Gandalf strode impatiently into the study at Bag End. It was just as untidy as he remembered from Bilbo’s day: stacks of books here, there and everywhere, some open for reference, many with scribbled notes on scraps of parchment, protruding from their ends. Motes of dust sparkled in the shaft of sunlight from the window, and lying overall was the comfortable scent of leather binding, mingled with wood-smoke from the cheerful little fire.

Frodo had either not heard Gandalf’s knock, or had ignored it, for he was sitting hunched over a scattering of parchments on his desk, a quill slack in one hand as he leaned, rather dismally Gandalf thought, on the other. Suddenly he realised that there was someone behind him, and straightened in his chair. "Sam? Was that a knock? If it’s…"

"Frodo Baggins, that’s no welcome for someone you haven’t seen for months!"

"Gandalf!" Frodo jerked out of his abstraction to greet the wizard. "Well, you can’t expect a welcoming party to wait for you all this time! I thought you were the Sackville-Bagginses, or someone equally tiresome."

"That’s a poor excuse for not having the kettle on," Gandalf observed tartly.

"Come along then, I’ll make us some tea, and you can tell me how the rest of Middle-earth is going to manage without you while you visit the forgotten end of it."

Frodo bustled about with cups and plates, responding with rather less than his usual interest to Gandalf's news, and such comments as he made were as acerbic as his initial greeting. The wizard watched him closely. Certainly he was paler than usual, but then it was Midwinter so an indoor pallor might be expected. Well, there was but one way to find out. "And what have you been up to, Frodo? You don’t seem too cheerful. Weather getting on your nerves?"

"What? Oh, nothing like that. I've just been a little... busy, that's all."

"Something’s getting on them. You look totally unsettled, to me." If what Gandalf suspected was true, Bilbo’s ring might well be at the bottom of this, and his own investigations were far from complete. "And thinner too – is Sam not seeing to you right?"

Frodo almost dropped the teapot, managed to retrieve it without burning himself, and concentrated on pouring the tea, keeping his eyes firmly on the task in hand. "I don’t know what you mean, Gandalf."

Gandalf rearranged his ideas. "I thought that you were going to organise with Sam for him to do some of your meals, with you being so unreliable a timekeeper and likely to end up with an apple at midnight?"

"Oh. Oh, well, yes, but then Sam was away for a while, and I thought that, now he’s back again… but… it never happened."

"What did?"

"What?"

Testy now. "What did happen? Something’s put you off your feed, that’s for certain."

Frodo sipped some tea and nibbled at his slice of cake. "Nonsense, I am perfectly well."

"Where is Sam? I thought he usually joined you for tea."

"He has better things to do with his time than potter about the kitchen of Bag End for me." There was more than a hint of bitterness in his tone.

"What better things?"

"I don’t know. He comes here, does his work and goes home. How should I know what he does when he’s there?" Rather petulant, this, but Gandalf could feel the unhappiness.

"Frodo Baggins! Look at me." Unwillingly, Frodo raised his eyes. "Sam has been your shadow and your best friend since you came to live with Bilbo. What has happened between you?"

"Nothing. I don’t know." Gandalf had the feeling that Frodo had needed to talk, but there was no-one he could talk to. The sense of isolation about him was palpable when Sam wasn’t there.

"Sam’s Gaffer arranged for him to do a job at the Cottons’ place, and since the garden is so quiet in the winter, I couldn’t really say no when he asked me to spare Sam for a few weeks. It’s Bob’s wedding gift to his bride. Sam is always in demand for his carving – he can coax leaves and flowers out of wood as well as soil – and it was to be a large piece, a bedstead, which was why he had to stay at the Cottons’ to get it done. A special gift for a special lass, Bob said he wanted. The wedding is on Courting Day, this Highday. And Gaffer said..." his voice trailed away.

"Courting Day? You have a day for it? Really, you hobbits seem to find any excuse for a holiday!"

"Well, it isn’t one of the big holidays, or anything. More of a slow down than a full stop. It started as a celebration of the coming of spring, because the birds seem to start their pairing about now. And I suppose that with the birds all billing and cooing, it transferred into a day for courting, and gift giving between lovers – little things made at home during the long winter evenings. Flowers, where possible, though they aren’t easy to come by in Solmath, so it’s usually a just a little sprig of gorse. The old saying seems to be true – ‘When gorse is out of flower, kissing is out of season’ – apparently it can always be found if the winter hasn’t been too hard and they look long enough."

