quick lesson on the general principles of the game from Fatty and Frodo, Ned and Folco agreed to meet later at the inn to begin their partnership.

The next few days passed quietly enough. Folco found himself much in demand, for he spent his evenings with Ned honing their game at the Ivy Bush, and days in the company of a slightly reticent Sam and his sisters, which always seemed to involve some sort of errand in Hobbiton, where more likely than not, they would happen to run into the Burrows' sisters. This always seemed to be quite a surprise to the lasses, yet somehow they would inevitably end up taking luncheon together at the Burrows' rather luxurious smial in town. Folco really didn't seem to mind, but Sam, on more than one occasion, pled some excuse or other, and sought refuge in the Green Dragon. As long as he escorted Folco to and from Bag End, it seemed that he would not incur the wrath of his sister May, a fact that he was quite happy to discover. He kept an eye open in the Green Dragon, but Lotho did not make an appearance. He did, however, see a great deal more of Ted Sandyman than he cared to, and was dismayed to hear the miller's son's friends chaffing him about Rosie Cotton. Apparently, he had been paying her court, and had very little to show for it. Not that Sam had any intentions in this vein, but he couldn't help feeling glad to hear that news.

Fatty, in the meantime, had been keeping a close eye on the Sackville-Baggins establishment, but thus far, had not managed to flush out his quarry. Patience, however, was one of his many virtues, and he serenely awaited fruition of their plans.

Frodo was therefore left on his own, and compensated by translating twenty three elvish love poems, which he recited to Sam, to Sam's great delight, in their bed at night. So the days quickly passed, and it became time to set the trap into play.

It was Ted Sandyman, quite unwittingly, who was the one to trigger the trap. Feeling at least moderately competent, Ned and Folco paid the Green Dragon a visit on the fourth night, and Ted took notice. The rest of the patrons weren't much for whist, at least when Lotho was known to be in town, for he was eager to seize on any opportunity to relieve the townsfolk of their gold, and with his astute card play and ruthless instincts, not to mention a careful bit of silent signaling from a well-placed Ted, nearly always managed to do so. So when Ted realized the presence of two new victims, he thought it was something that Lotho would be pleased to know. The one player was a mystery to him, although obviously a gentle-hobbit, but he really had thought that old Ned should have known better. Teaching him this lesson, however, he left up to Lotho's persuasive skills.

It was as Sam was making his noontime visit to the Green Dragon, since he was feeling far less guilty about abandoning Folco these days, that he heard the gossip going around the inn that Lotho planned to appear this very evening to challenge the two poor hapless souls who thought they knew a thing or two about whist. Sam smiled to himself as he left not long after this. This might be a treat to see for his father, and possible Tolman Cotton as well, and his presence would seem more innocent in their company. He knew Ned to be a reasonably shrewd hobbit, and he had gained the greatest of respect for Folco Boffin's careful and methodical manner. Watching these two take on Lotho Pimple should be a treat to behold, he was quite sure. 'Twas a pity Frodo couldn't watch, but he would inevitably have caused Lotho to be suspicious, and so had been designated the look-out for Fatty. But Frodo was relying on a full accounting from him, Sam knew, and he would not disappoint.

The inn was, indeed, quite full that evening, and fairly humming with great expectations. The Burrows' sisters had come, for Iris would not miss this pleasure for the world, and May had brought Rose along as well for the anticipated diversion. Rose had been somewhat reluctant at first, for reasons that she would not divulge, but once she had been assured that her father, as well as the elder and the younger Gamgee, would serve as their escorts, she quickly changed her mind. The two chief participants were given a central table, and half-pints each on the house, and Ned took full advantage of their sudden fame to genially chaff some of his friends into playing a rubber or two while they waited for the main event. Ted was occasionally visible close to the door but, before long, had disappeared. This fact, once discovered, was relished by all, for it meant that Lotho would soon be making his expected appearance.

