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It was market day in Hobbiton.
Despite the fresh wind, the sun was out and the market was busy. Hobbits bustled to and fro, baskets at the ready, congregating in groups before breaking up and forming other groups. Thorin thought he could almost see the transmission of gossip in the movement of the crowd. Not long ago, that gossip would have been exclusively about him – and truth be told, some of it probably still was – but after five months he was more or less a familiar sight in the town. Not yet part of it, but no longer a novelty.
“Morning, Master Thorin,” said Wilifast Goodchild, as Thorin approached the stall. “Lovely day for it!”
“Indeed,” said Thorin, who had learned in his five months that a lack of response just made the inhabitants of Hobbiton talk more loudly, with accompanying hand gestures. He had pulled a list out of his basket, when his eye was caught by the unusual display at the stall.
[Bilbo had worn a strange smirk on his face the first time Thorin had reached for the basket to take shopping. Thorin had not made it five steps beyond the door before Bilbo was dragging him back inside and into their bedroom. That evening they made do with left-overs from the pantry, no shopping having been done. After that, in the interests of actually procuring food, Thorin made sure to store the basket where Bilbo wouldn’t see him carrying it. Except for special occasions.]
“Ah, I see you are looking at the cakes,” said Wilifast jovially. “Beautiful, aren’t they? My Bell decorated them. She has a fine eye, don’t you think?”
Thorin nodded. The cakes were a burst of colour, deep and vivid, even in the weak sunlight. Lifelike flowers danced across them, some sculpted cleverly out of icing, some painted delicately. Every one was a masterpiece.
“They are magnificent,” he agreed. “You are a talented artist, Miss Goodchild.”
“Would you like one, Master Thorin?” asked Bell timidly, a flush growing across her checks. She was pretty young woman, just on the cusp of maturity but still prone to blushing like a dwarfling. “I made them for Yule gifts. You could give one to Bilbo.” She blushed more brightly.
“That’s right,” said Wilifast. He winked. “The quickest way to a Hobbit’s heart is through his stomach,” he said, grinning.
“Yule gifts?” asked Thorin.
“Yes,” said Wilifast. “Usually small tokens, but if you want to impress a certain someone, you can’t go past one of Bell’s cakes.”
“Do Dwarves not exchange gifts at Yule?” asked Bell, her shyness evidently overcome by her curiosity.
“No,” said Thorin absently, his eyes still fixed on the cakes. “We do not celebrate Yule as Hobbits do. Dwarves have mahalmerag, where we honour our creator, Mahal and make resolutions for the year ahead. We have a feast in the Great Hall; all of Erebor is invited.”
Bell’s eyes shone, her hands clasped, caught up in the image as he described it. He smiled a little at her enthusiasm then the smile slid from his face.
“But we do not share gifts,” he added, his stomach lurching slightly.
“It needn’t be a big thing,” said Bell, hastening to reassure him. “Most folk just make a favourite cake or biscuit. Just a token really. Tell me Bilbo’s favourite cake and I’ll help you find one if you like.”
“I do not know his favourite,” Thorin admitted, his stomach twisting now. "We have never discussed the matter."
Bell frowned a moment, then her pretty face lightened. “You could ask Lavender Boffin,” she exclaimed. “She’s Bilbo’s great-aunt, isn’t she Da?”
Wilifast nodded reluctantly, sensing a potential sale slipping away. “Aye,” he said. “Bilbo’s grandmother’s sister on his father’s side. She’s the closest thing to family he has in Hobbiton, I’d say, barring the Sackville-Bagginses. His mother’s family are Tooks, over in Tuckborough. It’s a fair way to travel for a casual question.”
Thorin turned back to Bell. “Where would I find her?” he asked.
*****
The next afternoon found Thorin knocking determinedly on a neatly painted red door. Around him was a well-tended garden, evident even in its winter hibernation. Thorin was distractedly admiring the ruthlessly pruned row of roses when the door opened.
An elderly Hobbit, rotund even by the generous Hobbit standards, stood staring at him, mouth slightly agape. Thorin bowed.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Thorin Oakenshield at your service.”
The Hobbit only stared more. Thorin was just beginning to wonder if he should call for help when another, smaller figure appeared behind him.
“Otto, what are you doing, you silly man? You’re letting in the draft!” She came up short at the sight of Thorin on the door step. “Oh.”
He bowed again. “Thorin Oakenshield, at your service, Mistress Boffin.”
