Disclaimer: Middle-earth, hobbits, wood-elves, and Bilbo do not belong to me. I'm just playing with The Hobbit because it looked lonely with only 21 (now 22) stories; I'm not making any money.

Author's Note: Like I said in the disclaimer, this was just to make poor Bilbo feel less lonely. My Lit class just got done reading this, and I couldn't resist writing something. I've never actually read The Hobbit, but I know exactly what happens (check my profile for the answer to this intriguing riddle)....

~*~

Oh dear, Bilbo thought as he squeezed himself back into the corner of one of the many kitchens in the palace of the Wood-elves. After a few weeks of hiding and scurrying around the massive, cave-like palace Bilbo knew this was his favorite kitchen. He'd thought his snitching and … thieving had gone unnoticed.

"What do you mean they're gone! How can they be gone when I saw you put them there myself not five minutes ago!" The head pastry chef was scolding her apprentice loudly. "If you've been snitching my best tarts again, boy, I'll bake you into the next pie."

"Honestly, ma'am, I haven't touched them!" The poor boy nearly sobbed. "I put them right here, on this table, just like you saw. Then I went to get the sugar for you, and when I came back, three were missing."

There was a sharp crack! as the chef brought her fearsome wooden spoon down on the table between the pastries. Bilbo, and the boy, noticed how close it came to the boy's flour dusted fingers.

"I've half a mind to send you back to your mother," the chef said, wagging her spoon menacingly. "I'm going to give you one more chance. If any more pastries, tarts, cookies – or even a loaf of bread goes missing ,I'll have you out of here before you can swallow your little treat!"

"Yes, ma'am." The boy sniffled miserably and swiped at his eyes with his apron.

Bilbo stayed in his corner until the usual baking bustle had resumed. Once all the elves were occupied, he crept out quietly and trotted away down the hall. He kept a nervous hand in his pocket, holding tight to the stolen tarts. I'll have to find a new favorite kitchen, he thought ruefully.

End

~*~