[Primrose Bolger]

A small whirlwind of dust moved up the dirt path from the road, whirring toward the Inn. From the midst of it came a chiding voice. ‘You should never have stopped to cool your feet in the stream, Ginger Gamwich! Oh! What will Mother say? And you so late!’ The whir came to a halt, the dust settled, just outside the back kitchen door.

A Hobbit lass in robin’s-egg blue stood smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt and apron in a vain effort to improve her appearance. Her face was flushed from exertion, her carrot red curls askew from the run. She dipped her hands quickly beneath the pump spout in the kitchen’s yard and flapped them hastily in the air to dry them.

‘That’s about as good as can be done for now,’ she sighed to herself. With a less than firm resolve she pulled open the screened door to the kitchen and went in. Standing nervously on the flagstone floor, she called out into the seemingly empty room. A large pot of soup was on the hob, cooking for lunch she supposed. And lined up along the counter were the day’s loaves of bread ready to be called into service. The door to the cellar, she noted, was open, and she could hear someone rustling about down the stairs.

‘Miz Bunce,’ she called out, hoping someone would hear her. ‘It’s Ginger Gamwich. Me mum’s sent me to help. Anyone here?’