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Chapter Text

Based on what few messages came to him from his kin by raven, he should’ve been prepared for what he saw once he found the Dwarves who lived in this land. As he sat in the dark corner of the tavern, however, watching these characters talk and laugh and drink, Thorin Oakenshield couldn’t beat back the shock, disgust, pity, humiliation and loneliness. The last emotion was a strange one, but it made some sense in his position. To think these creatures were considered Dwarves! They were … unnatural. Too tall, too soft, too scant in beard. They spoke about nothing but their work. Granted, his own folk discussed their trades and took pride in them, but trade was not their only conversation topics. For these Dwarves, nothing important existed outside their labors, which were relegated solely to mining gemstones. They thought of nothing, dreamt of nothing but the mines. His exiled people honed a craft with which they could create, not only dig up. How did Misthaven’s Dwarven folk not run out of things to say? How were they not bored and unfulfilled? Maybe they were but didn’t dare voice it. Or maybe they were as simple-minded as their insipid chatter suggested. Thorin wasn’t sure which was the more detestable alternative.

Did they not remember how things used to be?

He let his focus retreat from the neighboring table so that he could take a deep gulp from his tankard. Briefly, the question of whether it was prudent to sit this close, even in a dimly lit corner, skimmed across his thoughts. He hadn’t meant to deliberate on an answer. He didn’t get the chance, anyway. Coins hit the table. Amiable, inebriated grunts rose and moved away. Thorin watched the departing Dwarves askance while keeping the tankard close to his mouth.

Someone took advantage of his occupied attention. A body settled in the seat across from him and set down a cup. It didn’t hold ale or beer or water. It was a panhandler’s cup. Its hooded owner rasped an apology and a quick word of thanks. Thorin said nothing. As long as the man kept to himself and offered no insult, his presence would not disturb.

“Not seen anyone like you in these parts for a while,” the beggar said. Though he sounded calm and matter-of-fact, the words rang with imprudent playfulness.

All hope of silent company vaporized. Thorin searched for the beggar’s face under the hood. He started. A smiling beast greeted him. Wide eyes with tiny pupils. Glinting skin that reflected the poor light with what had to be thousands of tiny scales. Of all the places to find a dragon, a tavern had been the furthest from Thorin’s expectations. So was the notion of a dragon with a Man’s shape.

He pushed back from the table.

“Leaving so soon?” The beggar raised his hand. Just a placating gesture, a roll of the wrist. Thorin’s stomach roiled, yet he paused. Hesitation gave enough tacit permission for the stranger to continue. “I’ve not been fortunate enough to speak with one of Durin’s folk since your hasty departure from this realm many years ago.”

“Who are you?” Thorin had to ask even when self-preservation demanded he leave.

The beggar’s hands drew back his hood. The mop of wavy hair helped him resemble a Man. He couldn’t be a Man, though, or he suffered from magical corruption of some kind. The giggle was too childish to match to any Man, Dwarf, Fairy, or other intelligent race Thorin knew of. That included Elves, who had left Misthaven even before his own people. The stranger’s attitude was too coy and flamboyant for an Orc. Why did this land continue to bother Thorin with creatures that defied familiar categories?

“Guess my lovely complexion isn’t ringing any bells,” said the stranger. “I had few dealings with your kind before your exile, but I recognize the braids, the style of clothing, and the pride you’re practically screaming at everyone who sees you.”

Thorin slowly pulled forward to the table. “I’d hoped to be discreet.”

“If the idea was to blend in, you should’ve trimmed that mane of yours. But there’s no one here alive from those days to notice such details. Except yours truly!”

The man loved gesturing. Pointing, wagging fingers couldn’t rest. Thorin had to force his concentration to stay with the man’s face and words. “Are you a wizard?”

“I’ve been called many things,” the stranger answered with a flicking hand. “For simplicity, I’ll say that I am someone quite knowledgeable in magic. I’m also versed in those matters that torment desperate souls. Love. Loss. Ambition. Vengeance.”

As much as he wanted to retort that such an answer was far from simple, Thorin minded his tongue. He didn’t want to betray any sign of those things this creature claimed to spy in souls. He held his stare and waited.

The creature looked pleased. Not a good sign, by Thorin’s estimation.

“I must admit,” the beggar continued, “I expected you to take out your axe or sword or whatever pointy object you have on you and demand same straight answers.”

“I’m still considering it.”

“Maybe you can supply me with a few answers. A little give and take, eh?”

“You were the one to approach me, Master …”

“Ooh, Master! I like the sound of that!”

Thorin managed not to growl while waiting for the stranger to finish giggling. This time, his patience was rewarded.

“Rumplestiltskin,” said the smiling beggar. “You might know me better as the Dark One.”

Thorin straightened. The Dark One. The title did sound familiar. There were old tales of a Dark Lord, a figure of conquest who might’ve been responsible for the existence of Orcs and Ogres, a terror to every free race in this world. But the Dwarf also recalled from distant childhood the whispered tales of a more elusive menace. A wielder of great, frightening dark magic who assumed different forms over the years. Women and men of various races, though mostly Men. That fact could’ve explained this stranger’s confusing appearance. The Dark One did not conquer with arms or armies. He conquered in small ways. Deals. Cursed exchanges that gave what was sought and took some part of the soul. No wonder he best understood the desperate. Only the desperate, or the foolish, would seek his aid. Thorin was no fool. Whether he was desperate was still up for debate in his own mind.

“My reputation precedes me, after all,” the stranger said. Another giggle.

“What interest does one of Durin’s folk hold for someone like you?” Might as well cut through the rubble to the heart of the matter so Thorin could decide sooner if he had anything to gain, or too much to lose.

“Just a couple things.” One bony shoulder under the ratty cloak rose and fell. “An enviable treasure hoard, for one. But you needn’t fear that I’m inclined to snatch your wealth from you.”

“How can I be certain of that?”

Rumplestiltskin reached into some garment beneath the cloak. Thorin lay a hand on the table, ready to spring. The tension remained, rather from shock than apprehension, when the long-nailed fingers reappeared with a spool of the brightest golden thread he’d ever seen. The wizard had no qualm over handing it to the Dwarf. Thorin took it. His incredulity deepened when he touched the thread and unfurled a few inches off the bobbin. This wasn’t golden thread. It was gold.

“How is this … where did you get this?”

“Made it myself.”

Dangerous as it might’ve been, Thorin abandoned any effort to hide his surprise. He’d never seen craftsmanship like this. In the Blue Mountains across the sea, and in their glory days in Erebor, his people were capable of wonders with gems and metals, including the finest chains of silver and gold. But this? There were no chains. Somehow the wizard had stretched out the gold into a thin cord. Not an impossible feat—the Dwarves of Erebor had tinkered with coils for their machinery—but the gold he now held had been processed to perfectly replicate the pliancy of thread. Although goldsmithing wasn’t his trade, Thorin suffered a terrible urge to sprint off with the wizard’s gold and pull it apart to learn its secret design.

“It’s a special talent of mine,” Rumplestiltskin said. “And proof that I can supply myself with all the gold I could possibly want.”

Thorin looked up, his gaze just a little wild. “What do you mean? You need to acquire the raw gold from somewhere.”

“Oh, I do.” The wizard’s grin displayed all his stained, crooked teeth. “Quite regularly. See, for me, gold is cheap. Gold is, well, as good as straw. So, what I desire can’t be measured in gold. And I think that, as much as your people love gold, you too desire something that all the treasure in Erebor cannot match. But I imagine getting that treasure back is a high priority, too.”

That fiendish giggle. Nothing but immature mockery from the lips of a creature too old to feign childishness. Or just old enough to see the troubles of others through an uncaring child’s eyes.

“You take pleasure in not answering questions,” Thorin murmured.

Rumplestiltskin nodded. “Answer me this, and I’ll return the favor. What is your opinion of the one called Reul Ghorm?”

It was the name of a chilling legend told to little Dwarves to frighten them into good behavior. The subtle shudder that overtook Thorin said more than his lips allowed.

“She is the one the Dwarves here serve,” he said.

“Yes, her trusty work force.”

“Her slaves, you mean.”

“Ah! Now we’re talking. Not a pretty thing to have to see.”

“And no one seems troubled by it.” Thorin had pride and righteous anger on his side, but he also had the training of a prince. His self-control held the reins as he dared to discuss this distasteful but pressing topic. “The Dwarves themselves seem content with their lot. It makes me doubt their very nature.”

“Fairy magic works in twisted ways, yet they say it’s always for the greater good.”

A snarl slipped loose from Thorin, barely audible in the continuous drone of conversation throughout the tavern.

The Dark One’s glee scintillated. “I believe, Mr. Oakenshield, we have an understanding where those insects are concerned. That’s why I’d like to lend you my services.”

All at once, Thorin felt himself in the spider’s web, lured in superbly. His suspicions of the sorcerer with dragon skin never faltered. While aware that a trap was being set, he understood the chance he had to take. No one else in Misthaven shared his bones-deep loathing for those winged demons that had conquered and subjected his people to this meager existence. And he wondered about the role they played in the loss of his homeland. The timing had been too convenient. So Thorin II Oakenshield, the rightful heir of the last kingdom of the Dwarves, stared at the Dark One, then lowered his head and softened his frown.

“I’m listening.”

Chapter Text

The gentle folk of the Shire never sought a war, but war was flung on them. The ambitions of Men had piqued the ire of Orcs and Ogres. Although the Orc forces had been held in the east, the Ogres had spread enough devastation that even the Rangers who protected the Shire’s borders were overwhelmed. The Hobbits had to relearn self-defense, and they did so admirably for a people who’d grown soft and provincial from the comforts of peace.

Buckland served as a stalwart territory and beacon of resilience, no small thanks to the somewhat hardier temperaments of the Brandybuck clan. Connected families rallied around it, even the Bagginses, to pool their wealth, know-how and courage into the war effort. Bungo Baggins and Gorbadoc Brandybuck spent many sleepless days coordinating with the Rangers, discussing defense strategies and mapping routes for patrols and resource distribution. Belladonna, Bungo’s wife, used to visit the guard stations and medical wards in the North Farthing to ensure smooth operations. She also inspired the spirits of her kin with bright smiles and bold words.

Bluebell, her daughter, followed her path and example closely and cherished them in memory and action after her inspiration was stolen away. In the following four years that scarred but did not destroy their beautiful country, many Hobbits marveled at how they could still see Belladonna walking, breathing, and encouraging them in a rather eerie resurrection. The young Baggins lass had been called Bell most of her life. Now the resemblance between names and nature became a badge of honor, as well as a pitiable burden.

Bell wanted everyone to see only strength and optimism. Very sparingly did she let the strain expose itself. Those moments were allowed exclusively in her brother’s presence in the low firelight of their hearth in Bag End or one in Brandy Hall. He, in turn, never let her see how much it broke his heart. On the darkest nights when Bell had no more smiles to give, Bilbo gave her one of his own—the kind, loving lie that keeps hope flickering a little longer.

One evening, Bell returned from a supply trip to Bree and recounted to Bilbo her run-in with a traveler in search of Rock Trolls. She shared her tale while he brushed and braided her hair. They sat on a window seat in their Brandybuck cousins’ library, their favorite spot. Not only did it have a good view of the garden and fields lying along the River Brandywine, but it was the most peaceful nook in the whole smial. The siblings could find no other hideaway from frantic or boisterous relations.

“Rock Trolls! Whatever for?” Bilbo asked. He was occupied weaving a blue ribbon into her brown curls the way their mother used to. His astonishment didn’t disturb the rhythm of his fingers.

“She said they have some magic and a history with her family.” Bell held her knees against her chest and stared into the night. There had been a gray blanket over the sky the past few days. Now they finally had some stars to enjoy. She watched the scenery and sat with a stillness borne from trust and weariness. “She was hoping they could help her solve a problem back home.” A pause of easy quiet. “She also mentioned getting help from a dark, powerful wizard, but she insisted that was a mistake.”

Bilbo snorted. “I can only imagine.”

Bell kept her head straight. A frown pulled at her lips. “The reason might not be what you think.”

“With a title like ‘dark wizard,’ there’s not much to expect. Except trouble.”

After a thoughtful hum, Bell said, “He demands a price for his help. It’s not exactly noble, but it doesn’t sound outright evil. Not if magic has value.”

“She must not have cared for his prices,” Bilbo said with a slanted smile. “What is the magic market like, I wonder? How does one haggle with someone who can give you warts for looking at him?”

“This wizard has quite the reputation,” Bell said, interest brewing. “I … I did some reading on the journey back thanks to a bookseller in Bree who directed me to a few books on sorcerers. It seems he—the wizard, I mean—he’s lived in Misthaven for decades, maybe even centuries. He’s so secretive that if his name is known, it’s only to a few. It could be that anyone who wants his help is sworn to secrecy. It’s strange. The girl looking for the Rock Trolls refused to tell me his name so I wouldn’t have the misfortune of ever dealing with him. Remember those stories about creatures who could be summoned just by repeating their name? Maybe he’s like that.”

“Then it’s best we don’t know it.” It was an off-hand remark. Bilbo was nearly finished with Bell’s braid and needed to concentrate on interlacing the ends to avoid any unraveling. He finished it off with a careful bow.

“What if we did?” Belle asked softly.

“Did what?”

“Know his name? We could … well …”

Bilbo froze just as he tied the bow. His eyes turned up to meet Bell’s, reflected in the window. His eyebrows dipped deep while hers rose, sheepish yet hopeful. The words she wasn’t quite ready to utter reached him and were met with confounding doubt. She wasn’t serious. Surely.

He hauled his expression out of its tight, confused scowl and slowly exhaled. “We’re … we’re okay here, Bell. Not swimmingly so, but … everything will be all right. More Men are coming from the south to help. Gorbadoc is sure of it. So none of this nonsense about dark wizards with secret names, all right? Your braid’s finished.”

Bell turned around armed with a stern stare that looked especially harsh on her sweet face. She’d been practicing that look since her tweens. Having come of age a few months ago, she had enough adult sincerity to make the glare credibly intimidating. But this was his kid sister’s glower, so Bilbo thought it adorable.

