Frodo sat up, grabbed his head with a grimace, and squinted at the window. What time was it? Obviously he was in the parlour on the couch, but hadn't he done this once already this morning? Very early this morning, granted. And now, to make waking up with a stiff neck worse, he had a headache from Aunt Belladonna's wonderful brandy.

The chair across from him was empty. Bilbo had apparently awakened at some point and, being the smart hobbit he was, gone back to his own warm bed.

It was still dark out or at least a murky grey, and there was no sound from the kitchen. Bilbo must still be in that nice warm bed.

Frodo first chafed his hands then rubbed fruitlessly at his arms. He heard dripping from somewhere and squinted warily at the window again. Still pouring. No wonder there was something dripping somewhere. A fire would be good. He could get some tea going and something for breakfast before Bilbo woke. Yes, some hot tea would be good about now.

Stumbling into the kitchen, he sighed with relief at the pile of firewood in the box. Bless Sam's good hobbit sense. Frodo built a good stack and lit the kindling quickly. Sam kept the box filled to overflowing no matter the season or the weather. He would have to make sure the boxes were full with Sam gone--

It was so sudden that it caught him off guard -- poleaxed him as he stood there filling the kettle.

Sam. Gone.

He pressed his hand to his chest. It was like a giant gaping hole inside him -- sucking in light and air.

Sam. Gone.

Gone to Tighfield. If it was this cold within the warm confines of Bag End-- He closed his eyes at the thought. Frodo could only hope that Sam had found shelter in the night -- somewhere. "Be safe and warm somewhere, Sam," he whispered into the quiet room. "Please be safe."

Frodo tried to look out the kitchen window at the garden as he swung the kettle over the flames, but the window was fogged over and dripping with moisture. What he could see was just brown mud and standing pools of water.

Without Sam in the garden, it might as well have washed away completely. Without Sam in the garden, the day seemed even darker and drearier.

Sitting down at the kitchen table stiffly, he tried not to think at all -- or at least not to think on Sam. Bilbo would likely want to be awakened. There had likely been some damage last night and there was the potential for more, if this kept up. They needed to check on all the Baggins' tenants, and everyone else in Hobbiton for that matter.

But he would wait to have the tea steeping first. And perhaps some toast ready, if there was any bread left from yesterday.

He heard the front door open and then there was a great deal of whispering and a shushing noise as the hinges creaked and the door shut.

"Frodo?" It was Bilbo's voice, and it sounded a bit -- strained. "I hope you are up my boy. We need a bit of help here."

Frodo was up and into the parlour in a trice. Bilbo stood there dripping wet in front of the coat rack holding a basket mounded high with damp linens. And Daisy stood beside him with her own wet load.

Bilbo set down his basket and began struggling out of his own sodden cloak. Marigold stood hidden behind them. Frodo couldn't see her face back in the cloak hood, but he knew it wasn't fragile May under that load of laundry.

Before either of them could react, Frodo moved quickly and pulled Marigold's basket into his hands, setting it on the tiles then taking the one in Daisy's grip.

For a moment, she didn't release it, and he looked up to see that her face was pale, her mouth set in a pained line beneath her hood. He raised his eyebrows in a query and her fingers loosened.

"It is quite an upheaval out there, my lad. Trees uprooted, limbs everywhere." Bilbo swabbed at his face with his handkerchief. "The Gamgees here had their chimney struck down in the midst of it all and Daddy Twofoot had a window blown into his kitchen. And the Widow's door was blocked with debris and mud."

"Was anyone hurt? Do you need me to--"

"No, no. No one hurt yet, but I only managed to get to the Row. We did clear the Widow's door, which was the most pressing thing. We need her to be available for anyone who was hurt in this." Bilbo shook his hat, flinging water everywhere. "She is down there preparing right now, but I don't want her venturing out alone. She needs to go along to check on the other tenants, there may be worse damage yet to find."

"I'll get my things." Frodo moved to get his own cloak.

"Yes, yes. The ladies here are going to hang the laundry here to dry, since their hole is without heat and a trifle under siege at the moment and--"

"Mister Bilbo--"

"I insist, my dear Miss Gamgee. This isn't going to let up and it will all go to mildew and as MY linens are in there, there is no reason not to use my racks to dry them," Bilbo said matter-of-factly.

Daisy looked back at Marigold resignedly and threw off her hood. "Well, this will fill your racks and more, truth be told."

