Ma always wanted me to pretend that I didn't know how to read or write. She didn't want other locals thinking we were some snobbish upper-class family. But Mama wants a lot of things, I long for the day where she asks me what I want. Not that it's her job to provide for me anymore. I'm a woman of my own now. Hell, this journal is turning into a rambling session. Why did it start off with my Ma? I was really thinking about Darien first! He left for an entire week without telling me!

Within the House of Three Graces, Finchley’s keen sense of smell – at least when food was involved! – picked up on the sweet, savory scent of baked apples. She, of course, followed her nose all the way into what had been dubbed the ‘dining room’ to find Addiela, who clearly had been hard at work baking. She placed down a fresh tray of apple tarts just as Finchley entered the room – the fourth batch she had made that day.

(Being the continuation of a letter from Applecider Bolingbroke to Lancogard North-Took, on the subjects of Elf Toast, and slowly-forming antics …)

Essebrin Lockhart a young woman, a watcher, a Bree-lander. In her own eyes, she was average, one other person in a sea of faces. To other people, she was a diamond in the rough. They say that the only opinion that should matter is your own. And right now she was questioning her own ability to protect the people she cared for. Mortermon was among those people and now he was dead. There are things in the world that you cannot even begin to predict. More and more Essie was beginning to see what life was like wearing the uniform.

(This tale happens on the way to the market described by Duncadda in his tale The Bancross Mystery: Problems and Pains. )

From Applecider Bolingbroke, being sent by Quick Post from her lodgings at the Ivy Bush at Hobbiton-Bywater, to Lancogard North-took, Hon. Deputy-Shirriff of the Northfarthing:

Most Excellent Sir, 

With any luck, ye an’ the Bounders be experiencing a day or so of thoroughly uninterrupted lull.

It was a misty, winter morning in the fair village of Towerglan. The sun shone brightly across the pale blue expanse stretching above the hills, gentle sparkles of reflection shining in turn from grass and cobble as frosted dew had begun to melt. Amidst the quiet air surrounding the settlement stood Dagramir, his dark-clothed frame sticking out sorely in the light of day as he settled outside the front door of his little cottage.