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Tindomion
‘Stuffed shirt?!’ Tindomion shook his head at Cook and gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Am I to be schooled by a Halfling now as well as my own flesh and blood?’
He was on the verge of sinking into a pool of self pity when his eye caught the half smile playing about the Hobbit’s lips. Try as he might, he could not muster the indignation, much less the anger, it would take to put Cook in her place. He chuckled, the thought occurring to him that perhaps it was he who had been properly put in his place.
‘By the stars and moon! You women must have your way, I see!! And what is worse is that ‘stuffed shirt’ might seem an appropriate epithet for my attitude of late.’
He turned his fair grey eyes on her for a moment. His lips formed a moue of final exasperation. ‘I am all played out with this.’ He leaned toward her a frown clouding his fair features. ‘Mother me for a brief moment, Mistress Bunce. What shall I do?’
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Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . .
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