"My point," Bilbo said a hint of exasperation that only Frodo likely heard. "Frodo, I'm sure you can rig up some kind of apparatus in one or two of the spare rooms that the ladies can use to hang the laundry."

Frodo thought about the supplies he had sorted through so carefully yesterday at Bilbo's instruction -- he had seen a spool of sturdy line amongst them. "I am certain I can come up with something."

"Good, good." Bilbo clapped his hand on Frodo's shoulder briskly.

Frodo moved to help Daisy struggle out of her cloak and hung it up, then reached for Marigold's, apparently catching her by surprise as she stared at the dark opening that led off to his rooms. When those hazel eyes -- so much like Sam's -- snapped back to meet his gaze, she stepped backwards, then looked down, her cheeks stained with colour as she shrugged out of her cloak.

Frodo pondered her strange reaction as he hung both cloaks, sodden with moisture, on the rack. "I was just about to bring in extra wood. We can use those two rooms on either side of the airing cupboard and that chimney is shared, so the whole of it will warm up quickly."

Bilbo waved off the details. "I leave the ladies in your capable hands. Once you've helped them, could you make your way down to the Row and see if the Gaffer is in need of another strong back to help clear the debris and rebuild that chimney of his?" Frodo saw a flicker of warning in his cousin's quick glance and felt a frisson of apprehension. First Marigold, now Bilbo. What had been said about Sam's absence?

"I am going to grab a quick cup of tea and something to sustain me and be off. I'll brew an extra pot. But I have a feeling we will need more than strong tea before this day is out." Bilbo bustled off through the parlour, pulling off his jacket and shaking it out as he went.

Daisy hefted up her basket onto one hip. "We'll fill the racks in the airing cupboard first then." Marigold quickly followed suit and slipped past Frodo and her sister with her gaze on the floor. "Marigold can see to the fires while I hang what I can in there. Hopefully it'll dry and be long outta your way come tea time."

Frodo followed them down the dark corridor and watched as Marigold attempted, unsuccessfully, not to appear to be glancing into each room as she passed. Clearly, she was looking for something -- or someone. His dark, empty bedroom -- lit only with the timid grey light seeping through the shutters and strewn with drying papers and clothes -- his dark and deserted study. Daisy stopped in front of the door to the first spare room and put down her load as Marigold went on to the airing cupboard door. Frodo managed to edge by her and go on to the next spare room. He pushed the door open into blackness and chill, setting the basket just inside the door.

Marigold had already turned up the lamp in the corridor and lit a spill from it as he walked back out. Turning with the feeble flame protected by her hand, she passed her sister with only the briefest of looks and then went on into the other room to light the lamp and see to the fire.

Daisy opened the airing cupboard -- which at Bag End was quite spacious and well appointed -- and dragged the basket in. Frodo hesitated in the doorway, his shadow falling on her as she bent over the linens.

"I headed toward Tighfield last night."

She looked him up and down with narrowed eyes then nodded, as if his appearance confirmed his words.

"But I-- I had to turn back--"

"Mister Bilbo said sommat to us all about you rescuin' that old peddler out on the road and that you'd be helping him see to all the damage today." There was a clear question in her gaze.

He nodded. "But I will make sure Sam gets back home, once all this is--"

"The Gaffer won't speak of him nor hear him spoken on," she whispered tightly, looking down at the mound of sheets.

Frodo stepped closer, his heart pounding.

When she looked up, her eyes looking flat and dark in the dim light. "I told him Sam was gone off to Tighfield and-- and now-- It's as if he'd never--" Her voice broke and he saw the sheen of tears in her eyes and the rigid set of fear in her jaw. "As if he never was. Just like them."

Frodo felt his heart give a fearful lurch. "Daisy?"

Daisy stood, glancing at the door, then back to him, her face pale and pinched, her eyes swimming. "As if he was never born. I-- I don't know what we're gonna do, but I can't talk of it just now. Mari--" She looked back at the door. "I just can't. Please? Just go."

He took a tentative step towards her, but she held up a hand and looked down at the floor. "Please?" she whispered urgently.

There was more than just a plea to leave the cupboard in that word -- so much more.

"He will come home, Daisy," he said firmly and spun around, walking blindly towards the kitchen.

This was impossible. His thoughts were just a muddled swirl, but he had to understand this somehow. He had to work it out.