Frodo spoke dispassionately, a scholar reporting rather than one who might have a part in such things. "It’s often anonymous – a first step in finding out whether the lass a lad has his eye on is looking back at him – lots of giggling and messages between friends, so I understand. And it’s supposed to be very lucky to wed on Courting Day."

"Chilly time of the year for it," was Gandalf’s opinion, but he refused to be sidetracked by Frodo’s diversionary tale. "And the Gaffer said what, exactly?"

Frodo sighed, and began studiously to draw patterns on the tablecloth with his teaspoon.

"He said that… that Sam had started another carving even before he got home, and that he rather hoped that this was for a special lass too." It came out in a rush. "He meant Rosie Cotton. He has his heart set on another wedding soon, for Sam and Rosie. I expect he’s right. Since Sam came back from the Cottons’, it’s as if he can’t wait to get away, to get back to whatever it is he’s making. I expect he wants to finish it for Highday." A deep breath. "It will be very... quiet here, when they wed – I think Sam will probably go and live... I hope they’ll be very happy." He rose from the table and began collecting cups and plates, putting an end to the conversation.

Hmm. Here was a pretty pickle and no mistake. Gandalf had returned to the Shire with precisely the intention of checking up on the progress of Frodo’s relationship with Sam. The last time he’d left, he’d been rather optimistic that they’d have sorted themselves out by now – they’d had long enough... Plain as the nose on your face, it had been (if you were a wizard), and why they couldn’t see it themselves was beyond him.

Well, no. He could see perfectly well what the problem was: Sam had been too ingrained by his Gaffer with the notion of keeping his place, to speak his mind. And Frodo was being stupidly altruistic and not wanting to upset the life that the Gaffer and hobbit custom had laid out for Sam – quite likely pushing Sam into it and away from himself, to ward off the pain. He could imagine Frodo, looking forward eagerly to Sam’s return from the Cottons’, and the carelessly cruel blow the Gaffer’s words would have struck, so that Frodo had to close himself off, for the hurt of it. And Sam, probably equally hurt, but not daring to show it; creeping off home at night, to be miserable, and to shape into beauty the things for which he had no words.

Gandalf wanted to knock their heads together. He could understand the pressures on the lad to marry, to conform to the expected pattern of hobbit life, but really, if Frodo were to be left alone to cope with the storm that Gandalf suspected might be about to break over Middle-earth…. He couldn’t let the hobbit ideal of a comfortable life, affect the scope of history. But if Sam was really courting Rosie...

Gandalf left Frodo to his introspection (and the washing up), and went into the garden for a pipe.

"Mr Gandalf, sir!" Sam was clearing away his tools for the day. "Been a while since we’ve seen you in the Shire, sir."

"Hello, Sam. Yes, I’ve been pretty busy here and there since I last visited. How are things here? The garden looks ready to take off as soon as spring arrives."

"Well Solmath’s not the best month to be seeing it, but I think we’re all ready for spring, when it comes. Sooner the better in my opinion." Sam peered behind him, to make sure that they were alone.

Gandalf puffed on his pipe and raised his eyebrows conspiratorially.

"It’s Mr Frodo, sir," Sam said in a low voice. "I’m hoping the better weather will cheer him up a bit. Right quiet, he’s been these past few days – not himself at all. You must have noticed?"

"I can see it. I’m just not sure what to do about it," said Gandalf. "You say it’s only been over the last few days that you’ve seen whatever it is?"

"Well, yes, sir. Before that I was away to the Cottons’ for a few weeks, but he seemed all right when I left. Had a bit of a job there for the wedding coming up, and Mr Frodo said as it were all right for me to go, seeing as it’s a quiet time in the garden. He said I could go, but I’m wondering if he changed his mind, and he thinks I were taking advantage. I wouldn’t want him thinking that. If you do find out, could…will you tell me, sir? ‘Long as it’s not something private." He blushed. "I’d like to help Mr Frodo, and if it’s something I’ve done, it’s down to me to put it right."

"Have you tried asking him?"

"He doesn’t want to talk at all these days. Soon as I’ve finished out here, he shoos me off home. It’s not right ‘cos I know he’s not bothering with meals, but he won’t let me in the kitchen." He kicked at a stray leaf, not looking at Gandalf, but the hurt was written all over him. "He won’t talk to me no more."