“It’s not nonsense,” Bell said, “when every day another town is destroyed by the Ogres. Wouldn’t it be better if we could end this war without any more bloodshed?”

“Of course it would,” Bilbo murmured, rubbing her back. “But why does it have to be a dark wizard? You can’t be certain what you’re getting into with someone like that. We have to hope for the best.”

“I do hope for the best.” Bell’s fingers found his idle hand. “But I can’t sit by while others sacrifice their safety for everyone else. If I was any good at fighting—”

“Papa would sooner pick up a sword and fight a battalion of Ogres himself before he let that happen to you.”

Her eyes rolled up, annoyed but indulgent. “I know where my strengths lie. But if tomorrow we were told that we had only a day to gather all the forces at our disposal and endure the worst the Ogres had to offer, knowing for certain that by the next day our homes would be rubble, what would you do?”

“It’s not going to happen,” Bilbo said firmly. “Don’t think on it.”

She scowled, almost pouting. That deflated all seriousness he was willing to lend to the topic. He smiled and chuckled. Her anger couldn’t withstand the silly sound; her frown melted. Yet the solemnity behind the anger lingered like a drained raincloud after a storm, keeping her mood overcast.

“I can’t help thinking about it when I feel I could do more.”

“You do far too much,” he said, and he kissed her head. “You’re still going to Scary tomorrow?”

“Yes. We have enough provisions for the militia there to hold them for another month. I might stay with the supply train all the way to Avonlea.”

“No, not Avonlea, please. It’ll only depress you.”

“I can’t pretend the front doesn’t exist. I need to see it myself.”

“It’s also dangerous.” He sighed through his teeth. “Confound it. That’s exactly why you want to go, isn’t it?”

“I promise,” said Bell with doe-eyed eagerness and a touch to Bilbo’s shoulder. “No taking up arms. No running off with the troops. Just a short visit.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he said in his grumpiest big-brother manner.

They were both Bagginses, but Bell had so much of the Took spirit it was a wonder she hadn’t already run off on a mad adventure. Maybe if the war hadn’t come, she would’ve been miles away by now. Bilbo (with a morsel of guilt) was not entirely unhappy that the war was keeping her here. If they were closer in age—he but ten years younger—he might’ve been persuaded to go wherever she dashed off to. Just to be sure she didn’t end up eaten by Trolls or imprisoned in some lightless dungeon. Goodness, what a notion! As if that same fate couldn’t befall him as well! Nope, no one was going anywhere.

“You could come with me,” Bell said. While her eyebrow twitched half-jokingly, there was longing in the rest of her face.

“No, no. There must be a Baggins in Bag End, and there must be a Baggins in Brandy Hall until the war is over. Since Papa has finally agreed to rest at home, the second must fall to me. So you go off and save the Shire, and I’ll make sure these Brandybucks don’t do anything very foolish.”

“And I’ll keep waiting for the day you might do something foolish yourself.” Bell finally smiled. Open, true, unhindered by duty or devotion to the welfare of Hobbit-kind. She kissed Bilbo’s cheek, then gingerly pulled her braid over her shoulder so she could admire his handiwork. “Thank you.”

He wasn’t half as at ease with smiling as Bell was right now, yet this one came with no thought or effort. He could smile for her. In fact, she had to make him stop by giving his foot a kick. He laughed and retaliated. A little laughter cured a moment’s sorrow, as their father would say. So did braids and kicking contests and avoidance of further talk regarding dark wizards and visits to the front lines.

Chapter Text

The Hobbits of the Shire and Buckland couldn’t lose Avonlea. It was the most fortified settlement southeast of Bindbole Woods. Many of the Rangers had deployed themselves around the city for supplies and as part of their patrol route. The Ogres could take refuge in the woods for months on end, a monumental task. The Rangers kept picking off their numbers, but the tactic was only slowing the beasts, not stopping them. If Avonlea could hold and prevent the Ogres from launching into a full-blown war march across the North Farthing and into the southern territories, victory might yet come. This hope was tested when news reached Buckland of another imminent attack on the town. Reinforcements were immediately dispatched. The heads of the prominent clans surveyed and sweated over the map they had laid out on a large table in the parlor-turned war room in Brandy Hall.

Another military contingent of Men had arrived in Bree—barely a hundred—with word from their lords that provisions of food and weapons would shortly follow. Most of the Shire elders were too well-mannered to grumble about the minimal support to their allies since something was better than nothing. Among themselves, they came to the disturbing consensus that while the Big Folk sympathized with their plight, they were preparing for the Shire’s fall and the Ogre onslaught on their own lands that seemed all but inevitable.

Despite her brother’s assurances, Bell never stalled her research. Weeks spent scrounging the nearest libraries and consulting with book traders from other lands finally brought an end to her hunt. She pieced together accounts that roughly sketched who the strange wizard was and how to contact him so that he might do more than send food and swords and paltry troops.

She waited to share this information until returning to Hobbiton to visit her father. For all the real, pressing danger to the Shire lands only twenty miles north, the residents of her hometown were determined to carry on business as usual. It niggled her how stubbornly oblivious her people could be, yet she loathed to take that scrap of comfort from them. Bell bid hello and brought news and pleasantries before hurrying up the Hill to Bag End. She and her father exchanged barely two words before she implored him to listen to her solution for ending the war.

Bungo was expectedly reticent. The nature of the suggestion and the nature of the Hobbit himself were both to blame. The idea was most alarming, not to mention foolhardy. Everyone knew that wizards, especially dark wizards, were more troublesome than they were worth. Against the grim danger that loomed over Avonlea, however, his resistance to Bell’s plea crumbled. Mind you, Bungo could be as stubborn as any hobbit deserving the hair on his toes. If only debating with his girl hadn’t felt like debating with his long-gone wife.

Convincing the rest of the elders was more daunting. A fortnight passed by the time they yielded. Much begging and pestering convinced them to contribute to the promise of payment that the wizard would likely demand. The Tooks, wealthier and more inclined to Bell’s plan than the rest, supplied the largest percent. Uncle Gorbadoc and cousin Fortinbras Took, the new Thain, put their names to the letter of proposal while Bungo played the secretary. Bell oversaw the summoning of the dark wizard’s messenger—a dove, of all things—and even kissed the bird for good luck.

Bilbo chose to linger in the background of these proceedings, tense as a bow string. Once his sister’s mind was set on the plan, he knew better than to argue her out of it. And maybe a small, silly part of him dared to hope for the best outcome. What else could be done? Each day continued the trickle of bad news; Avonlea was running through supplies faster than it was getting them, no matter how the Rangers tried to compensate from their wildland hunting skills. Almost every hour carried the promise of death. Bilbo did want this mad idea would work. More than that, he wished more reinforcements from kingdoms of Men would come sooner and render Bell’s plan obsolete.

A few more weeks dragged them deeper into the conflict before the word they’d been waiting for and praying not to hear reached them.

Avonlea had fallen. From a trickle to a flash flood.

On the evening after Avonlea’s capture, the war room saw a barrage of whispers matched in intensity solely by wordless pauses. No one had the nerve (not even the Tooks) to raise their voices to conversational decibels. Bilbo could only be grateful. Bell was sitting on a knife’s edge as she switched from staring out the window to reading the book she clutched like a favorite doll. Bilbo alternated his attention between her face and his cup of tea.

“Are you so sure he’ll come?” he murmured.

“Yes,” she murmured back. She inhaled with effort. “He’ll be here any day now.”

Afraid to give unintended pain, he said, “What makes you so certain?”

“I don’t think it’s in him to resist a deal.” She had no definitive proof of this insight. Even so, belief steadied her words.

“Then he might come,” Bilbo said, “but that doesn’t follow that he’ll accept it.”

Bell scooted into a straighter pose. Her sweet face grew fierce. “We’ll offer what we can. I think he’ll come with a price in mind if the gold we promised isn’t enough. That’s my impression from the stories I tracked down.”

Bilbo let a moment pass, once again knowing the potential offense his words would bring. They needed to be said. “Would it be very terrible if he didn’t come?”

“Yes, Bilbo,” Bell said. “It would.”

“Well … now that you’re, um, engaged to that captain …” The rest of the comment withered on his tongue under Bell’s frostbitten glare.

Let it not be said that he couldn’t rake up a scattered thought when the moment called for it. “Come now! I though you liked him a little.”

“Very little.” At least Bell had the sense to whisper and lean in so they wouldn’t be heard.

The man in question was in the room. He loomed above everyone else, an uncomfortably giant figure among Hobbits, and uncomfortable for him as he had to bend when upright in the smial. His handsome face somewhat counterbalanced his disquieting proportions. While not by any means a typical Hobbit suitor, Captain Gaston had enough charm and respectability (for a Man in uniform) to satisfy the fussiness of Shire folk. That he’d taken a strong interest in Bluebell Baggins was no major shock. She was a fine beauty, if possessing a bit much of Tookish oddness from her mother’s side. Rather fittingly, that second quality suited a Hobbit making a match among the Big Folk. As for Gaston’s eligibility, he’d turned a few heads when he brought his troop to Bree over a month ago, the first in close to two years that had come to bolster the war effort. Their traps for the Ogre scouts had done much to spare Hobbit lives and extract information from captives. No one had reason to feel anything but admiration for the man. Nearly no one.

“Trust me,” Bell continued, “I want to believe in the best of him. I know he and his men have been a great help. But … I don’t trust his heart, Bilbo. There’s something dangerous in him that I fear even he isn’t aware of. I don’t see true nobility. I see … I see a hunger to hurt and dominate.”

Bilbo absorbed her words in pensiveness. He looked at the assembly around the table map. Gaston leaned over them and frequently pointed and commented on what actions to take based on their current intelligence. He didn’t look vicious. Serious and focused, yes. Then again, one could behave with perfect decorum among company that one wishes to impress, then act quite differently in another setting where the incentive for right-thinking action has been reduced or removed.

“Why agree to marry him, then?”

Bell sighed and loosened the cradle of her arms around her book. The novel was a romance, the first she and Belladonna had read together. Bell knew it so well she didn’t need it in front of her to enjoy it. The green fabric of the cover was worn and friendly. The gold letters still caught the light. Her Handsome Hero was a tale populated by noble warriors bent on destroying a terrible evil and reuniting with their true loves, no matter the odds and obstacles. A thrilling, sappy children’s story. Bilbo’s mouth quirked fondly.

“I know a union between our people and his will encourage better relations,” Bell said. “He did promise that he won’t let my home fall to ruin since I’m to be his wife.” She lightly thumped her head against the wall.

“A noble sentiment,” Bilbo said.

“I’d rather he was helping us because it’s the right thing to do. I don’t want to be a trophy.” Her mouth turned up, wry and cheerless. “But if it saves our home …”

Were it his decision, Bilbo wouldn’t let her marry anyone she didn’t care for, and absolutely not anyone who might do her harm. He hadn’t yet relinquished the notion of talking her out of it in light of her feelings. As with the dark wizard, it would’ve been a wasted effort unless Bell herself saw the danger. Would she ever stop and think of her own well-being for once?

“Bell,” he whispered, “if anything happens … if you do marry him and find that you can’t … that it doesn’t work, you will have a home to come back to. I’m sure Papa feels the same.”

Her eyes shined. She bit her lip. Something came to her to say, but she swallowed it and smiled like she was saying goodbye. Bilbo, his fingers as mindful as a gardener’s, pried one of her hands from the book and held it, thumb petting her knuckles. He wasn’t letting her go anywhere just yet.

A thunderous knock rocked them. The whole room trembled. Every head turned to the parlor door. This parlor was one of the few rooms in the smial that had a door, as Hobbit holes didn’t have much use for doors besides ones for bedrooms, baths, and the outside. Brandy Hall was large and housed far more Brandybucks than some Hobbits deemed sensible. A few chambers were equipped for privacy for an assembly like this. An odd sound, nonetheless, this knocking inside the hole. And why so loud?

“Who is it?” Gorbadoc Brandybuck called in a rough, rattling voice.

No one answered. The elders traded bewildered expressions. Captain Gaston was no wiser, but he walked to the door to open it. He drew his sword. A few armed Hobbits who stood guard did the same.

Bell gasped and swung her legs off the window seat. “It’s him! It has to be!”

“Who?” Bilbo asked.

“You know perfectly well who!”

Bungo Baggins heard his daughter and gawked like a startled cat. Gorbadoc caught on. “How did he get in? Every entrance is guarded to the teeth!”

“He’s a wizard, isn’t he?” Bell still held her book. She tucked it under one arm and caught her brother’s elbow. Bilbo squeaked in his struggle to follow her tug while not spilling his cup. An idea flashed through his head: if the wizard barged in and attacked, flinging away the guards and even Gaston, Bilbo would have only his tea with which to defend himself and Bell. What a fine idea! He could’ve laughed. Maybe Bell would get in a swing with her book first.

More Hobbits freed their swords (daggers by Men’s standards) and stood with Gaston. One crept along the wall, waited for the signal from Gorbadoc and, when the Master of Buckland nodded, shoved open the door with ready blade.

The space on the other side stood empty. The guards didn’t let their attention wander, but those not wielding weapons scanned the room, frightened. Bell moved forward, bringing Bilbo with her.

“Well, that was a bit of a letdown,” said a voice.

Someone took Bilbo’s cup. The voice did not come from one spot at first, so the poor Hobbit’s attention was split between what his ears registered and what his hands barely had time to understand. He lost his cup. A second later, it occurred to him to follow the path of theft. His head turned twice at what he saw.

A fellow a foot taller than Bilbo, thin as a sapling and dressed in silks and leather, stood but a few steps behind him and sipped his tea. The stranger’s features were utterly strange. Too tall and narrow to be a Hobbit, too coarse to be an Elf or Fairy (if the illustrations in his books were accurate). He was unlike any other creature Bilbo had ever read about or seen. The skin was mottled shades of gray and gold and green, peppered with scales that glimmered. Was he part reptile? He wore narrow, pointy-toed boots that looked impossibly difficult to unlace. The crinkled hair that almost resembled Hobbit curls left Bilbo more direly confused. No, maybe a Man, but awfully short and distorted from the natural form.