Bilbo was standing before the fire cradling his cup and drinking it carefully as if it was too hot but he was in a hurry. The remains of a hasty breakfast were on the sideboard. He seemed lost in thought as Frodo entered.

"Uncle Bilbo?"

"Oh, Frodo. Good, good. I was hoping we could talk for a moment before I depart."

"I'll go with you. If you could just wait until--"

"No, I've been thinking," Bilbo gazed at the fire again. "I likely should have done something about this whole situation long ago, but--" He looked up at Frodo, his face solemn. "As much as I may meddle in my relatives' lives," he reached out to grasp Frodo's shoulder warmly, "with the very best of intentions, my lad, I have always been reluctant to meddle in the affairs of my neighbours. Much as I prefer them not to meddle in mine -- or yours for that matter." He patted Frodo's arm firmly. "But the time has come to meddle. Perhaps the time is long past, but no use mourning over it."

Frodo stood there feeling completely at a loss. "Daisy says the Gaffer is acting as if Sam--" He couldn't even put the words around it.

"Yes, yes. As I said, stubborn and immovable. It is his strength, and his greatest weakness as well. But I believe the time has come to help the Gaffer get free of this knot in which he is tangled," Bilbo said quickly. "And us as well."

"Knot?" Frodo knew his face revealed his thoughts. "But Sam--"

"Yes, I know Sam thinks the knot is his to solve, but--" He drank the last of his tea and set the cup down with finality. "I think this is the Gaffer's knot, and perhaps we all need to work to help him untie it."

"Help him?" Frodo was aghast. Help someone who could forget he had sons? Who could apparently turn his back on them without so much as a blink?

"Yes, help him. Frodo my lad, it is a long story, and I will tell what I know of it to you -- tonight, when we are hopefully warm and dry in our hole and this unceasing storm has ended," Bilbo assured. "Till then, you go down to Bagshot Row and practice being as stubborn and bull-headed as the Gaffer."

"But if he's acting--"

"Precisely! He is acting and, my boy, I know you can out-act that old codger. Oh, he is good at it, but no one has tried to best him at his own game."

Frodo was completely at a loss. "I am sorry Bilbo, but I don't understand."

"I know lad, but trust me. Just do this. Act as if Sam has gone off to visit his relatives -- to visit his brothers Hamson and Halfred and his Uncle Andy and their families in Tighfield -- as if this was something that occurred with regularity -- as if it was the most normal thing in the world for the Gamgees to visit their kin and for Sam to just head down the road to see them."

Frodo's mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. He tried again. "Uncle Bilbo, you are mad."

"I know." Bilbo allowed himself a quick grin. "Fine. So, I am mad, and, in fact, half the Westfarthing thinks you are as well, or at least getting there. So?" Bilbo raised his eyebrows expressively.

"But, I don't see how--"

"Trust me, Frodo. Just trust me. I think you will see the logic after you hear the story, or at least what I know of it."

"Just act as if Sam is away visiting kin? As if he planned this and the Gaffer didn't force him out--"

"Is that more preposterous than what the Gaffer is doing? Pretending the boy never existed?"

Frodo felt a chill at those words. "No," he whispered.

"You can do it, lad." Those blue-grey eyes met his solemnly. "If anyone can."

***

"Just a tad more, if ya can manage," Daddy Twofoot yelled from above.

Frodo tried to plant his feet more firmly in the mud and pull with all his might. There was a shout from above and below him and the pressure on the rope he was holding suddenly released. He found himself sitting in cold slippery mud for the hundredth time that day.

Lifting his frozen, aching hands, he laid his wrists gingerly on his knees. The gloves had been more bother than help, but now his palms were raw and red from the rope. Luckily he couldn't really feel them, at the moment any way.

The water streaming into his face made it hard for him to see the activity above him or below him clearly, but if they had succeeded, a section of mortared stone that had been knocked sideways and lodged into the top of the Gamgee chimney had been pulled clear. If they had adequately secured the wall and the remaining mortar had held, no more damage should have occurred.

"Nothin' fell. Nothin' large anyways!"

It was Daisy's voice, sounding relieved, from below.

"It's clear up here!" Daddy Twofoot shouted back from above.

Frodo grimaced at the Gaffer's growled response. The elder Gamgee was likely repeating his litany about 'one too many hands spoiling the job' and 'carrying on just fine on his own'. Too few hands was more like it. Just Frodo and Daddy Twofoot and one of the teenaged Chubb lads from up the Row. Everyone else was busy with their own cleanup and recovery, and with the rain continuing to pound down, it appeared things were just going to get worse.