Typical Frodo, bottling up his woes and not wanting to burden anyone else with them. Was he ever going to admit that a problem shared really could be a problem eased? Typical Sam, not wanting to ‘put himself forward’, but waiting in the background to help if he could. Really, they needed a good rocket behind them. He toyed with a vision of one of his finest thunderclaps shocking them into each other’s arms, but rejected it as attracting too much unwanted attention.

"Well, Sam, I’ll see what I can do about it." He winked, and Sam felt better for knowing that if anybody could get to the bottom of what was wrong with Mr Frodo, it was Mr Gandalf.

"But what about you, Sam? What’s this I hear about you courting a certain young lady? I called in at the Green Dragon on my way here..." He left the sentence hanging, and if Sam assumed that he’d heard it there, so much the better.

"Bloomin’ gabblemouths!" Sam muttered to his feet. "I’m in no mind to do any such thing."

"Why ever not? A pretty young lass like Rosie Cotton doesn’t come along every year."

"It’s my Gaffer that’s got his eye on her for me. And I don’t feel... I’m not... Well, for one thing, I don’t think I could go leaving Mr Frodo in the lurch, so to speak."

Well, that answered one question, not that Gandalf had really been in any doubt... The next was how to get the pair of them to do something about it. It might not be a conformable idea in The Shire, but it wasn’t unheard of. And there was no sense it leaving it to them any longer; someone would have to give them a push or they’d still be hesitating come Doomsday. And possibly bringing that forward too.

"I hear you’ve been at your carving again – wedding gift at the Cottons’, wasn’t it?"

Sam looked surprised that Gandalf should know so much about him, when he’d only just returned to The Shire after so long, but tongues in the Dragon were known to flap over a good range of subjects, and if they were on about him and Rosie, him being at the Cottons’ place would have been just so much fuel to the fire. "Aye. Right nice bit of oak it were too – they came out of it lovely, the things I saw. Bigger than I’m used to, but it didn’t make no difference once I got down to it."

Ah, yes, the other carving, that the Gaffer had mentioned to Frodo. "Gone back to smaller pieces, have you?"

Sam blushed, unaccountably. "Well, it’s usually little things that I do, for presents and such."

"And you’re working on a present at present, as it were? For someone who isn’t Rosie Cotton. Possibly to give some time this week?"

Sam started, ready to make an excuse and rush off home, but then realised that Gandalf was smiling encouragement. "Don’t know what you mean, Mr Gandalf, sir," he muttered unconvincingly. "It’s... Mr Frodo needs cheering up a bit, that’s all."

"What is it, Sam? That you’re carving?"

"It’s finished, sir." He hesitated, his craftsman’s pride warring with his embarrassment. "Would you like to see?" Gandalf followed Sam to the garden shed, where Sam dug into a pile of clean rags and unearthed a slender bundle. He held it out to the wizard.

Gandalf unwrapped it carefully. At the top was a crook, curled and ridged like a ram’s horn, the hook from which to hang the piece. Next were the links of a chain, so intricate yet so perfectly separate, that Gandalf had to remind himself that this had been fashioned from a single branch. For the centre, Sam had coaxed the wood to flow and swirl into endlessly interweaving coils, which he had graced with many delicate flowers and strong, wreathing vines. The base was shaped as the bowl of a spoon, and its grain was polished to a fine lustre.

It was an exquisite piece, and Gandalf appreciated the hours of work – and love – which had gone into its making. "Sam, this is wonderful. The shapes – they have meaning, don’t they?"

"May be," Sam said, but offered no more.

"Well," Gandalf considered. "The crook, I should say, is for gathering and safekeeping, the chain for joining and holding tight, the flowers for love, and the vines for growing together, as would be the coils – but the spoon?" He cocked an eyebrow at Sam. "Is that also a symbol?"

"That’s what it is. It’s called... it's a... a lovespoon." Sam forced himself to confess the fact. (Gandalf had not thought it possible to be such a bright red without a high fever, but he had been wrong.) "Up at Cottons’, they’ve an old chap, used to be a shepherd ‘til his legs wouldn’t take him so far no more. He was telling me that these were a custom in the old days, though no-one seems to bother so much now. And seeing as how I like carving, I thought I’d have a go. He told me about the signs and whatnot."

"And it is for Frodo?"

Sam squirmed, and kept his gaze firmly fixed on his feet. "I thought he might like to see a carved spoon. Might look nice on the wall in the kitchen."