It was quite dark when he entered the inn at last. Conversations ceased in midair, and the patrons gave up all pretense of not noticing his entrance, but Lotho gave them all no heed and nonchalantly stepped up to the well-polished oaken bar, coolly ordering his first half-pint of the evening. Giving it a quick drain for, in truth, his self-enforced evenings at home had proved to be quite dreary and dry, he casually wiped his mouth and glanced about the room. It was not difficult to discover the two novice card-players since every head in the house had promptly turned their way, but Lotho strolled over to them with an air of slightly amused incredulity. "Ah, Proudfoot, is it?" he drawled. "So I see you fancy yourself a card player these days? I don't believe I have had the pleasure," he added brusquely, turning to Folco with the slightest of nods, "but this forsaken hamlet can really do better than him, I assure you."

But Folco gave him the most placid and self-effacing of smiles, and courteously rose and politely bowed. "Folco Boffin, from Buckland way," he graciously introduced himself, "and I am really quite an amateur myself. Mr. Proudfoot has been kind enough to indulge me in my desire to learn this fascinating game, although I must admit these rules quite have me baffled from time to time."

"Lotho Sackville-Baggins," the other replied coldly, giving Ned a look of barely disguised contempt, "and if you'd really care to learn the game, I possibly might have some time. The evening has been insufferably boring thus far, and I've been looking for a bit of amusement."

The other two hobbits, who had been seated at the table and were watching this exchange with somewhat of the deadly fascination with which a small mouse eyes the uncoiling snake, hastily rose at this point, and hurriedly found seats elsewhere. Ned, whose eyes had narrowed at Lotho's comments, took a deep breath, and a quick swig of his beer. Placing the mug firmly on the table, he gave Lotho a shrewd look. "Then, Lotho, seeing how you're the master cardsman and all, I suppose you wouldn't mind playin' Widow's Hand w'us."

"Three handed then?" Lotho replied with a small smirk, realizing that this gave Ted, his usual partner, the opportunity to be free to rove the audience, where he could do the most good. "Well, it does take a bit longer, but I have no objections if you don't. However, to make what can be a tedious game just a trifle more sporting, shall we say, we might want to place a small wager on the side. Card games can be so deadly boring otherwise, don't you agree?" he confidentially asked Folco, in a one gentlehobbit to another sort of way.

Folco, thus appealed to, blinked thoughtfully, and hesitantly mentioned, "Well, I must say I'm really quite new to this, but if my partner doesn't mind, I suppose…"

"Done," growled Ned quickly, slapping the deck on the table. "An' we'll be usin' this deck, and none of yourn."

Lotho disdainfully raised an eyebrow at this insinuation, but agreed as he sat down opposite the other two. "Oh, if you like, certainly. No objection on my part, I assure you." And with that, the game began.

Lobelia stood stiffly before the fire, holding her arms crossed in front of her. She had let Fatty in, fighting down her first impulse to shut the door in his face, for she couldn't help conceding that her erstwhile lover was due somewhat more of an explanation for her behavior than she had thus far given him. But, for the first time in her life, she simply could not find the words. All she knew was that her son would give her no peace until Fatty would come no more, and she was drained, and through with emotion. She had known bitter resentment and a slow burning anger in her long life, but not much in the way of happiness until the last few months, but she had never expected it to last. And when it was done, it was done; why couldn't the young hobbit see that? Perhaps, as he claimed, he was still not weary of her, but that time would come, and then it would be all the more painful. The pretense that nothing was wrong, that all was as it had once been, would be politely kept up between them, but the strain of that sort of deception was immense, and she had been through it before, if not for a very long time. The bitterness, the thousand small hurts, the cold barrier that would inevitably fall between them; no, she was not willing, and much less capable, of going through that yet again.

But there he stood before her, his fresh young face intense, his handsome dark eyes fixed intently upon her, and those strong clever hands of his unconsciously reaching out to her. Sternly she thrust the memories of those hands upon her skin back into the past, where they now belonged, and shook her head. "Fredegar, you really must realize how impossible this has become. You are a promising young gentle-hobbit with a fine future ahead of you; a future that cannot include me. It is best that we part ways now, and remember the pleasure we gave each other, and move on. It was wonderful, indeed, more than wonderful," and her voice involuntarily softened for a moment at this point, "but it is hopeless to try to continue such an affair."