"Horace! You all in one piece?" Frodo shouted.

"Yessir, Mister Baggins, sir," came the response from the other side of the hole.

Horace Chubb was a huge fellow, for his age. A tad dim -- but as gentle as he could be, and completely intimidated by the idea of working side by side with the Master's heir. No matter how many times Frodo and Bilbo proved their mettle at all the tasks necessary to running a major holding, their tenants -- and most of Hobbiton -- persisted in seeing them as soft and unused to physical labour. Bilbo said the fault could be laid at the doorstep of lazy and pretentious types like the Sackville-Bagginses and others of their ilk.

Pushing his dripping hair out of his eyes, for the hundredth time, Frodo winced as his hands throbbed in response. He looked at them and realised the knuckles were scraped and torn as well. Nothing for it. He pushed himself to his feet wearily. They still had to try to get a rudimentary chimney back in place and braced. He wondered, once again, what time it was. It was hard to tell with the rain and the eternal gloom that accompanied it.

He slid, staggered, and ended up planting his hand firmly in mud trying to gain his footing.

"Come eat now!" Daisy shouted. "Mari fetched hot food down from Bag End an' you need to rest and get warm!"

Frodo peered up the hill and waited. It was hard to tell what the Gaffer was going to do from moment to moment. He heard a muttered consultation then saw two figures emerge from the direction of the chimney and the dark head of the Chubb lad bobbing down the other side of the hill. He turned and there was a sudden shout as Horace lost his footing in the mud and slid down the incline to land, unceremoniously, at Daisy's feet.

He couldn't see the look on Horace's face, but Daisy bent over him anxiously and Frodo could clearly see the lad go red. Horace was on his feet quickly, stammering an apology and looking back to see if any damage was done to the retainer wall. She shushed him and shooed him into the hole, peering up anxiously at her father's progress down the incline then disappearing within.

Watching his own footing as he made his way down the slope, Frodo knew with an anxious certainty that if the rain kept up at this rate for much longer they would have much more to worry about than chimneys -- much more.

Work had already been underway that morning when Frodo had climbed up to the top of the Gamgee smial. It looked as if something large had fallen right on top of the chimney, not just knocking it over, but literally pushing it into the ground. Horace had been struggling to pull a chunk of mortared stone out of the ruined chimney, by sheer force of will and young muscle, with the Gaffer's limited attempts to assist on another rope and Daddy Twofoot cleaning mortar off of loose stones preparing them for the rebuilding effort. Frodo had taken a quick look at the situation, found a nice sturdy wooden pole, and leveraged it under the chunk, lifting it free as Horace gave it one more tug. The Gaffer had wordlessly stepped back to join Daddy Twofoot, but Frodo had not missed the sudden squint in his direction -- a glance that slid just as quickly away.

From that point on, Frodo had silently gone to work, assisting Horace with the heaviest pieces while the Gaffer and Daddy Two Foot broke apart and cleaned the mortar off stones, until he and Horace had worked their way down to a really large section that had fallen in. Frodo had figured out a way, by knocking out enough space on four sides and sending Horace off to retrieve a few green branches that had just the right angle, to tie rope to a branch and weave it carefully under the slab to get leverage. They had succeeded by trial and error -- and with many scraped knuckles -- in securing the piece firmly with plenty of rope and now, finally, in pulling it free.

Managing to make the front step of Number 3 without falling was an accomplishment. Frodo realised that he was far too filthy and wet and bedraggled to set foot in any decent hole. Of course, he thought as he looked inside, the hole was much the worse for wear as well.

Daisy had done her best. Most of the mortar and dust and debris that had fallen down the chimney and onto the floor of the kitchen had been swept away once the larger stones were removed. The table and kitchen counter gleamed, but he could still see a coating of dust and soot she hadn't managed to reach and the raw splintered wood on the edge of the cabinet told the tale of the force of the collapse.

"Please come in and don't be mindin' the floor. There's warm water and soap for your hands at least." She nodded towards where young Horace was blushing as he dried his hands and Marigold stood waiting with a steaming pitcher next to the sink. Frodo grimaced and stepped in. Everything was just going to be muddy and wet for a while.

