Folco emitted a breathy sigh, scuffling the toe of his boot into the wooden floor of the classroom and turning his eyes toward the window. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on the dry-looking grass.  He wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead. Could whoever built this place not have built the schoolhouse better, he thought, so that the students would not have to suffer through the intense heat of August?

                At least, he thought, the teacher had finally stopped talking about the End-of-Summer picnic that was held for students and their parents prior to their release from school for harvest season. He was excited about the end of the summer, for it meant both that he would not have to deal with the tedium of schoolwork until November and that he would no longer be in the youngest year of upper school. However, the prospect of sitting alone bored out of his mind while his friends were all with their families like nearly every other year was nothing short of torture.

                However, that did not mean listening to the teacher drone on about Drémeadow’s trade relations with Rheeding in the 2800s was any more of interest. Besides, he was hungry and wanted the bell to start ringing in the bell-tower so they could leave for the day. Perhaps Ted, Bingo, Lindo and Rufus would want to go to the bakery.

                Unfortunately, according to both the sun’s position in the sky and the clock, there was still about two hours of boredom, hunger, and staring at the back of Lily Ferthing’s neck in store before the happy tolls of freedom.

                With a surreptitious glance at the teacher, who was now writing several dates on the board, Folco slipped his hand into his pocket, fumbling for the handkerchief he knew contained several wafers he had wrapped to snack on in class at times the teacher was not looking, and began to slip it out of his pocket.

                Then, to his horror, the handkerchief opened on bottom, spilling the bread on the floor. Eyes widening, Folco bent sideways to start picking up the evidence before he was spotted. As he did so, Dora Hugwort whispered “you’re not supposed to have food” from the desk across the aisle.

Folco rolled his eyes. “So what?” he whispered before resuming gathering the pieces of the food into a pile. How could Ted possibly want to have a girl who always felt the need to preach about class rules for his sweetheart? For that matter, why would anyone want a sweetheart, period? His older sisters and brother had all had at least one- more than one at the same time in Odo’s case- but Folco for the life of him could not fathom what others saw in such things.

                 “Folco Foxtrot!”

                The hobbit jumped, straightening up to look at the teacher while hastily shoving the handkerchief into his pocket. There were a few telltale crumbs on the ground still, but this would have to do. “Yes, Mrs.  Littleman?” he said innocently.

                Mrs. Littleman fixed him with a beady-eyed stare that only teachers and his father could pull off so well. “Why are you under your desk when you are supposed to be paying attention to the lesson?”

                “I erm… dropped my quill,” Folco lied, knowing that his teacher would not be at all thrilled to hear that he had spilled contraband food all over the floor.

                She replied by fixing her student with a long gaze. Folco concentrated all his willpower on maintaining eye contact. “You dropped your quill, Mrs Littleman, or ma’am” she said emphatically.

                “Yes ma’am. Sorry, ma’am,” Folco mumbled,  relieved.  He had already been castigated earlier in the day for passing notes with Bingo and Lindo after Mrs. Littleman spotted him taking the folded parchment from Merrick Lagworth..

Satisfied, the teacher resumed her lecture about a pact between Rheeding and Drémeadow from nearly two centuries previous.  Folco struggled to pay attention, but it was not easy. He glanced over his right shoulder to look at Rufus, who was predictably staring at Dora’s glossy auburn hair, then his left to see what Bingo and Lindo were up to. Ted, he already knew, would be ever the perfect student, copying everything Mrs. Littleman said.

Lindo sent Folco a pained face when their eyes met.  “This is boring,” he mouthed.

“I know. Is it dismissal yet?” Folco replied, doing a silent impression of a yawn.

“FOXTROT!”

The boy snapped his head around to the teacher, painfully aware of the entire class looking expectantly in his direction. He opened his mouth to apologize for the second time in five minutes, but the teacher was already upbraiding him. “You need to be more mindful of class rules. I never had this problem with Odo or Jillian,” Mrs. Littleman scolded.

Folco sank down slightly in his seat, cheeks reddening. Why was it that teachers always had to bring up at least one of his older siblings? If it was not saying that he was not as well-mannered or well-behaved as most of them in class, it was pointing out  that he was not as smart and athletic as Xenia, or as good with detail as Nora, or as secure and confident as Odo , or as popular as Jillian had been.  Having such things pointed out in front of the whole class was especially humiliating. He wanted to open his mouth to point out that he was not any of them, but decided he would only be in more trouble.

“Well?” Mrs. Littleman demanded. “Have you anything you need to share with the class?”

The student was about to answer in the negative when a knock sounded at the door. Folco chanced a glance in Lindo and Bingo’s direction as Mrs. Littleman went to answer the highly welcome interruption. Both were giving him sympathetic stares.  As the instructor stepped outside, a few whispers broke out around the room. Fern Gardner was leaning over Folco’s desk from behind to show Lily  a sketch she had made. Folco turned sideways to duck out of the girls talking across him, catching Rufus’ eye and exaggeratedly swiping the air in front of his forehead  in mock-relief.