She blinked then recovered herself. “I know who you are. You’re Bilbo’s young man. Hard to hide when you are the only Dwarf in a village of Hobbits. Well, come in, come in. It’s too cold to be lingering in doorways!”
She ushered Thorin in over the doorway and set off down a corridor, throwing an instruction over her shoulder to her husband to put on the kettle. Thorin followed her into a cosy room, full of overstuffed furniture and comfortable blankets. Every surface was covered in knick knacks and doilies, and had been dusted to within an inch of its life. She gestured to a seat.
“I don’t mean to take up too much of your time, Mistress Boffin,” said Thorin. “I came only to ask a question. “
“Well, sit anyway,” she said, waving at the chair again. “Or I’m going to get a crick in my neck looking up at you.”
Thorin sat.
“So, what can I do for the King Under the Mountain?” she asked. Thorin looked up in surprise. “We are not all insular, gossiping busybodies,” she said, smiling slightly. “Some of us pay a bit of attention to what goes on outside our boundaries. I did a bit of trading with the dwarves from Ered Luin in my younger days. ”
“I gave up that title when I returned with Bilbo,” said Thorin. “It was…for the best.”
“Very well,” said Mistress Boffin. “Master Thorin, what can I do for you?”
Thorin swallowed. “I heard… that is, I was told, you are a relative of Bilbo?”
“His great-aunt,” she agreed. “His grandmother was my sister Laura, rest her soul.”
“So you knew him well, growing up?” Thorin asked, as Otto came in carrying the tea tray.
“As well as anyone could know him,” she said, shifting forward to pour the tea. “He was self-contained as a faunt, you see. He lived in his own head rather a lot.”
“I wondered if you could tell me what his favourite cake is,” said Thorin, awkwardly, a feeling intensified by Otto’s exclamation.
“His favourite cake??”
“Yes,” said Thorin, trying to explain. “It has come to my attention that there is a tradition among Hobbits that baked goods be shared as small tokens during the Yule festival. But I do not know which to purchase that Bilbo would like the best.” He shrugged. “There was not much opportunity for cake on our quest and-.”
“Sponge,” interrupted Lavender.
“I beg your pardon?” said Thorin.
“Sponge cake,” she clarified. “Bilbo’s favourite cake. His mother used to make it for him every year at Yule.”
“Thank you,” said Thorin, preparing to leave.
“But you’ll not find one to buy. Not at this time of year,” she added. “It’s not a winter cake; more properly it’s for summer. Belladonna made it because Bilbo liked it but no-one else will.”
“Oh,” said Thorin, deflating. “Could I find a recipe?”
Lavender looked at him shrewdly. “Have you done much cooking, Master Thorin? Ever actually baked a sponge?”
Thorin shook his head. “I can cook. I used to keep myself and my company fed on the road. I’ve made waybread and stews but I haven’t tried cakes.”
“Stews and breads,” she repeated. “I’m thinking that dwarven cooking errs on the side of hearty and filling.”
Thorin nodded. Certainly nothing in dwarven cookery resembled a cleaning implement.
“Sponges are tricky things,” she said meditatively. “The instructions are only the beginning; you have to learn the knack.”
Thorin took a deep breath and dived in. “Will you teach me?” he asked.
*****
Following Lavender’s sage advice, Thorin spent the next few days dragging Bilbo out and about to the market and on nature walks (and on one miserable day into the bedroom where they happily exhausted each other. Thorin slept particularly well that night). He hovered, and talked and was so generally present that Bilbo finally barricaded himself in his study and refused to come out. Thorin smiled a small, triumphant smile and hurried away down the lane for his first lesson.
If he was lucky, Bilbo might not even notice he was gone.
*****
Acrid black smoke billowed from the oven as Thorin rushed in. Grabbing a towel, he wrenched open the door and pulled out the cake tin. Through the smoke he could see a charred husk of a thing. With a growl of frustration, he strode over to the window and flung it out, watching as it landed with a thud next to Otto’s prized roses. He dumped the tin in the sink, took a deep steadying breath, and promptly choked on the smoke still lingering in the kitchen. Turning, he saw Lavender standing in the doorway.
“Oven up a little high,” she said.
*****
Thorin glared at the sky. Grey clouds gathered, blocking the weakening winter sun. Yule was drawing nearer and he was no closer to having the perfect gift for Bilbo. He hacked at a vicious knot of brambles that had crept into the garden while they weren’t looking. Bilbo had laughed when they discovered it – after rather too passionate a snogging session in an open garden – but Thorin had been guiltily avoiding young Hamfast’s eye ever since. This at least he could do, whatever his shortcomings in the kitchen. He swung at the bramble again then swore as it whipped back and scratched him on the cheek. He growled wordlessly.
