In my eagerness to reach home at the close of day, I nearly abandon my vegetable cart. It is a heavy, bothersome sort of burden and I cannot wait to be rid of it even as I drag it through small, familiar pathways which curve through the lower class neighborhoods of Hobbiton. I pass gardens and white picket fences and wheat fields that shimmer in the sun on my journey home, a picturesque cluster of scenery not altogether unwelcomed, but nonetheless –the very soles of my feet itch to quicken my pace, if only I could.

The pitted old wheels creak and groan in my wake, a sound that becomes almost white noise against the chirping of birds and river-water falling through the stone sieve of the mill. I gape mindlessly up into the sky. Absentmindedness, mother calls it, a wasteful passing of time. In secret, though I hum and nod in agreement with her conclusions, I call it daydreaming- wishing, without knowing why, to be somewhere far, far away from here.

Oh, but I wish my heart would quit its painful throbbing! I feel as though I've trapped a hummingbird behind the sturdy unforgiving cage of my ribs. I long to set it free and run, run home and match the tireless pace of its wings!

Cumbersome little cart…how I wish I could leave it in haste and fly all the way home.

I know it is all because of my thrilling encounter with Mr. Baggins early this morning, though it now seems stale and sad and positively old since he's gone – as if it had happened ages ago! Nonetheless, my mind had not stopped once in the midst of its racing to rest since the occurrence. All throughout the early afternoon I was plagued with an almost painful bout of distraction and restlessness. Over and over, I replayed the most vivid images of our meeting in my head. The smell of his soap as it was warmed and spiced by his skin; the expressive shapes of his eyes as they changed with each flicker of emotion and pang of unease that passed through them. Most prominent was the memory of his hand taking mine, the other pressing almost protectively against the curve of my waist. Already, my imagination began to spread a little color over the black and white base of that moment. I became a maiden, pale and distressed by her terrifying meeting with the wraiths and wights of her nightmares – and him! The handsome, chivalrous young prince with curls of soft gold who came to my rescue.

Often I found myself hoping to catch one last glance of him amid the thinning crowd. It was a cruel hope that faded in the shadow of early noon; he had returned home, no doubt, just in time for afternoon tea.

In vain, I struggled to retain the feeling of his skin as it brushed against mine. How dry it had been! How pliant and soft without the hard shell of callus wrapped around his fingers. There was a whisper of a hard day's labor in them, unlike those below him who toiled long and arduously for their wages - their hands were broad and rough like straw. His hands had felt like the finest satin, but it was nothing outside the realm of expectation. The Bagginses were a family of wealth and prestige – long had they boasted the luxuries of fine clothes and lavish parties and the handsomest of gardens! There was not one worry hiding in that lovely head of his. Not a care in the world.

At long last – finally! And not a moment too late ! – I caught a glimpse of the little stone steps which marked the opening pathway leading to our hole. Free of my cart, I flung it from my hands and threw open the gate. The gardeners had come after luncheon and were now tending to mother's prized roses and her whimsical begonias. They watched me as I passed through the front gate, peering over their own bent shoulders – a most unpleasant mess to look upon, undoubtedly, given the tragedy that had become my trampled skirts.

I grazed my fingertips over a begonia blossom which drooped heavily beneath the windowsill nearest to the door. It smiled as I lifted it skyward, its expression like that of sunlight itself – unhindered by worldly shadows. The very essence of bright cheer.

For a moment, as I set the delicate yellow head back into its place, I was overcome with the desire to pluck it. Fortunate it was that I did not heed such a reckless sort of yearning – indeed, it would have been a crime to rob the garden of its loveliest flower!

With the outside world behind me – and the pristine grandeur of my mother's housekeeping stretched out before me – I began to recall the horror of my appearance. What a sight I must have been! Skirts dusted brown with a fine coat of dirt, sleeves soaked through with perspiration which had begun to turn pale yellow as it dried. I had long since undone the stuffy collar about my neck and the fabric had wrinkled beyond recognition. Mother would scold me for my state of dress – not a doubt there was about that! – and father would laugh until his large belly rolled along with him. Most furious, she'd be, about the windswept state of my curls – only this morning she had worked hard to tame them, ripping and pulling and yanking until they complied. It was such a painful experience that I did not know who would break first – myself into tears. Or the brush from such pressure!

Our door, a proud shade of deep ruby red, stood open on its hinges as I stepped into the cool lofty foyer. The first hints of cooking spice perfumed the air, and just barely I caught the notes of freshly picked sweet peas and heather which passed me on their way out the door with the breeze. "Father!" I called, twirling my skirts a little as I made my way down the main hall. "Mother! I am home!"