None of these thoughts found left Bilbo’s mouth. They were belated in mentally forming into an intelligent line of observations in the first place. He took notice of everything at once, then fixed on the cup in the stranger’s hands.

“Hey!” he cried.

The stranger finished his sip, grimaced, grunted, gulped the rest and tossed the teacup to Bilbo. Well, tossed it in Bilbo’s general direction. The Hobbit had to lunge to catch it, giving a muffled shriek. By a miracle, he caught and held it to his drumming heart.

Bell gasped. At what? Probably the wizard who had materialized from nothing. Bilbo still showed her the cup to placate any worry.

“You sent me a message,” the wizard announced. He took long, creeping strides away from Bilbo and Bell. His gaze brushed over the entire gathering and found nothing to capture his interest. “Something along the lines of, ‘Help, help, we’re doomed! Can you save us?’ The answer is … yes, I can.”

Bell’s hand snagged Bilbo’s wrist. He swayed into her touch, into her shoulder.

The wizard raised a finger. “Yes! I can save your little country from a terrible fate. For a price.”

Gorbadoc, bless him, moved toward the wizard while the rest of his kin were stricken with paralysis. “We understand. Our letter contained a promise of gold. All that we can spare.”

The impudent pshaw would’ve raised the hackles of every Hobbit in the room if their hackles weren’t locked in astounded terror. “I’m not interested in your trinkets. I have plenty of gold. No, no. What I want is something far more precious.”

Gorbadoc swallowed. Bungo, his fear more blatant, still joined the Brandybuck’s side. So did Thain Fortinbras, although he let the Master of Buckland speak for all of them, as they were in Buckland territory. Besides, Fortinbras had inherited the mostly nominal title only two years ago.

He didn’t mind letting someone else play orator to the dark wizard.

“Name it,” Gorbadoc said.

“Before I do,” the wizard said, “tell me who had the brilliant idea to call upon me.”

That no one volunteered the information brought encouragement and relief to both Baggins siblings, who remained shoulder-to-shoulder and silent. Bilbo could feel Bell’s tightening grip. The gesture wasn’t born from fear but a growing desire for boldness. He wedged his empty teacup into the crook of his elbow and rested his now free hand over hers to discourage the inclination.

“What does it matter?” Gorbadoc asked.

“Ah! Clearly not you.” A finger with a long, black nail pointed at Gorbadoc. “I’ll give you all till the count of thrrrree to tell me. If no one does, off I go. One …”

A soft, collective gasp moved through the room.

“Two …”

“Me!” Bungo shouted, his voice cracking on the word. “I did.”

“Good choice.” The wizard smiled in the way Bell and Bilbo imagined dragons did when they had their prey cornered. “Then I have my price. In exchange for saving your people from the Ogres, I want …”

Lungs stilled. Faces grew wan. Guards held up trembling swords. Only Gaston was prepared to use his. The wizard watched them all, slowly rotating until his peculiar eyes—huge irises, tiny pupils—drifted to Bilbo and Bell. They found the hobbit pair when his finger pointed at them.

“Her.”

Bell’s mouth dropped. Bilbo’s eyeballs were ready to pop out.

“W-what?” Bungo only just caught his breath. “No!”

In seconds, Gaston’s long legs had him around the table and at Bell’s side. Bell’s front, rather, which ended up including a bit of Bilbo’s. The captain’s sword was up and inches away from the wizard’s face. “You will not take her. She’s already taken.”

Only Bilbo saw Bell’s nostrils flutter. He huffed a little for her sake. What she said about Gaston earlier was rearing its head.

The wizard’s own huff was wrapped in a giggle. “I didn’t ask if she was taken! I’m not looking for a sweetheart. Certainly not love.” He spoke the word as though it nauseated him. “What I need is a caretaker for my large estate.”

There were many things about this fellow Bilbo did not care for. He certainly did not care for the way the wizard spoke of his “estate” and its size. He looked at Bell. She inched up one of her eyebrows. The expression wasn’t so much bothered as puzzled. Maybe intrigued. Bilbo frowned at her. She frowned at him—what?

The question was left dangling. The wizard called their attention again.

“That’s my offer. Her, or no deal.”

While everyone was quite disturbed, some of the elders were stumped for a response. Bungo did not suffer from indecision. His proper, timorous manner behind gray curls and spectacles melted like butter in a scorching summer blaze. “Get out! Now! How dare you, sir! The gall! The—the—!”

Gaston thrust his sword point closer to the wizard. “You heard him!”

The wizard spied the threatening blade, then swatted it away. His good mood was undisturbed. With a carefree swing in his gait, he headed for the door.

That was it. Bilbo dared to relax. Too soon to relax, of course. There was still a war on—

“No, wait!”

Bell rushed away from him. The loss of her hand around his wrist, her fingers in his palm, passed through his chest like a winter chill.

“Wha—Bell!” Bilbo’s hand followed her while the rest of him stayed in place.

Even Gaston failed to stop her. She slipped under his sword-wielding arm, dashed around the table side opposite from her father and Gorbadoc, and met the wizard at the door. “I will go with you,” she said, looking him in the eye.

The wizard gave an elated cackle and folded his hands.

“Bell, you needn’t—” Gorbadoc began.

“I forbid it!” Gaston barked.

Bungo only gaped.

Bilbo darted around Gaston and joined the Hobbits closest to the door. He was the first person Bell saw when she turned to confront the room. Her face brandished firm judgement at them all and a little cut of reprimand at Gaston.

“No one else decides my fate. I was the one who arranged the deal, so I’ll accept it.”

The wizard was beaming, but he tilted his head and pointed at her. “You’re sure? It’s forever, dearie.”

“And my family, my friends, everyone in Buckland and the Shire—they will remain alive and safe?”

He bowed. “You have my word.”

Bell inhaled. “Then you have mine. I will—”

“Wait!”

The word jumped out of Bilbo like a lightning bolt, and heavens help him he hadn’t meant to be so loud and abrupt and rude. All the same, he couldn’t be sorry, even with everyone’s eyes on him. Not very sorry.

“Wait, wait,” he added in lieu of an apology. “No, I can’t—it cannot be like this.”

Bell’s manner turned warm. “I told you—”

“I know,” Bilbo said. “But I respectfully ask that—that I go in her stead.”

Hard to say if Bell was frightened or appalled. The wizard wrinkled his nose, like when he drank Bilbo’s tea. “Why would I agree to that?”

“Well … you said you need a caretaker. I assume that entails cleaning, cooking, laundering, tasks of that nature, hmm?”

“More or less.”

“Well, then, truth be told, and I say this with the deepest respect for my sister, but she—she is just rubbish at those things. I am a much better cook, to say the least.”

“Excuse me?” Bell spluttered.

“You know I’m right!”

“I am just as—I’m perfectly capable of being a caretaker, and you need to stay here!”

“Oh, do remind me how many handkerchiefs we’ve lost in the wash when you did the laundry! Not to mention how hopeless you are with bleaching stains! And remember those tarts I had to help you salvage last—”

“Stop it!” Bell shouted. “I’m the one who should go!”

“No, you shouldn’t! Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Enough.”

The wizard’s declaration had a nasal resonance, but the sound filled the parlor like a smacking whip. It snapped Bell and Bilbo to silence. The wizard studied each of them, finally settling on Bilbo. “I have my reasons for picking her. And she’s already agreed. So … too little too late.”

“Be that as it may,” Bilbo cut in, “I can’t imagine that Bluebell could handle all the responsibilities of caretaker alone. Y-you said you have a large estate. Then … then take us both.”

“No!” The word rang shrill from Bell’s throat.

“Bilbo.” Bungo sounded even worse. He was wrung dry.

Part of Bilbo joined their pleas. He’d let his mouth run off just to, if nothing else, stall the wizard. Befuddle him, perhaps, until a better idea came to the frightened Hobbit. None came. Even as his good sense berated him, something else within grew convinced that this was the right course. It pained him to leave their father without either child, but the worse choice was letting Bell face this creature, this beast of a man, all alone.

The wizard did look mildly stumped. Back and forth, back and forth between Bilbo and Bell. No thought to the rest of the room, even though Bungo and Gaston and Gorbadoc moved closer, ready for an ambush. When the wizard considered at Bell for longer, gauging her now veiled countenance, Bilbo felt his choice make itself. No backing out now.

“And,” he nearly barked to get the wizard’s attention, “why get only one servant for the price of a whole country when you can have two? The Shire and Buckland together must be worth at least two Hobbits.”

The overly large irises slid back to him. Bell paid him mind, too, and she came to a similar, agonizing decision. She joined his side. Her hand moved to touch his arm, but at the last moment she withdrew it. Instead, shoulders back and level, she said to the wizard, “He has a point.”

Amusement danced across scaly lips. Neither Baggins breathed until the wizard spoke. “Very well. Both of you it is.”

“Bell, Bilbo, please!” Bungo caught Bilbo’s shoulder. Son and daughter met their father. The poor old Hobbit was teary, tremulous. Both children grasped a hand of his. Bell lay her own hand on Bungo’s chest, over his heart. Bilbo squeezed wrinkled, loving fingers.

“My darlings,” Bungo whimpered, “you cannot do this. There must be another way.”

“I’m sorry.” Bilbo struggled with a mere whisper. His vocal chords threatened to abandon him entirely.

“We’ll be all right, Papa,” Bell said. “This is the best we can do for our people.”

“But … but this man … this ...”

“Father.” Bell still murmured, only with a little more force. “It’s been decided.”

“Afraid she’s right.” The wizard was directly behind them. His inexplicably light feet surprised them. Bell stiffened but kept a neutral frown. Bilbo couldn’t help exposing his unease. He clenched his father’s hand again. The wizard leaned down and poked his head, led by his shrewish nose, between the younger Bagginses. “The deal is struck.” The declaration slithered out of teeth and grinning lips.

“Is it?” Bell said. “Bilbo and I will go with you in exchange for the end of the war? The lives and safety of our people?”

“Indeed, dearie.”

“Then ...” She watched Bilbo. He nodded. “Then we will go with you. Forever.”

“Deal!” cried the wizard. He laughed like a child who’d won a game.

Bungo choked. Then, with no warning, he tugged both offspring into a bearish hug. They returned it with matching fervor. If it went on too long, all three would shortly be in tears. A shared instinct pulled Bell and Bilbo out of the embrace. She kissed Bungo’s cheek and smiled one last time. Bungo kissed their brows.

Not another Hobbit moved to interfere. Even the guards had lowered their daggers, not a one even a vague threat to the wizard. His smile had retreated into a shadow of its former self. The rest of his expression remained pitiless.

When Bilbo and Bell stepped back, carrying Bungo’s farewell kisses with them, the wizard’s fingers wrapped around their shoulders.

“Time to go. Oh! Almost forgot. Congratulations on your little war!”

Bitter, indignant glares followed him out of the parlor. The Bagginses did not follow; they were propelled alongside the wizard, nearly before him, his grip relentless and a little too insistent. They winced from how the tips of the nails cut into their shoulders. The unpleasant sensation became a small point of attention as magic—biting as a sand storm, roaring as an ocean, suffocating and intoxicating as a great plume of pipeweed smoke—gathered them and swept them far, far off from the quiet confines of the smial, from Buckland and the Shire.

Chapter Text

It had all been her own choice up until Bilbo came forward and opened his big mouth. A harsh thought, but harsh thoughts were permissible in these circumstances, and between siblings. Why the sudden impetus steeped in reckless courage? Why now, when he stood by in stalwart silence these last couple months? Bell hadn’t precisely anticipated what the Dark One would ask for, but some wit and intuition warned her that the price might fall on her head. She’d asked for him. Bilbo hadn’t liked it, no doubt about that. So why couldn’t he let her go alone?

No, she knew why, which only frustrated her more. He should’ve stayed quiet to keep himself safe, to keep him with Papa at home. Yet when, in a blink, she and Bilbo and the Dark One were inside a marble foyer—gilded archways, displayed guard armor, white stones polished like glass, a vaulted ceiling—Bell checked that her brother was still as trapped by a draconian hand as she was and breathed easier. Her anger turned inward, for Bilbo’s pluck was nowhere near as irritating as her own selfishness.

Like cosmic punishment, the wizard lifted the hand holding Bilbo’s shoulder and waved it. Bilbo vanished like snuffed candlelight.

Bell’s gasp burned her throat. “What have you done?”

“I put him where he belongs,” the Dark One said, utterly unconcerned. “As I will you. But first, how about a little tour?”

Not just a little tour, but so short that Bell wished it was less fleeting. They passed by a few rooms at a quick jaunt, and that was the extent of her privilege to see while following the wizard. The parlor or dining hall (one long table, one friendless chair at its head), piqued her interest most, particularly some of its contents presented on white pedestals: a shrug of golden wool, a long sword, a war hammer, a star-studded hat, a bejeweled chalice, and a pair of gawking marionettes. Any questions about the room’s contents would’ve taken too long to say in the seconds spent crossing to the next door. Bell settled for a more pertinent question: where were they headed? His answer was sensible: her room.

Misleadingly sensible.

Servants’ quarters she could’ve accepted. The dungeon was almost laughable in its dark, dour condition. Oh, she had expected common decency? That naive assumption should’ve evaporated the moment Bilbo had. But as hotly and insistently as the tears pressed around her eyes shortly after the clang of the deadbolt, Bell steeled herself against them. Maybe once she was certain that her family was safe, and once she knew what would be expected of her as the Dark One’s … caretaker, she could let herself mourn for what and who she would never see again, and what she would have to endure. For now, fear (mostly for Bilbo) kept her from grief.

Her own imprisonment could be explained as the wizard ensuring she didn’t flee during her rest hours. She despised the treatment but understood his thinking. What of Bilbo, though? Might the Dark One lock him up for good, ignoring the lure he’d offered so that he came with Bell? Maybe her new employer (for lack of a better term besides “master”) wanted the Bagginses separated indefinitely. Bell’s shouts of Bilbo’s name heightened her certainty. She wouldn’t despair yet, not without knowing how he fared.