                When Mrs. Littleman reentered, the class fell instantaneously silent. “Folco Foxtrot.”

                “Yes, ma’am?” he queried, wondering what he was supposed to have done now.

                “Please go to the Headmaster’s office. Bring your lunch pail, cloak and books with you.”

                Folco’s stomach  seemed to drop to his toes, and the beginnings of anger stirred within him. Was he actually being ejected from class for the day over a little bit of talking, a theoretical dropped quill and passing notes? “But…”

                “Go.”

                Folco sighed slightly, closing his history book. He directed a grimace at all four of his friends before proceeding to the cloakroom to gather the rest of his belongings to bring to the office. He hoped that he would not be sent home with a note about his misbehavior. His parents would be livid.

~*~*~

                Folco dragged his feet through the schoolhouse corridor the entire way to the headmaster,  making a point of glancing into  all the upper school classrooms he passed, delaying the unpleasant meeting as long as possible. Far too soon, he found himself in front of the door of Will Marvitop, otherwise known as Old Marvi long before Folco had started school. Swallowing hard in dread of facing the austere hobbit, the lad knocked three times.

                “Enter,” came the crisp voice of the headmaster. Gulping, Folco pulled the door open. To his surprise, the headmaster was not the sole occupant. His seventeen-year-old brother was there as well, standing in front of the desk. What is Odo doing here? Had his Upper Five brother managed to get into trouble also? Or was something worse wrong? Folco still remembered the day Bingo  had been pulled from class and sent home to learn that his father had been killed in a farming accident as clearly as though it had not been three years ago. He stared at Odo, who stared back, surprised.

                “Sit.” Both Foxtrots sat, staring nervously at each other.  “A message has been sent here asking that you both return home for the day. A cart has been sent for you two and should arrive shortly.”

                “What’s going on, sir?” asked Odo.

                The headmaster looked uncomfortable. “Well, it isn’t really my place to tell you... I would prefer to leave it to your family.”

                Folco exchanged a look of fright with his older brother. Had something happened to one of his parents or sisters while he and Odo were at school? “Is it bad?” he asked. The headmaster did not reply, but busied himself with paperwork. Folco gave the headmaster an exasperated look.  “We aren’t in trouble, sir?”

                “No, neither of you are in any trouble” the headmaster said. The two Foxtrots exchanged another long look. “But you are both to wait here until the carriage arrives.”

~*~*~

                It was half an hour before the carriage showed up. Folco spent most of that time alternating between exchanging silent looks of worry with his older brother and staring pensively at the ceiling, wondering what was going on. His mother would be at home with his two oldest sisters, Jillian would be in class at Browntower University in Baur, and Odo was right here next to him. His father, Folco knew, was cloistered in yet another Council session. Had there been some kind of accident? Had something bad happened with the Council? Why were they bidden to wait for a carriage rather than walking home or hiring a pony-drawn cart to go home themselves? Odo had the money to do so; their parents always had him carry it in case they needed to leave before school was dismissed.

                When word reached the headmaster’s that it had finally come, Folco picked up his lunch pail, satchel and books and mutely followed Odo out. To his confusion, the headmaster followed them, not detaching from his students until they were at the door. Even then, he watched them descend the steps. Folco frowned. He wished he would leave him alone with his brother so he and Odo could speculate about the situation away from adult ears.

                He was even more confused when he saw that there was two hobbits he vaguely recognized, a gentlehobbit and a lady, in addition to the driver. One of them disembarked, taking both his and Odo’s belongings. Folco watched the middle-aged porter climb back on quizzically before he and Odo climbed in after them. Why had his father hired one for the day? They carried their things for themselves all the time.

                “What happened?” Folco asked the gentlehobbit who had taken their bags and books.

                He was met only with an unfathomable glance before he responded, “Your mother and father said they wish you to hear first from them.”

                “All right, then…” It sounded as though his parents, at least, were safe. “Are my sisters well?”

               “They are,” the porter said evasively. “By the way, I apologize for not introducing myself. My name is Nicolo Harrow. This is Ermangine Shaker and the driver is Leisa Meadowhopper.”

                “Pleasure,” said  Odo. Folco echoed the salutation. “My name is Odo Foxtrot and this is my brother Folco.”

                “We know, sir” said Mistress Shaker. “Thank you for your kind introduction, however.”

                Folco had not imagined it possible to feel so bewildered. Had she actually addressed Odo as though he were grown when he was so obviously not, given the schoolbooks and bags?

Odo looked utterly pleased.