"And what I fail to see," Fatty stubbornly shook his head, "is why not. I cannot help but feel it is the views of your son that you are giving precedence to, not those of you or I."

Lobelia turned to the mantle, and wearily leaning her elbow against it, dropping her forehead into her hand and massaging her temples in frustration. "We've had this argument already, Fredegar," she murmured. "He is my son, and always will be. You, on the other hand, may at best be with me a year, perhaps two or three. But no more. Our relationship could never be permanent in any sort of way. So you see why I cannot bear to lose him, though I must confess it gives me no happiness to admit to that."

Fatty was silent for a moment or two, and she waited, waited for his reluctant agreement. She found herself noticing the most insignificant of sounds in the smial; the subdued crackle of the flames, the quiet ticking of a small clock on the table nearby, the soft sigh of the wind outside, considerably calmer than a few nights ago. And just when the silence was beginning to become intolerable to her, she felt his hand stealing about her waist. Stars above, she closed her eyes tightly and held her breath, how could she bear never to feel that again?

Then she heard his low voice so close to her ear. "I know what they say of us, Lobelia. They think that I only care for your gold, and that you only keep me about to amuse yourself. I'm sure that's what your son thinks, and I suspect possibly even my friends as well. Could a young lad such as myself actually feel anything approaching love for one such as you? Why, that could never happen. When pigs fly, I believe the vulgar expression is. But my lady," and she gave an involuntary gasp as his lips brushed the back of her neck, "apparently, on occasion, they do."

Turning into his arms, she found his mouth upon hers, and could no longer wrestle against her heart. "Whatever would I do," he murmured with a tender smile as they broke apart, brushing her cheek with the backs of his gentle fingers, "with an insipid young chit, such as those well-meaning folk are always trying to pair me up with? For me to love someone, they must possess intellect, a fiery spirit, and a passion for life. Everything that you have, in such abundance, Lobelia, my dearest. I can't imagine my life without you. If I thought I would have the remotest chance of success, I would ask you to be my wife. But instead all I ask of you is to not cast me aside; to let me be a fool, if a fool I must be, but a fool who is thoroughly in love with you."

"Ah, you dear lovely lad," she sighed, knowing herself lost most decidedly now. "It's quite fortunate that my bedroom door has a lock. We shall, undoubtedly, be interrupted at some point, but we will most likely have a few hours in which you can explain to me my virtues. I must have quite lost track of them."

The gaffer and Tolman, as they strolled home later that night, both agreed that that had been the most entertaining evening they had had in ages. Each had a daughter's arm tucked securely through theirs, for the brew at the Green Dragon was invariably potent, and they had been there a trifle longer than usual, but the giggling reminisces of Rosie and May were punctuated with their gruff hoots of laughter, and they were all quite grateful to Sam, who had mysteriously vanished just before their departure, for recommending that they find themselves in the inn this evening.

They had had their qualms as the play had begun, for there was no doubt as to the fact that Folco was, indeed, quite new to this game. And even Ned Proudfoot had to be repeatedly reminded of the nicer rules, usually by Lotho in highly exasperated tones. But the eager crowd had not allowed Lotho to employ his usual distracting tactics, and when it was discovered that Ted was making some peculiar gestures within sight of Lotho, the miller's son was quickly hooted down, and rudely shoved to the side of the room, leaving Lotho to fend for himself.

But Lotho actually was, in all fairness, a better than average card player, with shrewd wagering instincts, and play seemed to lean in his favor for quite a while. It wasn't until the fourth round of half-pints, freely supplied by the proprietor, who obviously had no interest in seeing this match end any time soon, that success started to smile upon the challenged. As he had shown in the case of the previous game with which he had been involved, Folco had a steep learning curve, when his interest was captured, and apparently it was this evening. He fussed about with his cards, and spent a careful five minutes arranging each hand just so, a period of time in which Ned sat back and genially puffed on his pipe, and Lotho glowered over his own cards, impatiently tapping on the table. Folco refused to be hurried though, and carefully calculated the odds before playing out a card, and his methodical thoroughness soon had the tide turned in the direction of the partners.