She spent the night in thought and somewhat happier reminiscence with tremendous effort. What would her mother say to her now? She might tell Bell that she’d been a little foolish and quick to throw herself on the sacrificial pyre. Well-meaning chastisement would come before a smile of irrepressible pride. Think of this as a long-awaited adventure, Belladonna would add. Bluebell wouldn’t venture freely into deep forests and confront bandits or Dwarves or Fairies, but a dark wizard was more than sufficient as an adversary. The greatest heroes bested evil sorcerers with courage and cleverness.

But was she a hero?

Sleep came in short, groggy bouts. As wakefulness crept in thanks to the sunlight prodding her eyelids through a high, barred window, her fatigue-addled mind tricked itself into believing that this dungeon was a dream. Even the click of the lock, the opening of the door, and the entrance of the wizard were too surreal to shatter the fragile bubble of denial.

He clapped several times. She flinched.

“Rise and shine, dearie! I need my tea.”

She half-heartedly covered a yawn. One foot caught on her grime-streaked blue dress as she stood. The skirt was short enough that it happened only once and she was roused enough to avoid a cold, hard fall. Rumplestiltskin—yes, that was the name she’d found buried in the books from foreign libraries—grimaced but said nothing about it. He grumbled at her to hasten her exit from the dungeon. He also cast a scrutinizing eye on her bare, padded, hairy feet. What warranted that look? He’d seen her feet before; Hobbits had no cause to hide them. The skirt of her dress exposed her shins, too. The hem brushed beneath her kneecaps. Maybe he worried her feet would track the filth from her cell throughout the castle. Well, he put her down here in the first place, so either he should offer more sanitary accommodations or get used to dirtied floors (that she would sweep later).

Bell hustled to stir herself and keep the Dark One’s stare out of sight.

He had the minimal courtesy to escort her to the kitchen, much appreciated since the castle’s corridors bent and crisscrossed in a dizzy maze. She suspected enchantment intended to disorient the unfamiliar and unwary. How would she get any work done if she was bound to lose herself in this labyrinth? The question rose to her lips, ready to fly.

The Dark One waved his hand to open a door without touch. Beyond it awaited a warm, white-tiled room filled with glittering cookware, a farmhouse-styled table, and shelves halfway stocked with food. The hearth and stove along one wall were alight and hot. Bell’s toes gratefully curled.

“Don’t keep me waiting,” Rumplestiltskin sniped, finger a-wagging. “And don’t forget the tea cakes! I like an appetizer before breakfast.”

“Yes, sir,” Bell said, holding in a sigh. She curtsied.

Her stomach growled for its own breakfast.

Her employer ushered her into the kitchen and shut the door. She hid her relief behind a blank glance over the shoulder before the door cut off their voiceless exchange. The wizard returned a warning stare to deter dallying. As soon as the door shut, she went about her task, thankful for the removal of interference. He had said nothing against snacks while she worked.

She put the kettle on the stove before examining the larder and pantry for any edibles that didn’t require cooking. Some carrots, string beans, and apples later, she had a decent plate to nibble from. Most of her time went into churning out a batch of tea cakes. To say she wasn’t the Shire’s greatest baker was a kindness. Her unpracticed hands ached and clumsily sought the optimal balance of water, flour, eggs and sugar while she scavenged for memories of mornings spent watching Mama and Bilbo bake together. Bell’s jobs had been restricted to reading aloud the recipes and licking utensils clean. She did know the basic ingredients, and she knew what shape the teacakes were supposed to be. After a couple false starts, she had a dozen in a batch to place in the oven, as neatly round as possible. She slumped against the table for a short rest as the cakes baked.

Oh, right, the tea. Up she stood again, a little more sure and awake. She dug through an impressive assortment of herbal blends: peppermint, chamomile, raspberry, ginger, chocolate orange and combinations she’d never heard of before. She perused for one that would complement the sweet breakfast pastries—Earl Grey, one of the only black teas in the pantry. The kitchen had a few tea sets, all delicately charming. She picked the set closest to the cabinet door. It was recently washed, a sign of frequent use as a favorite. She steeped two bags in an exquisite blue, white and gold teapot and filled the matching milk pitcher and sugar bowl.

In the placid respite between preparing the tea tray and checking the cakes, Bell let herself marvel at her surroundings. The tea set deserved special study. What had she expected to find in the Dark One’s home? Better that her imagination did not run to the grim or grotesque, but china accented with blue flowers and finely stenciled vines veered in the opposite direction. Far be it from her to criticize a wizard’s choice in crockery.

It did say something about him, didn’t it? Something different from the earth-toned, squamous and rigid clothes that adorned him yesterday. She’d predicted more of the same daring style inside his home. One common theme in both wardrobe and interior decoration was the lack of economic constraint. He spun straw into gold, so no surprise. His aesthetic suggested a love of grandeur and drama, yet the degree of the grotesque extended to solely Rumplestiltskin’s person. And the dungeons downstairs, but they were hardly grand. Household magnificence belonged to the dining hall, the foyer, the corridors and what few bedrooms and storage spaces she saw before her own “room.” The paraphernalia littering these chambers was eclectic and sometimes eccentric, but they filled her with wonder, not dread.

Bell tried to conjure the dining hall in her memory: the glass cabinet, the souvenirs, the intricate tapestries, the soft floral rug, the large spinning wheel, the paisley-embroidered curtains. It was a room one might see in a respectable castle owned by a royal or noble who had refined and interesting tastes.

“But he’s the Dark One,” Bell muttered, a wise reminder.

If he was or had once been a royal, she had no knowledge of it. He didn’t carry himself as such. But she was a Hobbit from a quiet country devoid of royal lineages, the scandalous Tooks and bossy Brandybucks the closest to prestigious family lines. For her, kings and queens existed only in stories and news from neighboring kingdoms. From this limited knowledge, she might recognize someone of royal rearing on sight. Rumplestiltskin remained a great mystery.

“I should be thinking about escape, not getting to know him.” That didn’t sound so much like her voice as it did Bilbo’s. She rescinded the first point as if she were arguing with him. Escape, or any form of freedom, was an ideal that couldn’t be risked at the potential cost of their home and loved ones. What if flight meant undoing the deal? She wouldn’t leave without Bilbo, so there was no question of having one stay to keep the deal partially intact.

A tingling aroma met her nose. Bell jumped like a jackrabbit even though nothing smelled burnt. She remembered just in time to grab a dishcloth before grabbing the oven handle. Inside, her cakes had expanded into awkward lumps. They didn’t smell half-bad, still sweet, like the sugar cookies her mother had made for Yule.

Oh, dear. Bell forgot the yeast. The cakes were in fact biscuits. She pulled out the tray to let them cool and settle. Bother it all. Nothing to do except present them to the wizard and hope he didn’t curse her for her trouble.

She wondered whether to address him by name. It was bothersome to think of him as the Dark One, the wizard, her employer. A name made a person more corporeal, less of a cloud of murky intentions and treachery. “Dark One” only reinforced her discomfort, and she wanted more than anything to be free of that feeling. She’d had enough anxiety and helplessness thanks to the war. She would not stand for more. What to do when this wizard had already reminded her that she was his prisoner?

“I’m the caretaker,” she whispered, the volume belying the resolution. She loaded the cooled tea cakes on a plate, set the plate on the tray, gathered her breath, and hoisted her load. Oh, goodness. It was bloody heavy, proportioned for Big Folk. Still, she could handle the total weight. More or less. She pressed the tray’s edge to her waist and half-walked, half-waddled out the door and up the stairs.

Straight away came the fear of losing her bearings.

Oh, no. Please no.

Sweat gathered on her palms. Bell shuffled down a corridor that looked the same as any other.  Which direction to the dining hall? Her grip on the tray tightened. A good thing, or else the silver handles would have slipped when a door a few yards down the hallway flew open. Bell paused after a frightened jump. She gulped, lifted her chin, told herself this was not at all a trap, and lumbered to the door.

Her muscles trembled from effort and apprehension of a wrong turn into some den of captured beasts or a torture chamber of evil enchantments. The second door to open was just as ripe with dreadful possibilities. By the third door, she dared to direct her worries to Bilbo again. As caretaker, she expected to receive many duties around the castle. Maybe she would not be closely watched, like during this morning’s tea preparation. If her next task was making breakfast, she could steal away while food cooked to find Bilbo in the dungeons.

Bell quaked, despite all her willpower to be brave. If the Dark One caught her, it could hardly end cheerfully. But she had to take the chance it to know where Bilbo was and sneak food to him if their “employer” refused him sustenance.

Her arms were close to giving up the tray when a pair of double doors creaked open and beckoned her. The other doors had been single and identical, leaving her dependent on their willingness to open for navigation. She could’ve sworn the double doors weren’t there before. She recognized them as ones attached to the larger chambers.

There was no telling the time of day inside the dining hall. The curtains remained drawn. It must not have been very late in the morning. Rumplestiltskin sat in his solitary chair at the other end of the table. Yes, the furthest distance she had to travel to serve him. Of course. He did not seem bothered, impatient, or ravenous. He was prepared for her entrance with a watchful pose, complete with steepled fingers.

“Took you long enough.” The comment mocked more than rebuked. Bell did not take comfort in that. There was no telling what a jeering tone might hide. Maybe that was how he expressed annoyance, or he meant to draw her into false mirth to rip out the rug from under her feet.

A little fear touched her, but her own irritation called up some strength. “My apologies,” she grumbled.

There was no hope of getting the tray all the way down the table. If there had been, she wouldn’t be about to test it. Gently as possible on a table about six inches too high for comfort, Bell put down the tray. She forced herself on tiptoe while lifting the teapot and filling one of the cups.

“After my tea, I have much to keep you busy throughout the day.” The Dark One sounded as pleased as though he were about to read off all the gifts he’d received for Yuletide.

Bell only nodded and kept her attention on the hot liquid splashing into the cup.

“You will serve me my meals,” Rumplestiltskin said, “and clean the Dark Castle. You’ll dust my collection, launder my clothing, sweep the floors, wash the windows, and tidy up any rooms I leave a mess in.”

“I understand.” With the cup suitably filled, Bell dared to turn to her employer.

“Let me see.” The wizard touched his chin. “I think there was something else.”

She prayed he’d forget. What he asked so far was, well, mundane. Substantial, but the only disagreeable detail was the size of the castle. She could spend an entire day sweeping and washing its surfaces and not even complete the task, nevermind the meals and laundry.

A wonder that he hasn’t asked her to cook his meals, only to serve them. Maybe serving entailed cooking or baking in his mind. He’d have a chance to sample her baking abilities and see if he still wanted her to use them in future.

Rumplestiltskin continued thinking and tapping his chin. Bell picked up the cup and approached him. Maybe tea would distract him—

“Ah! Now I remember!”

Bell stopped.

“You’ll also skin the children I hunt for pelts.”

She had come across a few horror stories about the Dark One during her research. They weren’t very specific about circumstances and sounded more like tales one tells children to scare them into good behavior. Anyone who broke a deal with him might find themselves put under a sleeping curse, or turned into a small, squishable creature, or deprived of their firstborn. Yet even in accounts of taken children, there was nothing to confirm that Rumplestiltskin hurt the children. In this moment, every ghastly scenario she’d dared to dream up, no matter how outlandish, crashed over her in a cold tidal wave. Her hands lost feeling. They fell to her sides. Porcelain thumped on the carpet. Tea splashed and spattered.

The grin on the Dark One’s face widened. “That one was a quip. Not serious.”

The horrors faded, maybe too quickly. She didn’t care. Her relief was just as powerful as her fear had been, so much that she squeaked out a laugh. That banished the flutters in her chest. New dread seeped into her gut, however, when she saw the cup on the floor.

“Oh, dear,” she muttered as she knelt. Her worry was warranted—a snaggle tooth of a shard had broken off the cup’s rim. She could feel the wet spot on the carpet, but the dark colors obscured the stain. No such good fortune for the cup.

Bell swallowed and reluctantly raised eyes and damaged porcelain to the Dark One’s view. “I-I’m so sorry. I … it’s chipped.” As if the cup had chipped itself. Her face burned. Any consolation from knowing the Dark One had a sense of humor fizzled away.

“Y-you can hardly see it.” She wasn’t trying to be amusing, but the ridiculous words bounded out, ready to inspire laughter or indignation.

Rumplestiltskin crinkled his brow. His attention was riveted on her and his broken property. Was there rage? No. There was … confusion. Maybe disgust. Maybe if she weren’t so frightened (again), she would’ve had clearer insight.

If there was a punishment, let it be for her alone. Leave Bilbo out of it—

“It’s just a cup.”

Bell froze, then relaxed, then remembered to breathe.

“Oh. Ah—” She stopped herself from saying anything more. A smile would do. That and getting off the floor so she could return the cup to the tray, grab a napkin, mop up the spilled tea, and fill another cup.

When she brought the new cup to him, Rumplestiltskin was resettling in his chair, no longer up and alert as when she first entered the hall. She was also conscious that his gaze was more searching, curious. Maybe she hadn’t been wrong about his confusion, although she couldn’t fathom what he was confused about. He’d shocked her with his joke, so she’d dropped and chipped one of his cups. The confusion should’ve been hers alone. He wasn’t even agitated. He seemed to value his possessions with fierce vanity. The pedestals boasted what she assumed were his finest acquisitions. Did his tea set not deserve that degree of pride?

“And what of the tea cakes?” he asked before taking a sip.

“Right, sorry.” At least she remembered to bring them. Her concern over disappointment or displeasure at the biscuits never matched that terror over the chipped cup. Still, she shortened her breath the moment the wizard’s eyes fell on the plate.

“What are those?”

“They’re … tea cakes, but without yeast, sir.” She sighed and added, “It’s the first time I’ve made tea cakes by myself.”

Rumplestiltskin craned his neck over the plate. “I can see that.”