~*~*~

When they arrived at the spacious house and the two lads had been seen inside by the doorman, Folco and Odo found their parents in the sitting-room with Nora and Xenia. Someone had moved the loveseat, and the Foxtrot parents were in it, directly facing their children. One of the family servants was beside his father taking mumbled instructions. Folco took a seat alongside Xenia, Odo on his other side. “What happened?” he whispered. Xenia shook her head, shrugging, before slouching back into the long sofa.

“I will tell them now,” said Hrothgar Foxtrot to Malla. “Please see that this message is on its way to Jillian today; I wish her to hear what has happened as soon as possible and to make arrangements to sit her examinations early if at all possible. You may go.”  The servant gave a slight bow before departing.

Xenia wasted no time in demanding “what happened? Why are you being all mysterious?”

“Quiet. I cannot explain with you talking,” her father said. Xenia puckered her brow but obeyed.

“Now, I have just been sitting in a very lengthy Council session discussing the state of affairs…”

Xenia interjected, “Tell us something else we don’t already know!” Folco nudged her slightly; the overworked look on their father’s face warned that he was not to be trifled with today.

“Xenia! Silence!” At the same time, Xenia returned the elbow, but said nothing.

Hrothgar heaved a long sigh. “Now then. Many things were discussed in this meeting…”

The words Folco’s father spoke soon seemed to blur together. There were many things said that Folco  could not comprehend because they were too much in the language of adults and had too much to do with politics, which he had yet to entirely understand. The youth squirmed and Odo gave a slight kick.

One statement, however, did stand out amongst the mumbojumbo about treaties, legislations, mandates, statutes, articles,  and sections. One that even Folco knew was a very drastic statement indeed.

“After much deliberation , debate, and weighing the pros and cons of the idea, a decision was ratified by the Council,” said Hrothgar. “We decided it would be best if the Council were to disband.

“The Council… disband?” echoed Nora.  The twenty-six-year-old went very straight in her seat, staring.

“So who’s in charge of Drémeadow, then, if there’s no Council? Does this mean we don’t elect people anymore or something?” queried Odo.

“The new king. And no, no more elections.” Folco let out a small breath. He knew how stressed his father always was at the time of elections. He was never home when those were going on. Perhaps, he thought, this meant he would be home more often.

Xenia made a sudden movement.  Finding his voice, Folco asked, “who’s that? Or did you not vote about that yet, if there’s even a…? ”

“They have” interrupted their mother, Arabella Foxtrot.

Xenia, whose eyebrows were raised high, asked “And who might that be?”

“Your father.”

               

`

                

2: A Prince Overnight

            Did she  just say what I think she just said? It was as though their mother had suddenly sprouted wings and started flying around the room, for all the sense she was making.

 

Folco cast a sidelong glance to Xenia. Surely his sister’s ears had picked up their mother’s actual words and not the completely nonsense he’d heard?  However, Xenia’s face, as similar to their father’s as a that of a lass could be to a middle-aged gentlehobbit, was utterly stupefied. Her gold-flecked eyes were the size of saucers and her mouth was hanging open slightly.

 

 Odo, too, looked astounded, wearing the same expression he had the first time his wooing had been spurned by a lass. That had to mean both had heard what he had. In that case, things did not make any sense.  From what Folco gathered both in history lessons and personal experience listening to his father and fellow Councilhobbits discussing foreign affairs, land’s entire system of government did not suddenly change from the sort where adults put bits of parchment with the names of the leaders they wanted in locked wooden boxes to the sort led by one king in the course of one day.

 

Their father was the first to break the stunned silence. “Naturally, this means there will be many changes for us. All of us. We in the Council believe, however, that this will be the best thing for Drémeadow. It is no secret that, while we are still quite well off compared to many lands on the continent, things have not run so smoothly as they did ten, twelve, or  fifteen years ago.”

 

Folco stared blankly at his father. Fifteen years ago, he had not even been a growing baby in the womb.

 

“What sort of changes?” queried Nora.

 

His father straightened in the loveseat, taking a sip from the burgundy mug of tea on the side table. Hrothgar frowned at his cup, took a look at his baffled children, then picked up the bell lying near the tea’s coaster and rang it. Their newest servant, a fellow scarcely older than Nora, entered. Halmo, or Hal, was already becoming one of Folco’s favorites. He knew a lot of good jokes and would join him for an archery contest, stone-throwing contest, sparring, or other games where Nora and Jillian would outright refuse, Xenia would  ruefully wave her left hand as a reminder that she still needed to be careful with it even if she needed the brace less than she used to, and Odo would  say that his games were childish or boring. “What do you wish, sir?” Hal asked their father.

 

“Bring my children whatever drinks they wish,” answered Hrothgar. “My wife wishes for more sugar in her tea.

