[Nurumaiel]

Posco had left for the Inn early that morning, and no doubt he was already out riding with Lily.

Marcho tugged at the little girl's hand, and she clung harder to it. Really, it was must unfair that he had to take care of the girl. She was such a feisty and spirited little thing, and he knew nothing about taking care of children, let alone little girls! Why couldn't it have been Bingo, who would know just what to say and just what to do? The child was odd... she was not beautiful in face but she had a trick of deluding a hobbit into thinking she was. Her brown curls were wild and unruly, though she had been sitting in front of a mirror for hours that morning trying to comb it down. It wouldn't be combed. For every curl that was put neatly in place two more would spring up to fall in her face and tumble about her eyes. Her eyes were large and brown and soft like a deer's, but not gentle and mild. They would glint with mischief, and then soften to be thoughtful, and then sparkle with anger. One eye was slightly larger than the other; something that was barely perceptible but something the girl noticed every time she looked in the mirror; something she very much regretted. Her cheeks were rosy, however, and her nose was the prettiest little thing. She was young, about ten years old perhaps, and the looks of sadness that passed over her features were a sign that even in her young age she had suffered. Marcho had felt compassion for her from the first; the little thing had lost her parents.

Akin to Blanco and Posco she was, in the most minor fact that she was a twin. When her parents had died her family had been split up, and she had gone to live with her Aunt Donnamira. She had nine brothers and sisters, and talked about them with the greatest deal of pride, especially her little sisters; Marcho never guessed that she had once sat in scorn of those little sisters and thought them very... 'wimpy' was the word this girl had used at the time, at it was beyond Marcho's vocabulary.

She was walking along now, trying her utmost to keep her back straight and her shoulders back, and trying not to muss her pretty green dress. The dress made her look like a wood creature, Blanco had said, for she was the colors of a tree... brown and green. The girl had looked quite indignant and had told Blanco in emphathetic tones that a hobbit had been saying just the other day what creamy skin she had; she was in no way brown-skinned. Her aunt had always made her wear her bonnet out of doors and she had never be exposed in such a way to the sun, thank you very much! Marcho had guessed from this that she was odd, but he would never have guessed that this prim and ladylike creature clinging to his hand had been in older days what might be classified by some as a 'tomboy.' Her Aunts Donnamira and Mirabella had known this well, and so had sent the girl to a relation of hers to be cared for, this particular relation turning out to be, in fact, the aunt of Blanco and Posco, Aunt Malva. Marcho would hav been deeply surprised if he had known how many grouchy aunts the girl had been in the care of... her Aunt Mirabella she had run away from, her Aunt Donnamira had scolded her, made her feel wretched and sent her right back, and after she had run away from her Aunt Mirabella again and had been inticed to go back, her Aunt Mirabella had sent her to Malva, who was also a grouchy aunt. If Marcho had known this, however, he would not have been surprised to hear that the girl considered all aunts grouchy and mean.

"Hurry up, Donnamira," said Marcho, his tone as kind as he could muster in his impatience.

Her lips formed into a pout and she looked up at him reproachfully. "Uncle Marcho," she said, "I am not called Donnamira. Well, I suppose I am, but nobody is to call me that. My wicked aunt is called Donnamira. You must do as I have asked you countless times... my name is Don."

"It isn't a very ladylike name," said Marcho, restraining his retort as to the reference to him as 'Uncle Marcho.' Ever since she had met him that morning she had insisted on calling him thus. He found that he did not mind it overmuch, and the girl had a way of saying it that charmed him.

"I know it isn't ladylike," said she, "but I couldn't possibly be called anything else. Donna I could not be called because it isn't me. I suppose if I consented to any other name besides Don it would have to be Mira but I would not wish that name either. I am Don," she finished, "and Don is me."

Marcho did not insist upon carrying the subject on. Let the girl call herself whatever she liked as long as she hurried. He made a gesture for her to move faster and she lifted her skirts the littlest bit to give her legs more freedom. "It is," she said, "improper for a girl to lift her skirts any farther than this. When I was little - " as if she was not now, was Marcho's thought " - I used to hitch my skirts up over my knees so I could run about with the boys. But my Aunt Mirabella told me it was most indecent. When I was little I did not care for her at all, but now that I am older I realize that while she is a sour old hobbit lady and very fat at that, she does know how a young hobbit girl should behave."

All through the day Marcho had noticed that the girl, despite her best efforts at being ladylike, had shown that she had a streak of impertinence in her. The things she had said about people and to people at times were not respectful. She spoke viciously about Aunt Malva and said very rude thing to that prominent old hobbit lady, and Marcho was surpised at times. The girl seemed to contradict herself. He could not know, of course, that it was a fault she had been struggling with for a year or more now. She realized it was not good to be impertinent and she tried not to be, but she found it difficult.

The Green Dragon was in sight now. Marcho breathed a sigh of relief but the hobbit girl's rosy cheeks paled and her large eyes filled with wistful longing, and she spoke in a voice Marcho could not here one name. "Rie," she said.

The Common Room was as bright and cheerful as it had ever been, and breakfast was being finished. To Don it seemed a dream. The person of Talmérië had become a ghost in the mist to her with all her practices at being ladylike, but now the red-headed woman came clearly to her again as the sights and smell of the Common Room filled her young eyes and nostrils. She remembered finding out that Talmérië had been much like her... a twin, with a large family, and now was far from home and had no one. The only difference had ever been that Rie had left of her own accord and Don had been pulled by force from her family. She remembered the first time Rie had called her darling, though it had been to tease her and aggravate her. It was a fond memory. She remembered when Rie had apologized to her for hurting her feelings, though had insisted angrily that her feelings had not been hurt. She remembered when Rie had hid her from her angry aunt who had been searching for her. She remembered when Rie had told her she was beautiful. She remembered introducing Rie to Bilbo Baggins...

A smile twitched on her face one moment, and the next peals of merry laughter were falling from her lips. Marcho started but did not stop her. The Common Room was already full of laughter and no one would notice; besides it would not do to become too much like Posco. Don was remembering in merriment how she, Donnamira, had met Frodo Baggins and what she had said to him. And then she sobered and dwelt on remembering his face. Gracious he had been, in a manner that suited Elves more than Hobbits, and he had been kindly as well. He had spoken to her in a friendly way and had treated all those about as if there were lords and ladies rather than simple Hobbits. Don had not known what to call his manner in those olden days, but she had heard Bingo Cotton speak a new word only that morning and she knew it was what Frodo Baggins was. Frodo Baggins was noble. She wished she knew where he was now. She felt she should like to see him again. And she missed Bilbo. Where had he gone?

Marcho once again held back impatience. Don was trying to pull away from him now, saying something vague about going into the kitchen. He gripped her hand firmly yet without hurting her. What business did she think she had in the kitchen? As far as he knew patrons of the Inn were preferred not to bother the staff by going into the kitchen. The girl was pulling, insisting, and giving way with reluctance. And now she was complaining of being hungry. Really, it was terribly difficult to watch children. It would be good when Peony arrived; she would surely not mind watching after the girl. Bingo wouldn't mind, either, but he had stayed behind to wait for Peony's arrival and then escort her to the Inn. Good of him, but he was needed most here.

"Sit down, Donnamira, and I'll get you something to eat," Marcho said, and she obeyed with a little huffy sigh. Blanco would arrive soon, looking glum that his twin was off alone with Lily, and then Bingo would arrive with Peony. What a mercy that would be! Peony wouldn't mind watching the little girl at all. Yet still it was a long wait. Marcho went to the counter to order the little hobbit girl some breakfast.