“They smelled fine when they came out of the oven.”

The archness resurfaced in his face. Quick fingers twiddled above the plate and, like mantis claws, caught a single biscuit. His mouth opened, far too like a yawning crocodile maw, and lay the biscuit over his pink tongue. It snapped back into his mouth. Not like a crocodile. More like a satisfied toad or chameleon. The biscuit met its fate behind crunching jaws.

Never smile at a crocodile. Bell remembered that line from a childhood story. Or was it Never laugh at dragons? She sucked in her cheeks to avoid doing either.

Rumplestiltskin chewed, swallowed, wetly smacked his tongue and lips, and grabbed another biscuit. In this manner they were devoured, one by one. Bell had to watch and feel a little surge of envy. She’d eaten, but not enough to satisfy a healthy Hobbit’s appetite. She started to fantasize about slipping off to the kitchen for more food when the wizard inspected her most keenly. No doubt he knew what discomfort he was inflicting, so she returned his stare. Her dress might’ve hidden her shaking knees.

“You really eat seven meals a day?” he asked before scarfing down the last tea cake-turned-biscuit.

Bell cleared her throat. “Six. When we can get them. Which hasn’t been a regular luxury of late thanks to the war.”

“Then your family and friends are eating heartily right about now. Already on their second breakfast, eh?”

Though she bristled, she was intrigued and didn’t bother to hide it. “The Big Folk don’t know much about us. Have you met many Hobbits?”

“Plenty,” he said. There was little good feeling in the word.

“Enough to dislike them, I see.” Bell pressed her lips, pondering. “Then why help us?”

“Whatever reasons I have can be no concern of yours. I saved your home, didn’t I?”

“For a price.”

“Obviously. But that applies to everyone, not just Hobbits.”

“You make deals with people you don’t like?”

The wizard’s mouth stretched so widely she thought he might laugh. For some reason, he chose not to. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have much business.”

Yes, it was hard to imagine a dark wizard liking many people or being popular himself. For her part, she didn’t yet find him reprehensible. Unnerving, certainly. Maybe she would soon learn why he was feared to the point that people didn’t like saying his name.

“Then you must have had an urgent reason to require a Hobbit for a servant,” she said.

“Rephrasing your question as a statement won’t get you an answer, dearie.”

Bell let the matter rest. She indulged in a cursory survey of the room, for all the little time she had to do so. Rumplestiltskin polished off his plate. After she refilled his cup, he pushed the dish toward her without a word. Bell caught the hint. Just as wordlessly (regardless how she wished to mine more information), she took the plate and walked to the tray.

“Leave the tray,” he said. “Take the plate to the kitchen. I’m ready for my breakfast.”

Bell knowingly retreated. She exited by the same door she had entered (if the gods were kind) and begged those divinities that she got back to the kitchen before luncheon.

The cozy smells of sausage and fresh muffin snuck on her somewhere down another familiar yet impossible-to-place corridor. The aroma became her only compass, and she gladly let it guide her to a stairwell to the ground floor. Yes, thank goodness! But how were these delightful smells coming from the kitchen? Was there magic there, after all? Did the wizard or his spells take pity in response to her sad attempt? Would either know or much mind if she sneaked a few morsels into her mouth or her pocket? Answers came at opening of the door and a bump into Bilbo’s shoulder as he turned with a tray of his own.

They gasped in unison. Bilbo kept his grip on the tray through his shock and Bell’s hug. Bell could feel the same grime that sullied her dress on his shirtsleeves and weskit. He’d left his jacket somewhere, and the sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He had only just assembled two plates of breakfast food, including the muffins and sausages that had led her here. Seeing a beautifully fried egg slightly broken, its golden juices pooling around the neighboring pork links, made her belly tighten and groan. A mental scolding reaffixed her cares on Bilbo’s state, mildly soiled as it was. Their clothing was equally mussed and mucked.

“Are you all right?” she asked, cutting off his own question. “Did he put you in a dungeon? I tried calling you, but you never answered. Where were you?”

“I was calling you, too,” Bilbo immediately said. “You didn’t answer, so I thought he’d put you in a decent room, at least.”

“No. I was in the dungeon.”

“Then how did we not—” Bilbo huffed. “I suppose magic might do it.”

Bell’s spirit deflated. Thank the gods neither of them had faced a worse ordeal, but the notion that Rumplestiltskin put them near each other only to guarantee they could not hear and soothe the other’s worries soured her last conversation with him. Did his cruelty come and go at a whim? That felt worse than his being fiendish all the time with a regularity she could predict and circumvent.

“I better go,” Bilbo said, remembering the tray he was carrying.

“Wait,” Bell said. She scooped up the abundant plate for the vacant one she was returning. “There’s a tray upstairs already with his tea. I’ll take these back in.”

“Good thinking.” His tremble might’ve been relief or nerves at what he was about to face.

“You’ll be fine.” She petted his arm, then claimed the tray while he took the loaded breakfast dish. “I managed to chip one of his cups without making him angry.”

“You did what?”

“Shh! Don’t bring it up. And don’t go breaking anything yourself.”

“That’s the last thing I’ll do! I can’t imagine how old this china is. If he’s a collector—I’m guessing so from his knick-knacks upstairs—he must’ve valued this set at a fortune.”

“Yes, you’ll do just fine,” Bell said. “You and he will have plenty to talk about over fine china and other collectibles.”

She was half-joking. Bilbo understood despite his unamused staring as they passed each other.

Even on that note, some tension dropped. One, Bilbo was unharmed. He seemed as whole and well as she or anyone in their place could expect to be. Two, he had assumed the breakfast duty. Maybe Rumplestiltskin had planned it all along, or since Bilbo’s comment about being the better chef. Selfish though that it was, she felt a release from bonds knowing her brother would be helping her with the chores, especially in the kitchen. She could slip him laundry duties, too … no, no. She had to prove she had a role in this castle. What if the Dark One took her hand-off of too many tasks as cause to send her back home without Bilbo?

Aren’t you hoping to go home? not-quite-her, not-quite-Bilbo’s sensible voice reminded her. We can’t stay here forever!

But she had promised forever, and whether the other party was a noble soul or a Dark One, she had to honor her word. Especially with the Dark One and his magic involved.

Maybe you’ll think twice next time about asking a dark wizard for help. No question about whose voice that was. Bell frowned at it and went to the sink to start some washing.

Chapter Text

After the chipped-cup episode, Bell deferred to Bilbo as primary handler of the china. All attempts to locate the lost chip turned up fruitless. At first, she thought perhaps Rumplestiltskin had used magic to repair the cup. But no, it still had the mocking gap. As the days became weeks and Rumplestiltskin made no references to it, Bell moved on from embarrassment to curiosity. What had gone through the wizard’s mind at the time? Was it basic decency shining through his callousness? Or was he showing her mercy just to savor the punishment later? From one day to the next she half-consciously anticipated the second possibility.

That metaphorical sword over her head hardly discouraged her natural inquisitiveness. Every week saw another mysterious trinket added to the great hall cabinet. Two months of witnessing Rumplestiltskin go through the ritual of finding a new spot in the crowded display case finally boiled over. Bell’s question—the same question for each intriguing object she’d seen—erupted like a geyser while she was sweeping the room. Only when he snapped around did she become aware that her hands had stopped working the broom. They sped up double-time.

“How badly do you want to know?” Rumplestiltskin asked after some hesitation.

Bell hesitated herself, but she felt compelled to answer. To appease herself, not him.

“You have so many strange things here. I bet they all have interesting stories. But what good are those stories if you don’t share them with anyone? Day in, day out, you’ve not told us a thing about all these collectibles we dust.”

“Why should I? You’re the help.”

Broom as tall as she in clenched hand, Bell marched over to him. “And you’re rude!”

Rumplestiltskin issued a shrill note through his nose. It suited a huffy sparrow. “Hobbits. You’re too mousy or too mouthy.”

“I might be less mouthy if I had a story to listen to.”

“You’d be less if you minded your chores!”

“I am.” She swept more energetically, summoning a low dust cloud.

He clicked his tongue. “You need to herd the dust bunnies, not scatter them.”

“I can listen and sweep at the same time.”

“Hopefully better than you can talk and sweep.” Rumplestiltskin grimaced, checked the room, then led Bell to one of the pedestals along the windowed wall. On it stood part of an oak branch, on which draped a wool shrug the color of gold.

“What do you imagine this is?” Rumple asked.

Bell had to concentrate to inspect the shrug and continue moving the broom. “Well … sheep’s wool, dyed gold.”

“Not dyed at all. It came from a golden ram. People said it could fly.”

Bell laughed. “How?”

“With wings, of course.”

“Of course.” Bell gave more regard to the wizard than the fleece. “Can you fly? With magic?”

Rumple scoffed. “No, no. Don’t need to. I’m terrifying enough as it is.”

Maybe he worried about looking silly. The image of him hovering mid-air made a smile bloom on Bell’s face.

“So, why did you acquire the fleece of a flying ram?” she asked.

“Because I could,” he said. “Because you never know when golden fleece will be all the rage.”

“You’d trade it, then?”

“Yes, or lord it over anyone who has nothing to trade that I’m interested in.” He was giddy now. His mood impressed on her how frivolous the fleece really was. Bell shook her head, then moved toward the next pedestal.

“And these?” She crossed behind Rumple for a closer look at the two objects on it. One was a brass oil lamp that Bell had polished a couple times per the wizard’s wishes. The other, much more daunting, was a battle axe with pike on the handle. Deadly at both ends. For a Man, its length would’ve matched a short sword. In a Hobbit’s hands it would’ve been a large, hefty weapon to carry.

“This lamp once held a djinn, and it could house one again if I wished,” Rumplestiltskin said. His finger slid over the gleaming spout. “And this—” He pointed at the axe. “This is a parashu that belonged to a divine warrior. It’s imbued with magic capable of destroying demons. So the legend goes.”

“And you have it because …?”

“Well, there’s very little that can harm me, but best not to chance it.”

Bell tilted her head. Rumplestiltskin kept smiling as he shrugged. “And I needed something to fill this empty spot,” he added.

“I hope you don’t have many burglars,” Bell said.

He tittered with exceptional force that made her start. “Never mind me,” he said. “You’ll get it later. Some foolish thieves do try and meet fantastic failure. You’ve already had a taste of the little tricks I have placed throughout the castle.”

Indeed she had, tricks on a few unfortunate knights and on herself. She remembered her own incident while frowning.

A little more than a week into her new employment, Bell came upon Rumplestiltskin letting in a dove with a little scroll tied to its leg. He read the message and confirmed Bell’s hope: it came from her father. It brought heartening news. The Ogres had been driven off. In fact, they had voluntarily retreated from the country, returning north. The war was over.

Bell thanked Rumplestiltskin for sharing this news, then slipped away to find Bilbo. It took half an hour, but the ordeal of locating him was nothing to the joy they shared at word of the Shire’s salvation and the urgency with which they bolted for the castle’s front doors. Round and round they went, trying every door and hallway, any alternate exits they could think of. At last, they ran down the corridor they were sure led to the foyer, shoved open the double doors that would lead them to the landing before the last staircase—and found themselves in the great hall.

Rumplestiltskin sat at his wheel, spinning like nothing was amiss. Nothing was. It was just another day in the Dark Castle for its master and servants.

“A deal’s a deal, dearies,” was all the dark wizard said. “Now, where’s my tea?”

Despondency seized Bell like a curse. She didn’t speak to him or Bilbo for a week afterward.

The spell broke when, in the middle of another monotonous afternoon while Rumplestiltskin was out for an errand (his absence did nothing to undermine the wards thwarting their escape), Bilbo found her staring out a window in the hall. The curtains parted just enough for her view of the castle grounds—animal-shaped shrubberies, granite fountains cheerfully bubbling, neatly arranged stable and work shed undoubtedly used for more storage. In the late, warm daylight, no one would’ve called this manor a place of darkness. It needed only some gardeners, grooms and groundskeepers moving about, and some birds and squirrels chirping in the greenery, to bring life to the scene.

It did no good to wish and dream, Bell knew. And yet, she reasoned, wishes and dreams were all they had.

Bilbo tapped her shoulder, then held up a flower crown. Pink miniature roses, bishop’s lace, lady’s mantle, thyme, and bluebells. The fullness of the wreath spoke of the pains he’d devoted to it. How had he found the time? All these plants came from the castle grounds. What if Rumplestiltskin found out?

“I asked him first,” Bilbo said.

“And he said it was all right?”

“Not before he pestered me for the reason for my ‘mucking’ about in his garden, as he put it. And there was more pestering once I told him. He’s never heard of the custom. But eventually he said he’d allow it.”

“Did he say why?”

“I can’t even remember, it made so little sense. Never mind him, dear Bell. If we can’t go back to the Shire, in some small ways we’ll bring the Shire here.”

It wasn’t until Bell began to cry that, all at once, she felt the many years since she last openly wept in front of anyone.

“Your tricks, as you call them,” Bell said to Rumple, close to two months after the fact, “are well and good for stopping intruders. They’re less necessary, or appropriate, for anyone already living in the castle.”

“Don’t think I don’t know you’d try to escape at the smallest opportunity,” Rumplestiltskin said.

Bell fastened her lips. She couldn’t say he was wrong and be honest.

“I’ve removed a distracting temptation,” he continued. Then something shifted. Some more hesitation reared up. “Plenty of them still abound. So, what did you do with that flower crown?”

Heat rushed through Bell’s face. Quite unconsciously, the question summoned a crystal-clear memory of Rumple’s face when he saw her that evening, having returned for dinner. The crown on her head. The freshly laundered dress that wasn’t the blue item she’d arrived in. With Bilbo’s help, Bell had tailored a small gown found in the chaos of a clothes-packed storage room. They had taken it in and trimmed the skirt to a prudent Hobbit length. Its lilac hue complemented the pink and blue in her wreath.