The audience was most appreciative of the drama of the situation, and there was no doubt whatsoever as to which side was favored. There was a sigh of disappointment that swept about the room, when Ned and Folco lost a hand, and a hearty cheer when they won. Mugs were appreciatively smacked down on the tables at an especially bold move by Ned, and the mutter of speculation was low but intense as Folco took one of his frequent pauses. But in the end, there was no question but that Lotho had been quite soundly defeated, and had lost a fair amount of gold, to boot.

After the final hand, in which his losses had been especially steep, Lotho had finally had enough of the sport. With a snarl and a muttered imprecation, he threw the cards in his hand down onto the table and sprang to his feet. "There's no point in playing nursemaid for a half-wit and a country rustic," he sneered. "It's a gentlehobbit's game, after all, and this is neither the place nor the company with which to play. Keep my coin, I have no need of it, I assure you."

"No worries there, Lotho," Ned agreed placidly with a broad grin on his face, hastily scooping up the winnings. "I've na need for it meself, likewise, but there's many in Hobbiton as do, and they'll be thankin' you for it, come winter. Even if you'd no special thought t'give it to them."

Folco smiled in agreement, and standing as well, gave a polite bow to Lotho just as he was turning to leave. "My apologies, sir, for being such a novice of an opponent for a hobbit of your talents. I will be diligent in studying the game, and perhaps the next time we meet, I will be a more worthy opponent."

Lotho stopped for a minute in his exit, and gave Folco a suspicious glare, but the young hobbit's expression was as bland as ever, and entirely free from any indication of mockery. There was nothing for him to do then, but to mutter another inarticulate curse under his breath, and storm from the inn. He could not help but hear, though, as he left, the vigorous cheer raised on behalf of the victorious, and the call for more beer.

It was not at all far from the Green Dragon to the Burrows' smial in Hobbiton, but neither party had any interest in making good time. Pansy, after a hurried conference with May, had magically disappeared, so it was up to Iris to allow Folco Boffin to escort her home.

The rain and winds of the past few weeks had inexplicably vanished, as early autumn storms are wont to do, and the night air was very nearly warm. The moon shone gloriously full and golden, just on the horizon, and Iris led him along the path that went by way of the Party Field, not the shortest route, if truth be told. Most of the merrymakers were still in the Green Dragon, so it wasn't too long before the two found themselves quite alone under the ash and oak that ran by the road. Iris glanced up at the moon and shyly murmured, "Why does it do that, I wonder? Seem so very large when it's low, I mean, and then not when it is high over us? It doesn't actually shrink, now, do you think?"

"I think, well, I've heard tell that it's because it's near something to compare to," Folco stammered out, stopping in his tracks and nervously thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. "That is to say, there's not much near about it when it's high in the sky. Of course, it's really quite hard to tell, I suppose."

Iris gave him an admiring glance, however, and exclaimed, "Why, that certainly makes sense. You do seem to know so much, Mr. Boffin."

"Oh, no, erhm, actually, I do wish, that is, if you don't mind, it's Folco, you know." Her companion's voice faltered at that audacious invitation, and he suddenly stared at the ground as if desperately wishing to take it back.

But Iris dropped her eyes to the ground as well, and in a voice so low that it could scarcely be heard, replied, "Only if it's Iris, Mr. Boffin."

"Would you like that, then?" Folco couldn't help asking with a certain wistfulness.

"Very much," Iris suddenly timidly smiled at him. "Very much, indeed, Folco."

"Well then," Folco took a deep breath, and rather awkwardly, held out his elbow for her to grasp. "Iris it is then."