"I apologise in advance. I know that I am thoroughly coated in mud from head to toe--"

Marigold smiled. "Well, you're mostly streaky. The rain seems to have handled the worst--"

"Don't you worry a bit about it, Mister Frodo. Horace tells me you practically crawled down into the chimney. I wish we could offer more'n just a pitcher for yer hands," Daisy interrupted.

"And I am more than grateful for just that." Frodo rolled up his sleeves as he walked over to the sink, picking up the round of soap and holding his hands out gingerly. He grunted and closed his eyes as the warm water hit chilled, raw flesh, then gritted his teeth and soaped up quickly.

Hearing a sound of dismay from Marigold, Frodo opened his eyes to see her gazing at his hands. They weren't that bad. He had had much worse at Brandy Hall during harvest, but, admittedly, he hadn't really used them this hard in a while -- between pulling the handcart last night and now this. Horace offered the towel up timidly after rubbing it over his own soaked hair and Frodo grabbed it quickly before Daisy decided to pull out the salve and bandages. That would be all he needed today.

"We've good thick stew an' fresh bread and butter an' some hot stewed fruit for afters." Daisy pushed Horace into a seat at the table and looked up at Frodo, who was unsuccessfully trying to dry his dripping hair with the sodden, filthy towel.

Frodo looked at the chairs in dismay as he handed Daisy the towel, trying to remember, in the few times he had caught the Gamgees sitting down to a meal, where Sam and the Gaffer sat. Sitting in either of those places would not go down well in the present circumstances. He watched as Daisy glanced at a chair, sure that she would guide him right, and grimaced at the thought of his filthy clothes and face and hair at Daisy's carefully cleaned and polished board.

But eating was going to be difficult anyway, if not impossible. Just attempting to negotiate the Gaffer's current reality had already created a dead weight in Frodo's stomach and a painful throb at his temples. Attempting to shove food on top of that was undoubtedly a bad idea. Frodo just wanted to be on the road to Tighfield with all of this behind him -- far behind. He certainly didn't want to be playing some risky game with Sam's future happiness -- a game where he didn't even know the rules.

He looked up as the Gaffer limped in the door, glowering at everyone and somehow managing to acknowledge Frodo's presence without meeting his gaze. Frodo glared at the worn tabletop. It was as if Sam had just been erased -- as if he had never been. And that alone set a fire in Frodo's gut that he knew must smoulder in his eyes as well. Daisy had seen it when he had arrived at the door of Number 3 earlier. But even though she had flinched from the expression on his face and hesitated, she had still pointed silently towards the top of the smial. Undoubtedly she had surmised in that moment that this day was not going to pass without some kind of confrontation. Oddly, he imagined that she must be both dreading it and welcoming it at the same time. Surely the Gamgees did not want to continue living this--

"Go on and serve our guests then. No sense waitin'," growled the Gaffer.

Daisy quickly began dipping out steaming ladles of stew as May poured tea. Frodo grasped his mug gratefully in both hands as she filled it. The heat was wonderful and painful at the same time. He closed his eyes and breathed in the fragrant steam. Somehow, it felt wrong to even drink hot tea when he didn't know if Sam was still out in this infernal storm with no chance of a hot meal or even shelter.

The hole left by Sam's absence was so obvious he marvelled at how they were all stepping so carefully around it. The work to recover would have gone twice as fast with Sam's strong back and wide shoulders--

Frodo shook his head, spraying brown water over the table then realised his mistake. "My apologies."

"Never you mind. We are beyond grateful for yer help today," Daisy responded, mopping up the worst of it with a damp towel. Please eat afore it goes cold."

At that moment, Frodo heard the Gaffer clear his throat and knew the Gamgee patriarch was going to make some comment about this altered version of reality that he had created for himself -- that he had contrived, by sheer force of will, for them all. It was time to confront this particular dragon, Frodo decided. There wouldn't be a better time.

"Well, I knew it would be difficult for you with Sam heading off to Tighfield when he did." Frodo's voice sounded tight and tense in his own ears, but he prayed that it was a light enough tone. He lifted a spoonful of the stew. "I would have thought he would have turned around and come home, but it must not have been as bad farther west."

The room had gone completely still, but Frodo shut his eyes and shoved the stew into his mouth, chewing and swallowing with gusto and diving in for another without looking up.