This meant war.
*****
“A little too vigorous with the beating, I think.”
Thorin stared at the ceiling and wordlessly took the mop Otto held out to him. Next time he would leave his frustrations for the gardening.
*****
“I think Belladonna would have approved of you,’ Lavender said suddenly the next week, as Thorin creamed the butter and sugar more carefully this time. “The stick-in-the-muds in the village still talk about the way Bilbo ran off after you, on your adventure, but Belladonna would have loved it.”
“Bungo would have been horrified,” interposed Otto, through the window, from where he was smoking his pipe in the garden.
“Bungo would have been nothing of the sort. He was deliberate, not defunct,” Lavender retorted to the open window. She turned back to where Thorin was cracking the eggs. “She was a wild one in her younger days. Many’s the time her mother came to me in despair. Her father just laughed – typical Took. Mind you mix those eggs in gently. The mixture needs to be smooth, not scrambled. But she settled down after she met Bungo. A happier couple you would never meet. Right, now mix in that flour. Lightly. Make sure there is plenty of air.”
Sitting in the garden, having a quiet smoke with Otto while the cake baked, Otto cleared his throat.
“She’s right,” he said. “Belladonna would have liked you. And so would Bungo. You make Bilbo happy, happier than I’ve ever seen. That’s all they wanted for him.”
Otto lapsed back into silence. They sat watching the curls of smoke carried away on the air while Thorin searched and failed to find something to say.
Twenty minutes later Thorin watched in horrified disbelief as the perfectly domed cake slowly deflated in front of his eyes. He looked at Lavender. “Needs a bit longer next time,” was all she said.
*****
Thorin sighed as he slid into bed. He had been so sure that today’s effort would be successful. He had been trying for weeks with still no results to show. He opened his book at a random page and stared sightlessly at it. His window was rapidly closing; the Yule celebration was in 9 days. If only-
“I know you are up to something,” said Bilbo casually, not looking up from his book.
Thorin froze and then forced himself to relax. “Up to something?” he said, also refusing to look up from his book.
“I do pay attention,” said Bilbo, amusement curling through his voice. “I have noticed that you disappear at the same time every week.”
“Is that so?” asked Thorin. Taking a leaf out of a previously successful playbook, he let go of the book and sent a hand searching under the covers.
“It is. I will find out, you know.”
Thorin’s fingers found a warm leg.
“I can’t imagine what you are talking about,” said Thorin airily.
“Of course you can’t,” said Bilbo, voice wavering slightly.
Thorin trailed his fingers further upwards. Bilbo’s breath hitched in a most gratifying manner.
“Distraction won’t work,” warned Bilbo, his voice now several notches lower.
Thorin smiled as his fingers found their prize, his own body stirring at the familiar feel of soft skin, growing rapidly harder.
“Won’t it?” he said, a certain amount of smugness in his tone.
“No, it – ah – won’t,” said Bilbo.
Thorin rolled closer, catching Bilbo’s mouth with his. If more distraction was required, he was happy to oblige.
*****
No more was said about Thorin’s secret. The next week Bilbo disappeared into his study as usual. But as Thorin prepared to sneak out, he found his warmest coat and scarf in front of the door with a note pinned to it:
I do pay attention.
*****
Thorin lifted the cake gently out of the oven, careful not to jostle it as he placed the tin on the bench. He held his breath as it settled, scarcely daring to believe his eyes.
“That’s a well turned out sponge and no mistake,” boomed a voice beside him. “I’d say ye’ve done it, lad.”
Involuntarily Thorin turned is eyes to Lavender. She smiled at him. “’It is indeed. A better looking sponge I’ve not seen since Belladonna died.”
“Certainly better than any young Bilbo has made,” said Otto with a laugh. Startled, Thorin looked up from his contemplation of the cake.
Lavender chuckled. “To be sure.”
She nodded at Thorin. “Bilbo is a dab hand with a biscuit, but he’s never mastered the sponge. Too impatient, Belladonna used to say, and she was right. It takes patience and perseverance to bake a good sponge. You’ve done him proud, Master Thorin.”
Thorin stared at her, moisture welling in the corners of his eyes and a lump in his throat. Knowing how a tight knit community worked, he had never thought to find approbation in Hobbiton, let alone in this fierce little woman’s house. It warmed his heart to think he’d moved a little way towards genuine inclusion.