Iris wrapped her hand around his arm rather hesitantly, for actually she had had very little practice in these matters, but it seemed to fit rather nicely just there, and her heart gave an excited skip. "Are you staying here long, Folco?" she then felt brave enough to ask, a subject that interested her far more than the relative size of the moon.

"Not too very much longer, I expect," Folco replied with obvious disappointment. "Frodo Baggins is a wonderful host, but I cannot rely on his generous hospitality too much longer, I'm afraid. But I plan to return quite soon, if I may."

"Are you sure you will?" Try as she might, Iris could not manage to keep all traces of disappointment from her voice.

But Folco turned to face her then, the both of them hidden from the moonglow by the shade of the giant oak, and bravely raised a gentle hand against her face. "I am very, very sure," he whispered, and met her lips with his. Their noses bumped awkwardly at first, but with a sigh, Iris turned her face and wrapped her arms about his neck. His lips were deliciously warm, and his arms swept firmly around her, and once more, Iris learned that Folco was an amazingly fast learner.

Frodo gave a start and realized, too late, that he had utterly failed at his task of acting as Fatty's look-out. Lotho had stormed up the path below where he sat, well-hidden in a gnarled oak, and was wrenching the door open before Frodo had a chance to toss the pebbles at the window and hoot thrice like an owl, the agreed-upon signal. After a guilty glance at the moon, which was much higher than he last remembered, he knew that he must have nodded off, and there was no telling quite how long Fatty had been inside. Indeed, he might have already left , but Frodo quickly considered the fact that if Fatty were indeed still on the premises, he would shortly be made aware of that detail.

Apparently, he was, for there was a sudden howl of rage, that could only have come from Lotho, and after a few moments, a sudden crash, sounding suspiciously like broken crockery. Frodo could not help but wince, as the indistinct sound of raised voices came from the smial, but before more than a couple more minutes had passed, there was a sudden silence. Curiosity was beginning to get the better of him, and he was actually slowly starting to lower himself from the tree, when there was another unexpected crash, and Lotho burst from the smial, his face a perfect mask of rage. Frodo instantly froze, but Lotho never noticed him as he strode away from the smial, and was quickly lost in the night. However, Fatty never came forth, and in a very short time, all lights were extinguished from inside the smial.

Frodo carefully finished climbing down from the tree, and dropped the pebbles to the ground. His task here was obviously at an end. He left in search of Sam.

Ted had been waiting, not far from the Sackville-Baggins smial, in an old unused shed that he knew quite well. The wooden roof had started to tilt down on one side, since the support post had slipped from its footing a couple of winters ago, and the whole ramshackle affair had the look of a carefully arranged house of cards, that would collapse with the slightest of nudges. It wouldn't have mattered, though, for there was nothing in it other than a couple of stacks of moldy hay, and a very rusty abandoned scythe. Ted knew that Lotho would find him here, for he invariably sought him out when he was in a rage, and there was no question that when he left the Green Dragon, he was in a formidable one. So Ted waited, caught between desire and trepidation, and it wasn't long before he heard Lotho approach.

There were no words, but there never was, and between the savage thrusts, Ted tightly closed his eyes, holding fast in his mind's eye to the secret fantasy he would never know, as he was all too aware, in reality. It was golden hair, all right, but never what his father wanted for him, never Rosie, never at all. It was green eyes and a quiet smile, and a dream of a gentle touch and words of love. Only a dream, really, but fiercely protected and cherished, for all of that.

Lobelia calmly handed the dripping Fatty a towel, and waited with an amused smile as he toweled his hair forcefully. "Such hot-headed, impetuous youth," she murmured, still smiling. "I can't deny that I do find this all a bit flattering, but I'm not sure that it was entirely necessary."

"I do apologize," Fatty commented wryly, proceeding down his chest after removing the drenched shirt, the only garment he had been wearing at the time. "Possibly I should have been a trifle more diplomatic, but your son did not seem inclined to pause for light conversation first. Apparently he finds the direct, physical approach more persuasive."