Bell had girded herself for the wizard’s shock at the acquisitions from his stores and gardens paraded upon his maid’s person. She hadn’t expected his tied tongue. He couldn’t link together a sentence longer than two words the whole time she served him. That was sweet compensation, and it viscerally stirred her to see him robbed of quips and smirks, left with only nervous confusion. His unbalanced manner was, in all truth, adorable.

“I pressed the prettiest flowers,” she told him, barely sweeping at all now. “I like using them as bookmarks. The rest of them Bilbo made into potpourri.”

“Ah. Good to know it didn’t go to waste too quickly. I won’t have my plants misused.”

“Bilbo would be the last person to misuse flowers. He adores them. And, as you saw, he makes excellent flower crowns.” Feeling buoyed by a playful mood, Bell said, “He could make you one.”

Rumple waved his hands and shook his head more bashfully than he must’ve intended. “Ah, no. They’d wilt as soon as they touched my head.”

A cough came from the other end of the room. It announced Bilbo’s presence.

Rumplestiltskin turned, frowned, and forcefully inquired after the afternoon tea.

“It’ll be up shortly,” Bilbo said, dry as sand. “What’s this about a flower crown?”

“Nothing—” Rumplestiltskin began.

Bell’s words overlapped his. “What flowers would suit Rumplestiltskin?”

Bilbo balked. He wordlessly yet loudly questioned her sanity. She wagged her eyebrows.

While most Hobbits would have begged Bilbo to kick the subject away like a rotten cabbage, reckless resignation drew him in—that “It might as well happen” mindset of someone who senses the universe has been busy tampering with their life for its amusement.

“Rhododendron.” he said, tone flat as a pancake sat on by an elephant. He aimed the word dead-on at Rumplestiltskin.

The wizard narrowed one eye, suspicious but ignorant of the reason.

“Really?” Bell’s barely hidden mirth sprouted from knowledge of flower meanings. “I was thinking buttercups.”

Bilbo folded his arms. “And monkshood.”

Bell turned down one corner of her mouth. “I don’t know about that. Maybe snapdragon?”

Bilbo turned up one corner of his. “Lobelia.”

Bell giggled so hard she almost started hiccupping.

“What?” Rumplestiltskin barked.

“Lobelia is a cousin of ours,” Bilbo explained. “By marriage.”

“Are all your women folk named after flowers?”

Bell battled back her laughing fit. “Most of them. Some of our Took cousins use gem names.”

“What about Bilbo?” Rumplestiltslkin resembled a serpent that had picked up the scent of prey. “You and your family have an entertaining repertoire of male names.”

Bilbo sniffed like a restrained but no less irked bull. “If you say so … Rumplestiltskin.”

Bell’s eyes could’ve eaten the moon. Two moons, in fact. Her mouth clamped and arched in either horror or shackled hilarity.

The serpent coiled, possibly to retreat, possibly to strike. Bilbo didn’t draw breath while waiting for Rumplestiltskin’s fist to decide what it wanted to do in reply.

“I could make you a flower crown,” Bell nearly shouted. She stayed in her spot. Her voice urged Rumplestiltskin to turn in her direction, away from her brother.

His overblown irises trained on Bilbo, enhancing the likeness to a snake that was trying to capture a mouse in its deadly stare. After many long seconds, he pivoted like a worn-out hinge. Taut leather instead of rusted iron squeaked.

“Not necessary, dearie. Flowers clash with my wardrobe.”

“Maybe they clash with that,” Bell said to his scaly coat, “but when you’re wearing your brighter, softer fabrics, they could match nicely.”

“You can waste time dwelling on it while cleaning the rest of the rooms. You’ve done enough dust-churning in here.”

Rumplestiltskin waved her off. Bell screwed her mouth in dissatisfaction and, carrying the broom as a soldier would a lance, walked out the double doors. Her quick gait made her skirt swish and her curly hair flutter. The question of whether that was why Rumplestiltskin continued to watch the doors for a while after her departure, or if he was just lost in thought, fell on Bilbo to consider, though only after the wizard became aware of him again and sent him back to the kitchen.

A few days later came the weekly laundry load. The room for the washing supplied hot water from a faucet and plenty of soap and oils (some just for leather) while the drying had to be done outside on a lawn between the laundry-room door and one of the groves near the grand, turret-studded outer wall. On the clotheslines, the Hobbits had hoisted white shirts that were flapping like flags. When did the Dark One ever wear a white shirt? The numerous darker silk shirts could be accounted for, too. They would have their chance to dry once this current load was finished.

Back home, Bilbo wasn’t secretive about his generous wardrobe, but even he gawked at the mountain Rumplestiltskin routinely threw at him and Bell to clean. Some of this hoard included clothing Bilbo was sure the wizard never wore. “What does anyone need with so many shirts?”

“Bilbo, you aren’t the person to ask that question,” Bell said. She snapped another wet bedsheet out of the basket. “You considered converting one of the guest rooms into a walk-in closet.”

“Only on a seasonal basis! Not during festivals when people visit!”

“That wasn’t my point.”

“Now see here! It’s … it’s because our parents gave me so many clothes on their birthdays over the years. They did the same to you, after all, only with books.” Bilbo gave her a critical eye as he grabbed the sheet’s other end. Together they shook and hung it. “As if you wouldn’t like a large wardrobe of your own.”

“Maybe,” she said, but the word was soaked with skepticism. A wardrobe of hers could never outgrow her brother’s. Not that either of them would find out for certain.

The subject turned her thoughts to a more pertinent topic. “Rumple has dozens of dresses in one of those storage rooms. You know, the ones he unlocks only when I’m supposed to sweep them. Have you noticed?”

“Given that it only unlocks when you sweep it, no.”

“Right, like you haven’t snooped around.”

Outed, Bilbo reluctantly nodded. It was hard not to. Contrary to their early fears and the size of the castle, they had plenty of downtime to spend as their inclinations compelled them. Some days kept them busy with cleaning, but the first week proved that their efforts matched what was required for the castle’s upkeep. They suspected magic did its part in maintaining order. Rumplestiltskin never mentioned past servants. Bilbo thought that best. Any breach of the topic might unfold into a horror story about a predecessor meeting a grisly end. Bell took it as a hint that Rumplestiltskin had gone without servants for many years, preferring complete solitude. The idea piqued questions Bell couldn’t chase off.

“Why dresses?” she asked. “Former victims? Results of deals? Or does he make them?”

“He only spins, and he doesn’t spin anything other than gold,” Bilbo said. He normally avoided Bell’s questions. By and by, though, his trepidations abated enough that a little speculative talk was acceptable, so long as it was out of Rumplestiltskin’s range of hearing. Gossip expedited the chores and hours. “He seems more interested in duping other poor souls than tailoring gowns, even with magic.”

“If the dresses are from deals,” Bell said, “what value are they to him?”

A peculiar thought popped up among Bilbo’s otherwise mundane guesses. “Maybe he likes to play the fairy godmother.”

Bell guffawed. “That’s a fantastic thought! I sure hope so.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Bilbo said, regretful for voicing it.

“It would be a little nice,” Bell said. “I can’t believe he’s all darkness. There’s something about him that’s … I don’t know. I think a part of him wants to be good, but something evil has taken root and consumed so much of him.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

“Not just wishful thinking?” Bilbo tried to console rather than reproach.

Frowning, Bell grabbed a damp pillowcase from the basket. The argument was dropped.

Bilbo had a quiet suspicion about her feelings toward the Dark One, but now was not the time to speak it. If only he had someone, anyone other than the wizard himself, to consult on the problem. He was still ruminating on what he heard and saw the other day in the great hall. It wasn’t the first time he caught the tail-end of a conversation between his sister and Rumplestiltskin. The most unsettling observation he’d made wasn’t how the two of them were on speaking terms, even though Bell had good reason to hold tight to resentment. He was more startled by her growing ease in response to Rumplestiltskin’s prickliness. And by the moments when that prickliness softened. That usually happened while Rumple was staring at Bell and her attention was diverted elsewhere.

Bilbo hated stirring any figurative pots, so he kept mum and inconspicuous. So far, it remained a tolerable work atmosphere. But his nerves rattled at the knowledge that Rumplestiltskin’s frown always deepened whenever he interrupted a tête-à-tête.

“Grab the other end, will you?” Bell asked, pointing to the far end of another sheet that was now dry and still on the clothesline.

Bilbo hopped to it, half-literally. The line’s height from the ground demanded standing on tiptoe. Still an improvement from its previous position. Since their arrival and assumption of the housework, the Hobbits had improvised means to make everything more reachable with stacked crates and chests and the occasional serendipitous foot ladder. Rumplestiltskin, short for a Man, stood over a foot above Bilbo, so his residence was proportioned to his size. Now several step ladders and smaller tables awaited the Bagginses’ use throughout the castle. Bilbo benefitted most; he was now comfortable with the stove and oven and fireplace, not to mention the pantry and larder with their ceiling-high shelves. The kitchen in Bag End had been his domestic domain. Thank goodness that, apart from the whiff of magic in restocked food that circumvented trips to the market, the Dark Castle’s kitchen and larder operated like any others.

Bell often climbed high ladders and washed the windows or dusted towering shelves in several rooms, including Rumplestiltskin’s tower workshop. She set to the task only in his presence, per his request so she didn’t take or break anything laced with his magic. Honestly, she was glad to know someone was present in case of a misstep off a rung. Whether or not Rumplestiltskin would save her she didn’t dare test. Just the illusion of a safety net gave her the nerve to clamber up. She hadn’t been this far off the ground since her tree-climbing days around the Shire, much to their relatives’ and neighbors’ horror. Hobbits were not fond of high places, hence why their houses and smials were always one story.

While grateful for some discovered normalcy in their respective tasks, Bell and Bilbo would have traded nothing for the gift of sharing each other’s company, even when they argued. It still troubled Bilbo that they were sleeping in far-flung dungeons, which meant he had to anticipate the dreadful morning that the door to one of their cells would stay locked forever thanks to a vicious impulse.

As they finished folding the dry sheet, Bell sighed as though she were about to admit to a small but embarrassing offense. “There is one thing he did in our first week.”

“Oh?” Bilbo paused to listen.

“He … he gave me a pillow.”

Bilbo straightened, eyes wide and forehead furrowed tightly. “He did?”

“He’d heard me crying. He said it distracted him from spinning. The pillow was supposed to muffle my cries so I wouldn’t disturb him. I took him at his word. Now, well, it’s a little absurd. No, very absurd! He has magic, after all. He could muffle me more effectively than with a single pillow. It was a front. It had to be, Bilbo.”

He gave her words due reflection. He didn’t discredit her perspicacity. He only doubted its usefulness in this situation.

“If it was, does it make any difference?”

“Of course! He’s not a monster we need to hide from or defeat by force. If he has any kindness in him, he can be reasoned with. And … and maybe he has a reason for bringing us here. I mean beyond wanting a couple halflings doing his chores.”

Bilbo swallowed. If anyone was going to attempt to reason with a dark wizard, Bell sounded ready for it. He hoped with renewed anxiety that her attempts would not end with her transformed into an amphibian, toad or otherwise. Or any animal or inanimate object. Any transformations of any sort needed to be well avoided.

“If you’re going to test this theory,” he said, “do it with some insurance. I don’t want to be stuck cleaning this castle all by myself while you hop around the garden eating flies.”

She grimaced, then snickered.

They continued working in a lighter mood and joked about the prospect of a toad’s life. They were laughing up a small, jovial storm by the time they had the air-dried clothes in the basket, ready to lug inside.

As though sensing too much joy within the grounds, Rumplestiltskin appeared in the doorway to the laundry room as they carried the basket toward it. The surprised Hobbits dropped the load. Bell quickly crouched to rescue most of its contents from grass stains or opportunistic insects.

“Here you are,” Rumplestiltskin said, as if he’d caught them out.

“Yes, here we are,” Bell answered. “Is something wrong?”

“I heard laughter.”

“That does frequently happen between friends and family,” Bilbo said.

“Too grating on your ears?” Bell added.

Rumplestiltskin huffed. “You two are getting much too uppity. I thought your kind had better sense than to backtalk a powerful wizard.”

“I’m not so sure,” Bell said. “You should meet Lobelia Sackville-Baggins. You’d form a vastly different opinion of Hobbits after facing her.”

“Indeed,” Bilbo said, alarmed but entertained by the scenario. Lobelia vs. Rumplestiltskin. He’d pay a pretty penny for that.

“Then I should crack the whip more often,” Rumplestiltskin said. “This place better be sparkling by the time I’m back.”

“You’re leaving again?” Bell let slip a disheartened note. Bilbo blinked, perplexed.

“Yes, yes,” Rumplestiltskin said, not noticing. “I seem to be the only one who gets any work done! You can expect me back tomorrow. Maybe this evening if I’m lucky. When I do return, I’ll be conducting a thorough inspection of your work. Do not give me reason to be unsatisfied.”

The Hobbits couldn’t be sure this was an idle threat. Their postures straightened and stiffened to his approval. He gave a jeering smile and excited flick of his fingers. Then he was gone.

Bilbo grabbed a basket handle. “Still think there’s a decent soul in there?”

“You can’t know what’s in a person’s heart until you truly know them.” Bell took a steady grip of her side and hustled Bilbo and the laundry through the door.

Something about Rumplestiltskin’s warning over his rigorous examination to come spurred Bell into greater enthusiasm. She dusted and swept with an attitude that Bilbo decided to call defiant. She wasn’t seizing this chance to underperform and test Rumplestiltskin’s alleged mercy, blessed be the gods. Bilbo’s vigor rose to the challenge, too. Without the wizard around to bother them, Bilbo could spend some hours making preserves, pickling vegetables and smoking meats. Magically refilled cupboards were all well and good, but it was better to do a little old-fashioned food preparation yourself.

Once that was done, he went looking for Bell. The day was waning. She had just finished polishing all the silver objects among Rumple’s collectibles in the great hall cabinet. She had even tried oiling the parashu on the pedestal and a long sword in the cabinet, having brushed up on techniques in the upstairs library. Bilbo’s heart rate spiked when he saw his little sister working so freely (yet carefully) with sharp edges. Even so, he admired the scope of the dark wizard’s inventory, equal parts impressive and useless. The blade might serve a defensive purpose, but Rumplestiltskin was a man of great magical power. What good was a sword to him?

