[Primrose Bolger]

‘Oh, my! Mister Derufin’s hurt!’ Ginger motioned frantically for Cook to hurry over to the opened back door of the kitchen. She’d just stepped out onto the top step to shake out the duster, when she saw the poor man propped up between Mistress Zimzi’s brothers. He stumbled along, and even from this distance looked a bit haggard to the Hobbit.

Cook hurried to where Ginger stood, drying her hands on her apron as she came. ‘See,’ said Ginger, pointing to the trio as they approached. ‘Oh, what will we tell poor Zimzi. And the party, there’ll be no reason for it now, with him hurt so and unable to be there for the handfasting.’ She’d gotten herself worked into a teary state, sniffling a bit as she wiped her eyes on her own apron. The low, rumbling of Cook’s chuckle broke her from her despondent state.

Hands on hips, and now laughing outright at the sight nearing her door, Cook shook her head. ‘Make up a pot of tea, girl,’ she ordered in a no nonsense tone. ‘And lace it with honey . . . plenty of honey. Fetch me my herb box from my room, too. Now hurry!’ Vinca stepped out to help the brothers get Derufin up the two short steps and to a chair at the kitchen table. He sat slumped over the table’s top, elbows resting on it, head in hands. A brief whispered conference between Cook and the brothers ensued.

Ginger walked the mug of tea carefully over to where Derufin sat. She spooned three generous dollops of honey and stirred the thick mixture. The spoon clinked against the side of the mug, and Derufin looked up at her blearily, putting his hands firmly over his ears. Cook had fetched some of the herbs from her medicine box and crumbled them into the sweet liquid. Brows raised, she tapped Derufin on the shoulder, telling him in a quiet, firm voice to ‘Drink up!’

‘Is he going to live?’ Ginger asked, crowding in close to Cook. The man looked quite green about his features and beneath the green tinge was a definite, dull and deathly pallor.