"I am going to give our Sam a bit of a talking to though, for skiving off on all this work--" He shoved another spoonful into his mouth, completely unaware of the taste as he chewed and swallowed with what he hoped was a sigh of contentment. He stiffened his resolve further and opened his eyes to look at Daisy as he reached for the bread and butter. "And missing this wonderful stew. Is this your recipe Miss Daisy, or did one of your lovely sisters create this marvellous dish?"

Daisy's grey eyes were huge and dark in complete contrast to her face, which had gone a pasty shade of white.

He ignored her expression and hastily buttered a piece of the fragrant bread. "No, I think Sam told me that Miss Marigold is the one of his sisters who loves to concoct stews and soups. I warrant this is one of her creations. And he says that you -- Miss Daisy -- are the one who makes the excellent bread pudding that he brings up the Hill from time to time. So I wonder what Miss May's specialty is, then." He found his mouth too dry to manage the bread and washed it down quickly with another swig of tea.

"Miz May makes the best fruit pie I e'er tasted yet," Horace said quietly.

Frodo nearly shut his eyes in relief. Bless Horace's honesty.

Luckily May was clinging to the teapot with both hands, her already pale face now tinged with grey as she stood next to the fireplace and stared at Frodo as if he had grown two heads.

Frodo smiled at her. "Exactly! I remember well. Those blackberry pies at the festival last year were the most unbelievable creations I have ever seen," he said quickly. "Those intricate vines and berries on the top -- it was a shame to slice them."

He was rewarded with a blush from May and Horace both.

"Sam told me that your skill with embroidery is much the same. And I think I have seen some of your work for sale at the fairs." Frodo forged on, holding up his cup for more tea and ignoring the fact that everyone in the room was frozen in place except for Horace, who appeared to have decided to follow Frodo's lead, likely because he could not reason out what else to do.

For a moment May stared at his cup, then she took a stiff step forward, her eyes darting to where her father still undoubtedly stood at the sink.

"My Aunt Eglantine had some pieces of yours made into a dress for one of my cousins, I think -- on the pockets and the collar. It was of that flower that Sam has planted in masses under the trees and around the well -- that lovely tiny blue flower with the yellow heart. What is it called?"

May came all the way to the table and poured him a steaming cup with a shaky hand. "Forget-me-not," she whispered.

"That's it. Forget-Me-Not. I like that name. Forget-Me-Not." Frodo paused to take a deep breath and then a drink. He suddenly remembered something that Pippin had said about meals with the aunts at Great Smials -- "They get themselves in a snit about something that makes no difference at all, so I just talk about something that doesn't make a difference either. It seems to make them forget the other thing pretty fast, especially if I talk fast, eat faster, and don't breathe much. At least I do live through the meal anyways. And I am full at the end." Frodo smiled at the memory of Pippin's cheery voice and cheeky grin.

"Miz May's needlework is unmatched, me mum says. At least in Hobbiton n' Bywater," Horace offered.

"Well, I have seen no better in the Shire. Is there any kind of needlework you can't do Miss May?"

May looked at her older sister, clearly seeking guidance in how to deal with this suddenly upside-down world.

"May's always wanted to learn to make lace," piped up Marigold from the sink.

"Lace?" Frodo stopped with a spoonful of stew halfway to his mouth.

"Hush girl, no one's talkin' at you," growled the Gaffer.

May stepped back from the table, gazing at her father, her eyes wide.

Frodo put his spoon down dramatically and twisted around in his chair. He heard the collective intake of breath but ignored it, smiling broadly. "Gaffer Gamgee, it's not proper for us to sit here filling the corners with you and Daddy Twofoot still standing there and you starving in your own kitchen. Please do come and join us. This food is delicious." He turned back, ignoring the Gaffer's red face and Daddy Twofoot's slack jaw.

"So, where are the best lacemakers in the Shire then? I wasn't aware that we had none in Hobbiton or Bywater." He took another nearly tasteless gulp of the stew, although it was beginning to actually taste like something now. He was beginning to realise that this was no worse that the worst of the meals in the family dining room at Brandy Hall. He just had to keep that in mind. Some members of his family also lived in their own state of reality at times -- a state far removed from the real world. And Pippin's technique did work -- actually much better than his own much-used technique at the Hall of just staying quiet and hoping to be invisible.

No one responded. He heard a mutter from the Gaffer and the sound of water behind him, undoubtedly the Gaffer urging Daddy Twofoot to go first at the sink.

"Me mum says the best laces come from Tighfield, Mister Frodo, sir." It was Horace to the rescue once more.