“Maybe he has it for the same reason he keeps all those dresses,” Bell said.

“You think he’s giving young ladies ballgowns and broadswords?”

“Why not? Or he’s the fairy godfather of gentle maidens and aspiring knights alike.”

“An equal opportunist—that I don’t doubt.”

While smaller jobs needed attending around the castle, the Bagginses were easily distracted by the copious artifacts Rumplestiltskin kept in that room alone. They couldn’t pick out a consistent theme. The gold cup on one pedestal looked handsome and valuable, but just across the room was a ghoulish pair of marionettes in a more noticeable spot. And what on earth was this star-studded hat? Hidden magic was the best guess they could make, little else deeper.

At length, they were ready to work on cleaning and organizing various rooms. Another couple hours later, Bell tracked down Bilbo and informed him that, with the rest of the rooms reasonably cared to, she was going up to the library.

“You’ve already had a good look at it,” Bilbo said knowingly.

“But I found some old books I think even Rumplestiltskin has forgotten about,” she said. “One is written in the Fairy language, and another, I’m quite sure, is in Dwarvish. Remember how Mama had those books in different languages she picked up in her traveling days? One small volume had been a battered beginner’s guide to Dwarvish. The Dwarves were so secretive about their culture, before they lost their great kingdoms, that no non-Dwarf could learn much about it. After most of them left Misthaven, though, their libraries were ransacked, their writings either destroyed or scattered around the land. Mama insisted that fate was on her side when she found that volume at a bookseller’s cart. The man barely knew what he had. I remember only a few words from it. If only I’d brought it. Anyway, I’m going to get a better look at the one upstairs.”

While he couldn’t foresee any practical application, Bilbo felt a small and decidedly Tookish thrill at the idea of learning a forgotten, forbidden language. He’d already indulged in learning some Elvish, a dead tongue thanks to its absent mystical speakers. Why not Dwarvish as well?

“Maybe I’ll come help you,” he said. “There’s enough room in his library for two of us to work.”

Bell looked happier than she had since before the Dark Castle, maybe even before the start of the war.

Rumplestiltskin had some ridiculous system in place. Bilbo tried to respect it, but after a while he worked on alphabetically regrouping the books by subject, then by title. Even if Rumplestiltskin had returned then and there to catch the Hobbit upending his library into a more sensible arrangement, Bilbo would’ve found some wit and gladly faced the wizard’s ire. Well, a bit gladly.

Some of the pains made to ensure order were undercut by both his and Bell’s late-night selections of stories and informative volumes that they perused by candlelight. The library was a far better place to spend the dark hours than a smelly, poorly insulated dungeon. Bell swiped some blankets and pillows from an unused bedroom. Settling in on their makeshift cots felt a bit like camping in the den so they could open Yuletide presents before everyone else.

Bilbo didn’t notice when Bell dropped off to sleep. He did notice the book on Elvish history splayed on her stomach. Gentle hands freed it, tucked another book he’d been reading into it to save her place, and added it to a pile next to her head. He kissed her brow, then snuffed the candles and snuggled in his own blankets. Not quite like Bag End, at Yuletide or any other time of year, and not nearly as comfortable. But Bilbo drifted to sleep with warmth in his chest.

The next morning, Bell was the first to wake. Right away she wondered, anxious and inexplicably eager, if Rumplestiltskin had returned. Maybe if he was in a good enough mood (not too keen on his promised inspection), she could ask him what he knew about Dwarvish and other languages. But first, there was the matter of returning these books to the shelves.

She managed it on her own while Bilbo dozed. She remembered a little of how Rumplestiltskin liked his books arranged: those he was using as references for current concerns were stacked on the table or placed on the closest shelves. He liked to circulate what he was and wasn’t interested in. Not the most stable system, and a liable way to misplace something of no importance now but great importance later. It revealed an active mind, as well as someone driven by prudence and immediacy. Bilbo had inflicted his own idea of prudence. Now Bell tried to reconcile the two sensibilities. Much guesswork was thrown in like paint splashed on a canvas. The most crucial shelves were the favored ones by the table, so once she believed she’d restored the chosen tomes to their previous locations, Bell left the rest and hoped Rumplestiltskin didn’t notice the changes.

She roused Bilbo and reminded him, repeatedly, that they still had the hearths the clean, the great hall rug to beat, and the foyer to sweep and dust before Rumple’s return. With less repetition, she urged him to get started on breakfast.

Each hour became a game of walking on a tightrope while expecting it to snap beneath their feet. They oscillated between checking every door and corner and blithely resigning to the fact that, no matter how prepared they wanted to be, Rumplestiltskin would find a way to set them off with fright. It was a maddening way to go about the day, especially when it passed without incident. They could feel the borrowed minutes accumulating like interest on a debt.

Once the fireplace ashes had been disposed of and the rug thoroughly scourged, and after they had both washed away the sweat and grime, the Baggins shared a lunch and then parted for some leisure time. Bell made trips up and down the castle towers and poked around the dustiest, loneliest nooks. In one very musty room, she found cracked mirrors and broken spindles and wheels. Her heart quickened. The wood was splintered from being struck dozens of times. Each mirror had a hole at the nexus of cracks running across its dusty face. Sitting in baskets and on shelves were children’s dolls. They had been treated much kindlier. They had piled up over many years, but they were all propped up and kept in fair condition, ready their owners to return to claim them.

Another room, utterly windowless and requiring Bell to bring a candle, had charcoal sketches nailed to the walls. Only a handful, not centuries’ worth of work. If she had to guess, they were the diligent but novice attempts of a young artist. They featured people, rough in circumstance while pleasant in expression. One picture portrayed a man hunched on stool at a spinning wheel. His clothes and the interior of his house suggested destitute wear. For what reason? Spinners were not typically wealthy in the Shire, but they practiced an essential craft and were paid due compensation for it. Why was this man suffering such poverty? Was he a bad spinner who had no other trade to rely on? She hoped not. That would be too heartbreaking.

In that same room, in the farthest corner, she pulled a blanket off a chest. Another flurry of heart palpitations, but from delight that she might’ve uncovered a secret treasure. When she opened it (not locked—odd for Rumplestiltskin), hope sank, then rose back up. Maybe she had found treasure of a different kind.

The chest’s contents could’ve once belonged to a child: shirts, tunics, trousers, shoes, a cloak, a large leather ball. Were these Rumple’s childhood belongings? Or …

Bell mused on the clothes, the dolls, the drawings. She carefully closed the chest and wondered, with no small amount of sadness, if she would ever have the courage to ask Rumplestiltskin about her discovery.

While Bell continued to investigate all other unlocked rooms, Bilbo chose to explore the gardens. Rumplestiltskin liked roses, and what a variety he had gathered! They came in all the natural colors and sizes, and some unnatural, but the most prolific were the most dramatic in shade. Blood-red blooms looked at Bilbo, succulent and rather deadly and wonderfully fragrant. He marveled at them and secretly complimented their owner. He also highly regarded the hydrangeas, lilacs, lilies, and of course the bluebells. Being an unapologetic flower enthusiast, however, he longed for a small field of sunflowers and beds of snapdragons, irises, daffodils and daisies. Some mischievous dandelions would’ve been welcomed, too. He could’ve pulled them up and used their leaves for a salad. Speaking of edibles, he checked on the herb beds to see which plants among them, including the thyme, was prime for harvesting. Later, he strolled through the small groves near the sandstone wall that marked the boundary of the castle’s grounds. Unfortunately, it wasn’t late enough in the season for most trees to drop their nuts, but Bilbo spotted a few green acorns at the foot of an oak. He plucked them up to store in the pantry where they would brown and be useable for stew or bread.

At a languid pace, he reclaimed the footpaths winding among the shrubberies and followed their flagstones. When he started to bemoan his solitude and the absence of domestic animals, lo and behold, he passed the stable and in fanciful interest approached it. A veil of ivy and briar covered the doors at both ends while the rest of the building was clear of unruly vegetation. After gingerly maneuvering around the tangled stems and biting thorns, Bilbo got the door open. He gasped to find the interior spacious and pleasant in temperature. And there were horses! Living horses standing among hay that looked and smelled fresh, and they relaxed in their stalls with full tubs of water and oats. Who was feeding them and cleaning up after? Neither Bilbo nor Bell had been assigned those duties and had in fact been uninformed of the horses’ existence. The stable looked deserted from outside.

Bilbo touched the bucket near one stall. A pulse of something he was starting to recognize, though forever foreign to his non-magical person, ran through his fingers and arm. He jerked his hand away. Yes, better to leave this business to itself. The horses did not seem unhappy. One did lean its head over the gate to sniff and experimentally nibble on Bilbo’s hair. A gentle scolding and some petting on the soft snout set things a-right. He slipped back to the castle larder, fetched an apple, and returned to give his new friend a treat. The horse gratefully munched it up, much preferring the sweet, dripping fruit to the Hobbit’s soft but tasteless hair.

Another day was departing in a lush sunset that only today poured into the great hall. Bell had not yet found the right ladder to reach the rung on which the curtains hung, and they were too heavy to fully open from below. Maybe they were nailed down. She had to settle for rope she found in one of the spare rooms to truss up the curtains so that the low light could spill orange-gold radiance over the chairs and floor. That’s where Bilbo found her. They shared a moment of appreciation for the illumination, then one of apprehension over the conspicuous absence of the castle’s master.

“Is he doing this on purpose?” Bilbo wondered, not expecting an answer.

“To catch us unawares? It’s possible.” Bell shifted on her bare feet. “I hope he’s not in trouble.”

“I’m more worried we’ll be in trouble when he returns.”

“It’s not been that bad here, all things considered.”

“I know. I’m waiting for the wool to come down over our eyes.” His gaze jumped to the golden wool on display at the other end of the hall. Bell followed his sight line. She was struck by laughter that stayed in her chest for all of three seconds. They both spurted their giggles like fountains.

“I should prepare dinner,” Bilbo said once their laughter subsided. “Would you mind setting a place at the table?”

“I’ll set a place and help you in the kitchen, if you’d like.”

“No need. I wouldn’t want to set the place on fire right when he returns.”

Bell groaned. “I’m not that careless! The worst I ever did was burn the tarts!”

“Exactly.”

Her cheeks burned scarlet. “Fine! Do it all by yourself if you must. I’ll set a place and catch up on my reading while I wait. Unless you’re worried I’ll set the books on fire, too.”

Bilbo smiled. “You’d sooner catch on fire yourself.”

That left Bell ruffled and determined to be not the least bit helpful besides laying the plate and silverware at the table’s end. True to her remark, she grabbed a stack of books from the library and brought them to set on the opposite end of the table, along with two thick pillows for a second chair she’d found. Bilbo shortly brought up the dinner tray. He had one dish covered by a lid that he set before the wizard’s chair. He presented tea and a plate of biscuits for Bell. She took a grumpy bite of the top biscuit, grumbled her thanks, and opened a volume on the history of the long-gone Misthaven Elves she began last night.

Almost a minute after Bilbo left, a loud knock rang all the way from the foyer.

Bell froze, biscuit trapped between her teeth. She stuffed it between her cheeks, laid down the book, brushed crumbs off her bodice and skirt, hopped down, and set off with a quick, nervous gait.

More knocks rang as she descended the stairs. The last one made her bones rattle as she entered the marble antechamber. Her leather-padded feet had enough friction with the floor that she could sprint without slipping, but she still made a clumsy stop that nearly ended with a collision into the door. She had to stand on tiptoe to grab the handle with enough force to pull the door back. Up until this moment, Bell had not a clue who the visitor might be. Only at the door, as it was opening, did she think that maybe she shouldn’t be letting anyone inside. Rumplestiltskin hadn’t forewarned her or Bilbo of visitors. But why knock if they weren’t expecting to be admitted?

It felt too late to slam the door, and it would’ve required too much effort. If a terrifying figure stood on the other side, she might manage a fast thrust at least knock them back.

The person who was waiting wasn’t exactly terrifying. Intimidating fit better. He was like a character that had stepped out of one of her often-read stories about battle-hard heroes. He had muscular arms, calloused knuckles adorned with iron dusters, fur-trimmed and road-worn clothes, and weapons—a knife, a hammer, and two axes –strapped in various places on his person. He also had a thick beard and a shaven head. Tattoos covered most skin not carpeted with hair. He was close to a foot taller than Bell.

The stranger—the Dwarf—gave her a quick (still unnerving) once-over, then bowed low. “Dwalin,” he said, “at your service.”

Bell was a little flattered and a lot bewildered. “Uh … Bluebell Baggins at yours, sir. Can I help you?”

The Dwarf entered with only this for an answer: “I was told there’d be food. Lots of it.”

“You were?” Was he a beggar? No, he didn’t look the part. He did look as though he believed he was where he was supposed to be, which Bell couldn’t understand at all.

“Yes, and I’ve had a long journey, so I’d appreciate if you directed me to the food straight away.”

Oh. Oh, dear, no. There had to be a mistake. But Bell studied his attire for as long as she dared without appearing rude. Then she nodded.

“Very well. Right this way.”

Chapter Text

“Bell,” Bilbo squeaked, “please tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.”

Bell could offer him no such help. Her eyes beheld the same sight. Mr. Dwalin—the muscular, tattooed Dwarf she’d escorted to the dining hall and served (with admirable timeliness, if she could give herself and her brother some credit)—was raiding the pantry for more vittles. He wasn’t alone. Another Dwarf was searching with him. This fellow was shorter, white-haired, and far more pleasant in manners.

The powerful Dark One had neglected to install a doorbell. Bell had been watching the first Dwarf in the dining hall devour the portion of fish and vegetables Bilbo had heated up when more knocks came. Dwalin was perfectly willing to let her go answer the next caller. In fact, he preferred it over her silent but obviously interested vigil over his shoulder.

