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Marigold was curled up on the window-seat, and she watched the departure of the boys through bleary eyes, drowsily waving and blowing kisses. Then she sighed, folded her arms, and dropped her head, staring absently across the room. Occasionally she would reach up and brush a lock of hair out of her eyes, and soon those very eyes began to close, as she wondered if the tall man would sing any songs.
Falco bent over her and saw that she had fallen asleep. And he couldn't blame her. He himself was more than ready for bed, after the song-playing with the lads. He remembered Uien's kind words, but all the same he could not help but feel relief that Mithalwen was not there to carry Marigold off to bed. He put her arms about her and lifted her up. She started, and clutched frantically at him, and then she went limp again. "It's just you Mr. Headstrong," she murmured. And then, without opening her eyes, she turned her head and called: "Good night, Rory!"
Falco carried her to her room and tucked her into bed. She lifted her head for a moment to tell him good night, and then fell aganist the pillows and began to breathe softly and steadily. Falco softly crept to his own room.
He could hear the wind rustling through the trees, and as he looked out the window he saw the lantern on Gil's cart as it disappeared around the bend. He reflected for a moment on Camille, Rory, and their mother; on the musicians; and on the man from Rohan. And then he thought of Marigold, with her sweet little ways, and her shining eyes that recalled to him the days of his youth. He turned and went to his bed.
"At least," he said, after opening one of the drawers to make sure the tin whistle that had belonged to Marigold's father was still safe, "there are lads like Gil and Tomlin and the other boys who can keep on singing the old songs, when I'm growing as old as the songs myself."
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