Lavender cleared her throat, clearly as uncomfortable with emotion as Bilbo. “Yes, well, never mind that. Let’s get this cake safely in a container. I have just the one it will fit.”
“Should it be iced?” asked Thorin doubtfully, visions of the artfully decorated masterpieces of the market dancing in front of his eyes. He doubted he could emulate such skill but for Bilbo he would try.
“No, a dusting of icing sugar will do,” she said, handing him a shaker. “’Twill look like freshly fallen snow. But mind you don’t drown it!”
Thorin put down the shaker and reverently put the lid on the cake carrier. “I do not know how to thank you,” he began.
Lavender waved her hand. “Nonsense!” she said. “We’re just being neighbourly. Off you go now, and take this with you.” She pressed a jar into his hand. “Just a bit of lemon curd; Bilbo has always been partial to it. Belladonna used to service it with her sponge.” She moved towards the door where Otto was waiting to open it.
Thorin looked down at her. On impulse he reached for her hand and bowed over it, depositing a courtly kiss on the back. “You have my unending thanks, Mistress Boffin,” he murmured.
She looked at him, eyes wide and cheeks an almost girlish red for a moment before she regained control of herself. “Pshaw!” she said inelegantly. “Don’t dawdle and mind you get home before dark. And I expect to see you back here the week after Yule. I’ll teach you my recipe for lemon madeleines next. Won the prize at the Lithe Fair three years running, I did!”
The snow was coming down harder as Thorin exited the red door. Despite Lavender’s admonishments, he took the journey carefully, guarding his precious cake. It was fully dark by the time he returned home, where he found Bilbo waiting for him rather impatiently.
“It’s pitch black out there, Thorin!” he exclaimed. “What on earth were you doing? You could have been lost!”
“In Hobbiton?” asked Thorin, amused.
“It’s not entirely unprecedented,” said Bilbo, though an answering smile began to show at the corner of his mouth. He covered it up but bustling around taking Thorin’s jacket and scarf and ordering him into the sitting room, where a roaring fire burned. Thorin settled himself in, the cake container safely by his side, and waited while Bilbo clattered around the kitchen making tea in a pointed manner.
By the time Bilbo finally came in with the tea tray, Thorin was toasty warm and starting to sweat a little. He pushed his chair back from the fire and raised an inquiring eyebrow at Bilbo.
“I was worried,” said Bilbo defensively.
“You’ve seen the winters at Erebor,” Thorin pointed out, smiling at him.
“You didn’t go out into those!” Bilbo retaliated. He threw up his hands. “Never mind, you’re safe now. Are you going to tell me what was so urgent now?”
Thorin knew a perfect cue when he heard one. Slowly, he reached down to the tin beside him and brought it up. Absurdly, butterflies began to flutter in his stomach as he handed the tin to Bilbo.
“A Yule gift,” he said. “For you.”
With a half-amused, half-puzzled look on his face, Bilbo opened the tin and looked down. He drew in a sharp breath.
“You bought this for me?”
Thorin shook his head. “I made it. That’s where I’ve been these weeks. Learning to cook with your great-aunt. She said it was a tradition in your house when you were a child.”
Bilbo didn’t look up. “Lavender taught you to make this?”
Thorin nodded. “She said it was your favourite. That your mother used to make it for you.”
Bilbo nodded, still looking at the cake. “She did. Every Yule. We’d sit in this room, in front of a fire like this one, tell stories of the year and make resolutions for the new year. It is one of my favourite memories of her. Of them both.”
“Bilbo?”
He finally looked up, tears glistening in his eyes. “You did this for me,” he said.
Thorin nodded.
Bilbo carefully placed the tin on the table, then threw himself forward into Thorin’s arms and kissed Thorin comprehensively. “Thank you,” he gasped.
“You’re welcome,” gasped back Thorin, equally winded. Bilbo kissed him again then dragged him to his feet, heading towards their bedroom.
“Wait, Bilbo!” said Thorin. “Don’t you want your tea?”
“Later,” said Bilbo, darting back again for another kiss. “I want to make some new traditions,” he said. “With you.”
Bemused, Thorin let Bilbo pull him forward until his brain caught up with the innuendo. He reached out and scooped Bilbo into his arms, half carrying him into their bedroom. Bilbo looked up.
“We’re going to need a lot of mistletoe,” he said.
“Mistletoe?” asked Thorin
The End