The new arrival was a stark contrast. The white-bearded Dwarf offered a bright smile instead of the wary scowl of the first Dwarf. He did bow like his compatriot. “Balin, at your service!”

“Bell, at yours,” she said dully. Dwarves did not have surnames, she guessed, and she didn’t want to put on what a Dwarf might call airs (nor did she want to repeat her full name if more of the same was expected this evening). Instead she added, “Good evening,” when she curtsied.

“Yes, it is,” said Balin. He crossed inside, and his expression turned serious. “I hope I’m not late.”

“L-late?” Bell rummaged through her memory. Did Rumplestiltskin mention anything about visitors? Was she that forgetful? “I ... I don’t think so?”

“Oh, good!” Balin’s smile returned. He strolled through the foyer toward the staircase. Bell stilled her breath. She remembered how a couple unexpected visitors had stormed into the castle to confront Rumplestiltskin. Tall, dashing Men with self-righteous vengeance in their eyes—that’s how Rumple had described them. Bell had seen the Men flee from a distance as they threw off their burning coats and capes, just through the crystal ball Rumple had summoned for her viewing pleasure. She’d laid on a severe look of censure that only amused the Dark One more.

She ran to catch up with Balin and prayed there would be no repeat of that show.

Bilbo might have preferred it. Not only were there two Dwarves to accommodate (brothers, Bell had picked up from Dwalin and Balin’s conversation), but they thought it their right to abandon the dining room for the kitchen while Bilbo continued to sweat over the stove and oven. Their attention was on a block of cheese with some blue growth. Balin was not familiar with blue cheese; how could anything like that be good to eat? In the meantime, Dwalin, still talking with his brother, pulled out an apple, a carrot, a handful of cherry tomatoes, and some parsley. He sniffed and chucked each over his shoulder.

“Look,” Bilbo said to the Dwarves’ backs, his gaze only sometimes straying to the tossed-away food, “I’m not saying you are not welcome here—that is, you are welcome to rest and eat for a while in the dining room—but you must realize that we’re—well, this is not our home, so we’re not free to let in every vag—uh, traveler off the road. I’m sorry to put it so bluntly, but it’s the truth. I do apologize—”

Dwalin and Balin suddenly turned around. Bilbo and Bell stood still, neither Hobbit sure which part of Bilbo’s rambling the Dwarves had heard.

A long moment of silence. Then Balin nodded. “Apology accepted.”

Bilbo’s mouth flapped open and shut. Nothing loud enough came out to stop the Dwarves from talking again.

Bell cleared her throat to dispel nervousness. “Uh, good sirs?”

The Dwarves looked round again, this time more expectant.

Her voice strained to be cheerful and calm and polite and authoritative all at once. “I must ask that you wait in the dining room for your food to be served. I promise you it will be more than adequate once my brother here has had time to make it.”

“Oh!” said Balin. “You’re brother and sister! I presumed you were husband and wife.”

The presumption won amused smiles, and the moment helped Bell not feel not quite so put upon. Bilbo was still tight as a wound-up spring until Bell cleared the Dwarves out of the kitchen, helped by a plate of scones. This ease met a speedy end.

Just as Bell arranged Dwalin and Balin at their seats, more knocks came. Bell aimed a very unamused glare at the sound. But down she went again.

Oh, heavens, two more dwarves! Their youth and handsome faces did not appease Bell in the least. Their briefly suspicious looks only added to her annoyance. She nearly opened her mouth to demand their business, but the Dwarves took turns with introductions—“Fili,” said the blond fellow; “Kili,” said the dark-haired fellow with barely a beard to call his own—and bowed together. Then the dark-haired dwarf grinned, earlier distrust forgotten.

“You must be Miss Boggins!”

Bell gawked, then smiled tightly. “You know what? I think you might have the wrong castle. Good night!”

Fili and Kili stopped the door before she even put good momentum behind it. To hell with Rumplestiltskin and his unnecessarily heavy doors!

“It’s not been cancelled, has it?” Kili asked with sudden distress.

“Someone would’ve sent word,” said Fili, his skepticism never quite leaving his shrewd face.

“N-no,” Bell said, now sorry for her harsh dismissal. “I didn’t mean that—”

“Oh, good!” Elated again, Kili stomped right inside, his companion on his heels. Bell felt her soul sinking into the floor. She couldn’t shake the dreadful image of Rumplestiltskin returning home and having no idea why all these Dwarves were letting themselves into his castle. Strange that she didn’t really fear his anger. She was one of the caretakers. She’d agreed to it, and so far that’s exactly what she’d been doing this last month. Now she was failing in a spectacular fashion. And there was poor Bilbo to think of.

When she informed him that two more Dwarves were now at table waiting to be served, Bilbo almost knocked a pan off the stove on accident.

“No, no, no! If any more come to the door, tell them to go away!”

“I can’t do that! It’s some family gathering. Dwalin and Balin are brothers, and Kili and Fili are brothers, and they all know each other well.”

“Tell them there’s been a mistake! I’m not serving a Dwarf family without fair warning!” Even so, Bilbo returned to the pots and pans of bubbling stew and all the sizzling meat and vegetables he could find and fit. He huffed over his work. “If Rumplestiltskin knows about this—if this is his idea of a joke—I’ll … well …”

“Yes, very helpful,” Bell said with equal huffiness.

When more knocks came seconds later, Bilbo gave some animalistic cry between a squeak and a yowl. Bell shushed him and said she’d take care of it. He just needed to keep the food coming. They had no idea how many Dwarves they might expect. As Bell left the kitchen, Bilbo breathed in, clenched his eyes shut and pretended he was anywhere else.

Bell spent the walk putting together a suitable excuse to turn away the visitors. A nauseous feeling sat in her stomach, but Bilbo was a little right. Just a little. She rehearsed some of the speech in whispers as she stepped into the foyer. Her feet padded loud enough to cover the whispers.

“The master is not at home,” she said, winced, and instead said, “The master of the castle is not at home, and he left no word about visitors, so I … so we really can’t let you in.” She shook her head. “Before anyone introduces themselves, this is the Dark One’s castle. Yes, better open with that.”

Deep breath, hands wrapped around the door handle. Bell made herself as tall her as Hobbit figure allowed. She yanked open the door. “Before aAAHH!”

Only with quick feet and panicky reflexes did Bell avoid being flattened in a dogpile of Dwarves. Even in her alarm, her brain did some fast counting. Eight! Eight hairy Dwarves whose ripe aroma wafted into the foyer like gas from a volcano. They groaned in their attempts to roll off each other. None of them looked eager to make the same introductions as their earlier friends. In the end, introductions weren’t needed. A ninth figure entered, wise to avoid the pile. He tiptoed with his long, leather-clad legs and pointed shoes around the groaning visitors to stand before Bell.

Her surprise turned to acute vexation as she tilted her head back. “Rumplestiltskin.”

“Evening, my little maid,” he said while assessing the foyer. “I trust supper is almost ready?” 

What else could they do, in the end, but bring out every speck of food they could get their hands on?

Oh, “they,” of course, means the Dwarves. They held out long enough for Bilbo to bring the first course (and nearly faint at the sight of twelves Dwarves and the Dark One) and Bell to bring the tea and ale and wine. After that, with appetites whetted by travel and scarce accommodations, they had no recourse but to launch a full assault on the pantry. Against Bell and Bilbo’s every expectation, Rumplestiltskin allowed it. Not only allowed it, but from his chair watched the mess unfold as though he were seeing children playing on a beach. Bits of pastries, fruits and vegetables gathered on the dining hall carpet under their seats. The meat was not at all wasted, although some juice spattered on the tablecloth and soiled the napkins. The noise was its own whirlwind of headache-inducing chaos. Loud talking, shouting, laughing, belching, and eventually singing. And thumping! Thumping feet and fists. Tableware clattered and clinked when the Dwarves began fighting with them like weapons.

“Please don’t do that!” Bilbo cried, not thinking through the fact that these weren’t his utensils. Regardless Rumple’s current state of ease, the Hobbit was certain the imp (he had no other word for the wizard’s species) would dump the blame on him for any damage his property suffered. When the Dwarves ignored him, he added, “You’ll blunt them!”

“Oh, you hear that, lads?” one Dwarf said—the one in the wool hat with ears that stuck up and sideways like those of a drunk rabbit. “He’s says we’ll blunt the knives!”

That was a cue for a Dwarf song. Everyone jumped into a jaunty tune about blunting knives, bending forks, smashing bottles and so on, and ending the list of damaged crockery with, “That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!”

Bilbo, for all his flushed annoyance, understood there was no point in raising a fuss to the rowdy gathering. He did pause next to Rumple while refilling mugs and cups, and he muttered, “More like, ‘That’s what Rumplestiltskin hates.’”

“Oh! That fits quite well,” Rumple said. “But you know what I really hate?”

Bilbo gave an empty smile. “Overworking your staff?”

The wizard giggled. It was sounded genuine. “You’re adorable.”

Bell was coming around with the teapot. “Did you just call Bilbo adorable?” She looked stuck between amazement and mirth.

“He’s trying to be witty,” Rumple said. “No, I hate when my guests are late.”

His voice stampeded through the din like a bull. Dwalin regarded him while the general volume of the assembly dropped. “He’ll be here. He’s returning from a council of elders near the coast of the North Sea.”

“Will he bring more company?”

“I don’t know. Depends on how the meeting goes.”

Bilbo whimpered. Bell looked at him, then at Rumplestiltskin. “I don’t suppose you could use a little magic to build a second castle? Or better yet, duplicate Bilbo and me.”

“I’ve got enough of you vermin under foot. Keep the refreshments coming, dearies.”

If there was one blessing in this whole business, it was that the castle’s magic, if it was the castle’s and not the wizard’s secretly assisting them (quite unlikely), kept the wine cellar stocked and the ale barrels filled, and it made the water boil and the tea steep faster. Bilbo and Bell came up together and were ready to top off more drinks.

Three strong knocks sounded from the front door. Bell sighed and lowered the teapot.

“I’ll go,” Bilbo said. A cursory check around the table showed no one was in dire need of more wine or ale. Rumplestiltskin raised his teacup.

“All right,” Bell said, half-distracted by the fact that the wizard was drinking from the cup she’d chipped during her first day of service.

On his way down, Bilbo remembered the unlucky trespassers who had tried to enter the castle uninvited and had their clothes set on fire for their trouble. That had been the result, if he remembered Rumple’s explanation correctly, of them picking the wrong door from the foyer. The odd part was that the foyer usually had a staircase, and one might think that would be the natural course to take into the heart of the castle. But this place, always pulsing with magic, could rearrange itself at the whim of its master, or maybe by its own design. Bilbo hoped that since Rumplestiltskin had returned and was expecting these Dwarves, no one was in danger of being singed. But who could say?

These thoughts occupied him all the way to the foyer. Whoever was waiting had knocked three more times right before his arrival.

“Yes, yes, coming!”

He had a little more height than Bell, so his struggle was less than hers turning the handle and dragging the door back. His sigh was from seeing only one Dwarf across the threshold rather than another twelve. Thank heavens!

This fellow fit in among the taller members of the guests, only a few inches below Rumple’s height. As well as being a tall Dwarf, he carried himself tall, like he wanted anyone who saw him to know that he was, indeed, a tall Dwarf. He was broad, too, though not as much in muscle as Dwalin or in fat as the bulbous Dwarf whose name eluded Bilbo right now. These shoulders were covered in furs and long black hair glinting with grey. While he was older than Fili and Kili, his beard was close in length to theirs. A bit curious, though Bilbo knew nothing of the traditions of Dwarf beards. But a tall Dwarf might like a long beard, no?

Bilbo made speedy notes of these details in the seconds it took the Dwarf to turn from profile to face him. Thick eyebrows joined above a proud nose. Blue eyes skimmed over Bilbo, questioning his place in the doorway.

“Is this the residence of the one called Rumplestiltskin?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bilbo said, sighing again, no longer relieved. “Yes, it is. Come in.”

The Dwarf strode inside, steps heavy yet measured. He stilled to absorb the foyer’s décor. “And who are you?” he said before regarding Bilbo once more.

“Oh, uh, I’m … the butler, I suppose.”

The answer sounded ridiculous, but the Dwarf appeared satisfied. He removed his cloak, revealing a blue, armor-studded tunic under the fur-trimmed surcoat.

Well, he’d put himself out there as a butler, so Bilbo offered to take the Dwarf’s cloak.

“That won’t be necessary.” The Dwarf folded the garment over his arm.

“Very well. Then, let me … show you … oh, no.”

Bilbo stood before the part of the foyer heading away from the front door. Looking at, more specifically, a white wall flanked by two identical doors. A white wall where a staircase had been half a minute ago.

“What’s wrong?” the Dwarf asked.

Bilbo tried to dampen the shakiness in his voice. “Oh, nothing. Just … just the master of the house being difficult.”

A pause. “The Dark One,” the Dwarf said.

Bilbo nodded. At least this fellow understood. He patted his sides while considering their two options of exit. After a few pats, he noticed something hard and round in his right pocket.

“Hm? What’s this?”

He reached in. As soon as he touched the object, a little smile flashed over his mouth. His hand returned with one of the acorns sitting in his palm.

“I forgot about this,” he said.

The Dwarf peered into his hand. “Is that supposed to help?”

Bilbo opened and closed his mouth without a word. Now, that was a thought.

There and there, two doors. He bit his lip. Maybe he could … but which one? He hummed, wagged his finger from one side to the other and finally landed on the right-hand door. One chance, and who knew if it would help? But Bilbo tossed out doubts. He held up the acorn, aimed at the door handle over four yards away, and pelted the nut. It hit the knob dead on.

The whole door erupted into flames. The Dwarf flinched backward.

“Aha!” Bilbo cried with a jump before putting his hands on his hips and shouting toward the ceiling, “Not so clever now!”

His laughter and moment of triumph flickered out when he turned to the Dwarf and met merely confusion. He cleared his throat. “This door, then.” He pointed at the left door and strutted to it.

The Dwarf raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you think?” He followed Bilbo.