I checked each room – lifting a ripe apple from the kitchen as I passed through it – and found no one at all. By chance, I wandered next into the library, my father's beloved sanctuary of information. All sorts of books lined the walls and the handsome mahogany cabinets which framed my father's working desk. There were books of instruction, books of tales, books of lore, and books of numbers. Being something of a connoisseur of the written word, father collected material of all kinds on his travels. Though he did not often travel as far as Buckland, he would return home with such an array of scrolls that mother would shake her head at the sight of them. Once, he had come home with parchments as old as three generations of our family squirreled away in his pack! What these scrolls contained, or exactly their worth – I could only begin to guess. But father seemed quite delighted by them. Beyond the contentment he found in looking at them, I cared little about their contents.

This was the perfect place to begin forming the foundations of my mission! In the section of tales – where father stored material he'd often read to me in the days of my infancy – there stood many a volume filled to the brim with knowledge of the inner workings of all sorts of chivalrous men! Surely their own behaviors and preferences were transferable to those of gentlehobbits. All too easily I could compare the heroes of my childhood fairytales to my dear Mr. Baggins, whose gleaming gold buttons mirrored the shining of a gallant knight's armor.

It was all so simple! No longer did my quest seem insurmountable. Here, in this very room, I could begin to concoct a plan which soon would find me very happily situated in the heart of Hobbiton's most prominent bachelor.

There was much scheming I would have to do. Long nights of pouring over those volumes I held so dear to me as a girl. Now, they became dear to me in a way I could not ever had guessed – instruments of the utmost importance. They were the tools which would instruct me to harness my own wiles, to use them in my favor. Indeed – I could feel my freckles begin to burn again. Not in humiliation, as before - but instead with unparalleled glee.

I gathered every familiar title to me. Some, I remembered only in fragments. Others, I could recall only the beaming face of my father and the sound of his booming voice reading them out to me, but no words at all. Nevertheless, I was certain of their relevance. They would be most helpful in my schemes…

"Poppy?"

I nearly dropped every book in my arms at the unexpected arrival.

"What's the meaning of this, hm? Got an itch my dear girl?"

It was only father. Thank the heavens above! He would not question my sudden curiosity. I blew a sigh of relief and returned to my task.

"Only for a bit of late night reading, father!" I replied, removing a particularly promising volume from the shelf.

"Best not let your mother catch you," he warned, the pads of his feet heavy on the floorboards. They shifted under him, groaned like the bark of willow trees against the weight of a sturdy breeze. "Bless her heart, she means well. Thinks it unhealthy for you to be reading such nonsense…blames me for putting it in your head so young! Aye, she's a stubborn woman. Well-meaning, no doubt, no doubt…but stubborn nonetheless."

Without warning, a question bubbled up into my throat. And before I could silence it, usher it back into the oblivion from whence it came, it escaped my careless mouth.

"Father, what do you know of Bilbo Baggins?"

I nearly slapped my hand over my mouth in horror.

How could I be so utterly foolish! Involving father in my secret plans -

But father was quick to respond, a thin current of mirth running through his voice. "Why, Mr. Baggins! A handsome young fellow. Respectable. Not to mention wealthy, no I needn't mention it…Quite an eye for maps and vegetables. I believe, once, we discussed the importance of a good fertilizer when attempting to grow celery root…especially during the late summer. I have long since forgotten when the exchange took place but the memory is quite fresh – why do you ask my darling?"

I rushed to find an answer suitable enough. Not too nonchalant, lest he suspect my true intentions. But not too hasty either! Perhaps he would still think me guilty. "Oh…he – he inquired after you today at market! Yes, was quite keen on hearing news of you. Asked about your health, complimented the unmatched loveliness of our garden, was all too delighted to see our vegetables returned to their former state of renown…he was quite complimentary. I did not know you were so very close to him, father."

"Close? I would not assign such lavish titles to our relationship…merely acquaintances, as I remember it. I am as surprised as you are, Poppy, to find him so eager for news of me. Indeed, I am…perhaps I should call on him again. No harm in establishing stronger ties with such a prestigious family as Baggins. No harm at all…yes…" He trailed off, thoughtfully. "Yes, I shall call on him. It is decided! Perhaps invite him for tea very soon. Such an earnest young man!"

He began to turn away, aimlessly chattering to himself as he left the room deep in thought. My chest tightened much as it had earlier today – why, my plan was already beginning to take shape! What a triumph!

At the door, he stopped suddenly and let out a bark of a laugh. "Baggins! What a good sort of lad! One I would not mind calling son, if he would have you, Poppy…"

If only father knew how close to fainting his thoughtless compliments had brought me!

Why, he might have been more careful in the future.

Indeed. If only he knew!

. . .

I'm so sorry it took so long! I've been so busy with school and life and other things...but, hopefully I'll have some time between now and the end of Christmas break. And the Desolation of Smaug is finally out! :DDD So inspiration struck me. I haven't seen it yet but I definitely plan on doing so before the end of the weekend. Enjoy! Let me know what you think. ^_^