"But you’re not going to tell him what it means?"

If possible, Sam’s new blush outshone all his others put together. "’Tain’t my place to go telling Mr Frodo anything."

"Really, Sam, if I can work it out, Frodo’s bound to. He’s going to know who made it anyway." And he would realise why; perhaps not so much a push as a guiding hand, would suffice.

"Perhaps I shouldn’t give it to him then." Sam’s face fell.

"If you don’t, Samwise Gamgee, then I shall. I know Frodo will appreciate this – it’s a work of art, Sam. And he’ll understand, too. I shall take charge of it, if you don’t mind, and I shall see that he gets it."

Sam looked worried. He had dithered in his mind as to whether he could make himself give the lovespoon to Frodo, and still wasn’t sure that he should, but he couldn’t very well wrest his work from the wizard’s hands.

"I shall deliver it myself. On Highday."

* * * * *

When Frodo wandered sleepily into the kitchen on Highday (rather late for making breakfast for his guest, if truth were told) he was surprised to see Gandalf already finishing his meal.

"Ah, good morning, Frodo. Early start today, hope you don’t mind. Things to do, places to go – you know how it is. Won’t be back until tomorrow, sometime, if that’s all right." Frodo stared. He was used to the wizard coming and going as he pleased – he didn’t usually make a point of when or for how long he would be here.

"There’s a package for you. I brought it in earlier." As he rose from the table and caught up his hat and staff, he indicated something neatly wrapped in a silken grey material, at Frodo’s usual place at the table. "Well, I shall see you tomorrow. And Frodo – read it well."

Rather stunned by the performance, Frodo had scarcely gathered himself to say goodbye before Gandalf had gone. He turned to the table and gently opened the folds of silk.

His first thought was for the beauty of the work, the intricacy of the carving, the difficulty of coaxing one piece of wood into such sinuous shapes, and the hours it must have taken to make. He ran a careful finger over the smoothly polished sheen. He knew, of course, that it must be of Sam’s making, and that this was what he had been doing when he disappeared after work. But that it should be for him... Today... Courting Day...

"Read it well," Gandalf had said, so the shapes had a meaning as well as beauty. Sam was telling him something through them. The curve of the crook must mean shepherding, care and tending and safety. A chain would be for linking and holding fast. Vines and coils? Well, from the way they wove in and out of each other, never parting though his finger followed them up and down and around, they had to speak of togetherness and support. And the flowers? Well, flowers were what a lad gave to his love... Sam had always given him flowers – a garden full of flowers... and he had never realised it before. He had never realised any of it before: the care and the keeping, the unspoken support – the togetherness, for Sam was always there for him. The love...

"Mr Frodo? Mr Gandalf said that you wanted me to..." Sam halted in the doorway, realising that Frodo was sitting staring at the lovespoon. "Oh."

Frodo raised his eyes. "Sam, this is beautiful. You have magic in your fingers – over wood as well as earth. Thank you."

"It’s nothing, Mr Frodo. I just thought you might like it." But Sam had gone pale, his usual ready blush deserting him.

"Nothing? Is that truly what it means?"

"No," Sam said hesitantly, his eyes avoiding Frodo’s. "It means... it means what it says." He looked up, scarcely able to believe that he’d said it, but, oh, it was worth it for that smile.

Frodo walked slowly up to Sam and took his hands. "I’m sorry. I didn’t realise... I didn’t let myself hear what you were saying, although you have said it in so many ways." He raised the hands to his lips and kissed them softly. "So strong. So clever. So gentle." He cupped them together and placed his own within them. Safe. He leaned forward and whispered, "Sam? I don’t have anything to give you except..."

And for Sam, what Frodo gave was more than enough.

* * * * *

Gandalf strode along the road to Bywater, humming cheerfully to himself. A leisurely trip to replenish his stock of Longbottom leaf should give them plenty of time. He could rely on Frodo to... respond appropriately once he was given the chance. A taste of happiness now might make all the difference in the long run.

The sun shone and the air was warm, to say that it was so early in the year. A knot of tweens passed him on the road, laughing and giggling. Several of the girls were wearing small sprigs of gorse, carefully stripped of their spines, and their lads blushed and grinned and held hands.

Hmm. When gorse is out of bloom, kissing is out of season? He’d not heard that one before. He wondered if Sam had any gorse in the garden at Bag End.