I

Michel Delving, Westfarthing. Halimath, September 3, 1419, S.R.

Two Months Before.

The air was stale. It hung stagnantly in the darkness, musty and dank and suffocating. Dim shafts of light were caught in a gray, dirty fog that wrapped itself around every corner, beneath every archway, and waited ominously outside her cold, lonely cell. Her shallow breaths froze in the air, their fleeting appearances the only apparent sign that she was still alive.

She sat unmoving with her legs pulled to her chest, wearing only the threadbare remnants of a sullied linen shirt and tattered brown breeches, the corners of a threadbare blanket clutched in her frail, frozen fingers. They had taken her father's overcoat. Her nose was planted firmly between her legs, her pale, dirt-smeared cheekbones digging into her bony knees. The stone floor felt like ice beneath her.

Dripping monotonously through a crack in the ceiling was the run off from last week's snow, now melted to a muddy slush. She watched numbly through dark, watery eyes as it pooled in the corner, trickling away to trace the mortar ruts in the stonework. She felt its coolness napping softly at her bare feet, wetting the bottoms of her trousers. Its subtle progression breached the stillness that threatened to stifle her.

A ripple seized the puddle, its sudden movement drawing her from her trance. As her mind cleared, she became dimly aware that footsteps were approaching, their echoes, faint at first, becoming louder, cutting sharply through the heavy atmosphere. They pounded the floor with authority, each step deliberate, distinct, incredibly crisp. Whoever was coming had a purpose. Whoever was coming was coming for someone else.

She withdrew even more into the darkness as they neared and rounded the corner, suddenly audible with overwhelming clarity. She willed them to go on, to pass her by, but to her horror, they began to slow. Light suddenly spilled into her cell, blinding her completely. Her breath quickened. She buried her face and clenched her eyes shut, body shaking uncontrollably.

The piercing sound of clanging keys caused her heart to jump, and an unbearable tightness grew within her chest. She held her breath as the rusted door of her cell was opened with a painful screech that echoed violently down the dark corridor. The faint smell of smoke filled her nostrils, and she could feel the glow of lantern light flickering on the floor, tickling the edges of her toes. The sensation was incredibly foreign; she had not felt the touch of light in days.

The stranger suddenly stepped nearer, looming over her, then emitted a soft chuckled that might have unraveled her completely had the familiar voice that followed not made her blood run cold.

"Get up, Estella. I know you're awake."

II

Budgeford, Bridgefields, Eastfarthing. Afterlithe, June 30, 1404, S.R.

Today was your nineteenth birthday. I know, because I gave you a dozen lilies, a box of sweets, a gray kitten and an almost kiss. You gave me a slap in the face. I can't say I didn't see that one coming. But I hope you enjoyed the sweets all the same. And please keep the kitten.

I know you don't like me, Estella, and that's all right. You think I'm too careless, too immature. I know because I heard you talking with Alice Longbottom the other day when you said I was without a doubt the Hobbit Most Likely to Get Himself Eradicated in the Most Flagrantly Obvious and Mind-Numbingly Obscurest Way Possible. I don't actually know what all that means, but I have a general idea. And maybe you're right, maybe that is all I am. But I hope you're not. And I think, sometimes, you do too.

Because you know Estella, I saw you hesitate. It was only for a moment, right before you slammed the door in my face, but it was there, it happened. You frowned, and knitted your eyebrows together. I know you want to think that it was just because you were mad at me, but really, I think you know it was something else.

I think, Estella, that for a second you actually wanted to be happy about the flowers and the candies and the almost kiss. And the kitten too, of course. I think you really wanted to believe that it was more than just some childish infatuation that I had for you. You wanted to believe it was something more. But you don't have to wish, Estella.

Either way, I know you'll take good care of the kitten. You won't just throw him out in the cold and the rain, all alone, just out of spite for me. He is an awfully small little thing. But I know you're better than that, Estella, and I'll always admire you for it.

I have to stop writing now because the sun is going down and I traded all my candles to your brother for a bit of pipe weed, and if mum found out about either I'd never hear the end of it.

And even though it means I'll have to stop writing, I have to say, Estella, that the sunset tonight looks almost as pretty as you do.

Merry

III

The glare of his eyes was unmistakable, and she knew at once—Freddy'd gotten away. Again. Fear gripped her almost as soon as the haggard breath of relief left her body.

How much longer could they play this game of Cat and Mouse?

The thought consumed her, wearied her. Butter scraped over too much bread. Yes, Freddy had escaped, but at his sister's expense. And who was to say he would not get caught again? His luck was running out. The Ruffians would take no chances a third time around.

She felt herself being yanked from the floor, every raw muscle in her starved, beaten body screaming in protest. When she looked up, swollen eyes squinted in pain, she found herself staring into the shadowed face of Lotho Sackville-Baggins.

She saw immediately that the few months since their last meeting had been as harsh on him as they had been on her—his doppelganger looked as little like its former self as her own did, with its pale face and sunken eyes seared by hysteria, it's sandy locks dishevled and white-streaked, its face hidden by stubble. Gone was Pimple. Gone was the Chief Shirriff. In their place was this hollow shell of a broken man.

His voice cracked under the gravity of his words: "Where—is—he." It was not a question.

Her reply was just as biting: "I—don't—know." Her voice croaked from disuse.

They stared at each other, two desperate people, trapped and afraid. She could see the lines etched into his face, and was sure he could see the dirt smudged into hers. She could not help but wonder what had happened to him, that they, so different once, should now find themselves wearing such similar countenances.

A sudden noise in the distance roused them from their trance. Lotho looked in the direction of the sound, then back to Estella. "You," he decided abruptly, "will be coming with me."

IV

Meriadoc,

Just thought you ought to know—the kitten is a she

Estella B.