The stew was not too salty and had a touch of some spice that Frodo couldn't place -- and big chunks of potatoes and onions and carrots. It was actually quite good and Frodo thought his stomach might be unclenching a bit, and was quite empty as well.

"Tighfield. Well--" Frodo took another bite of bread and butter. The bread was still warm. He could use some honey in his tea as well. He looked around the table and spotted it. "Well, certainly one of your kin there must know lace-making then, Miss May."

There was a cough from Daisy and he met her gaze as Daddy Twofoot sat down beside him. Frodo was pleased to see some colour back in her cheeks as she stared at him in disbelief, her eyes wide. He smiled at her and, for the first time since he had come down here from Bag End he realised that he actually felt like smiling. Perhaps Bilbo was right. Perhaps they were all caught in this knot the Gaffer had created -- including the Gaffer himself. Perhaps there was some way to extricate them after all.

Daddy Twofoot was simply staring at him.

Then again it was a very old knot, and likely hard to undo.

"Fripperies and folderol," the Gaffer growled as he sat down opposite Frodo. Daisy dipped out stew quickly and May poured him a cup of tea.

Frodo swallowed -- remembered Pippin and the aunts -- and forged ahead. "Well, I don't know. Without the rope that comes out of Tighfield we wouldn't have cleared your chimney very quickly today, Gaffer. I know for a fact the ships that ply the Brandywine rely on it and actually deliver it to customers outside the Shire as well."

At that, Daddy Twofoot gaped. "Ta men? Gamgee rope?"

Frodo nodded, taking another gulp of tea. He was actually beginning to warm up a bit.

"Seconds then Horace? Your bowl is empty," Daisy said quickly.

"If you have enough, Miss Daisy, ma'am."

Daisy ladled his bowl full and looked meaningfully at Frodo. He was obviously not following Pippin's instruction properly. He shovelled in a couple of quick spoonfuls and held up his bowl obediently.

"It makes sense I think, based on what little I know of rope making. It has a great deal to do with twisting and knotting. From what I have seen of lace making, it is basically the same idea, on a different scale." Frodo saw all the Gamgee sisters staring at him and he grinned. "Well, I was surrounded by aunts and female cousins at the Hall and when I was young and couldn't get away fast enough, I got drafted into holding yarn and all manner of tasks." He held up his cup for a refill. "Based on Miss May's beautiful needlework, I imagine she would do quite well at lace making."

"Plenty of work around here to do already," the Gaffer growled.

The girls suddenly seemed to find something to do in the kitchen.

"Well, yes, of course, but, from what I have seen Miss May's needlework could fetch a good sum at market and make some lovely lasses very happy as well. And my Uncle Paladin complains about the price he has to pay for enough good lace to keep his daughters happy." He watched honey drip into his cup and stirred it, smiling. "Of course, the most important thing is doing something you enjoy with those you love surrounding you. If it puts bread on the table, all the better."

The Gaffer grunted and dug into his own stew.

"Like our Sam. I have never seen anyone so happy as Sam when he has his hands buried in good black earth," Frodo said quickly. "Except perhaps you, Gaffer."

Everyone was holding their breath again.

Frodo took a bite of stew. It was actually quite good and still hot as well.

"Of course, he is even happier when he is deadheading his flowers and trying to get just this colour or that in a certain part of the garden." Frodo pointed towards the Hill with his spoon. "I don't think he will be at ease until there is a veritable sea of flowers and fruit trees around Bag End with only the narrowest paths clear to sail among them."

Frodo could almost picture that sea of colour.

"Samwise does know his way with blooms, me mum says," Horace spoke up.

Daisy was blinking at him. Or she had something in her eye, Frodo couldn't tell which.

"Your mum is exactly right, Horace," Frodo agreed. "I fear what Sam will find on the Hill when he returns, though, if this downpour doesn't stop soon."

The Gaffer made some noise and Frodo looked up at him attentively, as did everyone in the room, but it was clear after a moment the Gaffer's plan was to stay quiet while still reminding everyone who was really in charge in this smial.

Well, what the Gaffer was forgetting was who was in charge on the entire Hill -- and who would be. Frodo rubbed at the ache between his eyes and his fingers came away grimy.

"Some hot stewed apricots then? And more tea?" Daisy spoke up quickly.

Frodo looked at his fingers with a frown, then forced a smile. "Absolutely."

It was going to be a long afternoon.

***

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