"Always has," Lobelia had to admit. "He did have considerable difficulty in finding playmates as a fauntling. But it does appear that he has conceded this battle to you, if not the war."

"Oh, I rather think you actually did the persuading, my dear," Fatty grinned, wrapping the towel casually about his waist. "That water pitcher was quite well tossed, I must say. No permanent harm to either party, and quite a good deal of drenching. Well played, my love."

Lobelia smiled, very nearly coquettishly, at this complement. "I've always fancied I have a rather good arm," she murmured, leaning against the frame of the bedroom door.

"An elegant, remarkably shapely arm," Fatty smoothly agreed, wrapping his hand around her waist, and encouraging her, not a difficult task in the least, back into the room that they had quite hastily left not too long before. "And not only the arm, I must say. Possibly the rest of your limbs require investigation as well. Oh, and perhaps we should remember the lock this time, my dear."

Frodo found Sam waiting for him under the great cedar that stood by the side of the lane that ran from Hobbiton to Bag End. It was Sam's favorite place to wait for him, for he loved the deep woody scent of the tree, and the way he could look up through the dark, jutting limbs to the stars above. There was no difficulty in finding him, with the full moon shining as brightly as it was this autumn night, and Sam stepped forward, as he approached, with his hands held out for Frodo's. Frodo grasped them, and with an amused chuckle, pulled Sam closer. "What an evening, my dear," he laughed quietly, drawing Sam into his embrace. "And I suspect you have a tale to tell, as well. But that can all wait for a moment, now, I think." Sam found that an excellent proposal, as he wrapped his arms around Frodo's neck and met his lips in a tender kiss. There were occasional passers-by still on the road, sporadically drifting out from the Green Dragon, but they were laughing and discussing the evening, and paying no attention to the shadows and who might be sheltered there.

It was only as they walked slowly back home, hand in hand, that they told each other of what had happened. Sam described Lotho's sound defeat at the unlikely hands of Ned and Folco, and how he had burst out of the Green Dragon in fury. Frodo had to laughingly confess his failure as a sentry, and how Lotho had made but a brief appearance at the Sackville-Baggins' smial. Together, they speculated for a bit on what might have occurred, but quickly agreed that Fatty, whenever he reappeared, would undoubtedly be willing to give a most interesting account of any events which might have occurred.

But that was a matter for another time, and now was not that time. Tonight was a night for them alone, and when they reached Bag End, Frodo stopped in the lane. There were no lights to be seen, so apparently, Folco was not back yet. And it was highly unlikely, of course, that they would be seeing Fatty again this evening. They had the smial to themselves for the first time in at least a week. Yet Frodo made no move to enter, but gave Sam a questioning glance.

"Aye, so we'll be walkin' on yet a bit?" Sam chuckled, tightening his grip just the tiniest amount. "It is a lovely night, me dear, and no mistake."

"Such a shame to waste a glorious moon like this one," Frodo murmured with a smile.

" 'Tis indeed, Frodo-love," Sam quickly agreed, and they continued up the path that wound further past the back of Bag End. Through the back gardens they walked, frosted and clearly lit with the moonglow, and back to the apple orchard. The air was scented with the sweet fragrance, since the windfalls from the last storm still lay thick on the ground, and Sam couldn't help but give them a critical eye.

"I'd best be getting back here tomorrow," he muttered to himself.

"I'll help," Frodo offered quickly. "Especially if we still have guests. But not tonight, Sam, not tonight." Dropping Sam's hand unexpectedly, he suddenly ran ahead past the trees, to the field that lay beyond.

Sam, though, knew exactly where he was going, and broke into a run at his heels, and caught up to Frodo just as he turned around. "Ah, 'tis here you wanted to be?" he teased him, laughing, catching Frodo in his arms and spinning him around under the moon.

"And if we aren't just as besot as the others," Frodo gaily laughed as well, falling to the grass in Sam's arms. "It's a night meant for love, Sam, so kiss me, my dear, and lie here with me, and we'll let them find breakfast on their own."