 

“Yes, sir,” Hal said, “or do you prefer me calling you Your…”

 

Hrothgar cut across his servant with a guffaw. “No need until it is officially announced, Hal. You may tell the others that too. Anyway, the drinks.”

 

Hal gave a small salute and made his rounds through Hrothgar and Arabella’s children, then headed off towards the kitchen. Xenia suddenly let out a small giggle. “You two are playing a trick, aren’t you?” she said slowly. She beamed. “You nearly had me, for a few seconds I actually believed you! Now what’s thereal reason you sent for me to come back from Milo and Merla’s? And Odo and Folco from school for that matter?”

 

 Folco stroked his chin. That the conversation was a joke was a much more likely scenario than his father suddenly becoming the king of Drémeadow, but this was an extremely elaborate one in that case. He could not imagine them going to the level of bringing him and Odo home early. Besides, neither of his parents had much of a sense of humor.

 

Hrothgar cocked an eyebrow at his daughter. Xenia’s grin faded. “We are not joking,” he said sharply, “though I suppose I can understand why you might think that. In case you did not notice, Hal was asking me whether to call me Your Majesty since that is how kings are addressed.”

 

Xenia leaned back into the sofa. “Well,” she said, “he might have been on the joke.” She lifted her arms slightly, palms up. “But carry on.”

 

Odo piped up, “So… if you’re going to be called Your Majesty after the… change? Conversion? What are you lot calling it?”

 

“We Councilhobbits will be calling it the Reorganization, though who knows what our countryhobbits will be calling it,” responded his father.

 

“Right,” said Odo. “So after the Reorganization, does this mean people will be calling me and them Your Highness?”

 

“That is correct. Or their prince- or princess, if it’s one of the lasses. By the way,” Hrothgar ‘s eyes swept along the row of his sons and daughters, “you will all need to watch how you speak now. ‘My siblings and I’ is the correct phrase. You may be seventeen, Odo, but people will expect you to speak with proper language. No colloquialisms. No vulgarity. No slang. Those are for commoners, not for royalty. I have never heard the royal families of Cancalia, Rheeding, Baur or anywhere else using informal language, so we ought not to either, lest they assume us to lack intellect.”

 

Folco did not like the sound of this. It was bad enough that he had to mind his grammar when writing, and upper school seemed to relish compelling students to run through ink and parchment like food. Now he had to pay attention to semantics when having a conversation?

 

Xenia challenged, “Does that honestly matter? I usecolloquialisms and vulgarity all the time and I graduated top of my class, how I talk doesn’t mean I lack brains! Everyone knows I’m intelligent, they think that’s the only part of who I am!” Folco groaned inwardly.

 

Their father glowered at her. He did not seem particularly enthralled about Xenia reminding him of her proclivity for questionable language.“You will do as I say,” he barked stridently. “Besides, your cleverness hardly helped at your university now, did it? Sit up straight, Folco!”

 

Folco had slumped down in his seat the instant his father had brought up what happened at Hamilton University in Rheeding. He straightened, mumbling “sorry, Father…” and casting  a fearful glance at his sister. Predictably, Xenia’s face was puce with wrath. However, she said nothing.

 

“Now then. I expect all of you have many questions, so your mother and I shall do our best to answer them all,” said Hrothgar. “As established, the Council’s voted to reorganize Drémeadow into a monarchy. I was the one voted to become the monarch. I am sure you’ve all noticed that I have not been home much at all in the past fortnight. I was even out several nights.” That was certainly true. Folco’s father had canceled several sets of plans with him, although that was hardly an unusual occurrence. The worst had been when his father was supposed to help him with an exceptionally difficult paper on the niceties of intracontinental trade only to have a Council session run so late that he had stayed in an inn rather than return home in the dead of night.  

 

“Like when you missed my birthday, for instance?” Odo pointed out.

 

Their father cringed. “Well, I took everyone out for a second celebration when I got back that weekend, did I not?” A doubtful look came onto the adolescent’s face. “Anyhow. Now that we’ve straightened out- no,  discussed how people will address us and our need to use proper language, you have my leave to ask your queries one at a time.”

 

Xenia was the first to action. “What made the Council decide to do this?”

 

Hrothgar answered, “Well, as you already know, Drémeadow has been struggling again. One of the hobbits in the open Council session the other day put forth the idea of a monarchy. I did not say anything then because a decision had not been made, and I certainly had not been aware that I would ultimately be the one chosen to rule the land. At first, there was a great many skeptics- after all, that would be a tremendous change, and we all know our kind are not fond of sudden change- but we decided to put the notion to deliberation.  Ultimately, more than half of us were persuaded."

 

“Does Jillian know?” asked Nora at once. Folco’s ears perked up. That was a good question as Jill was abroad. Of course she would not know. It was not as though they could magically tell her from a several days’ ride away, hobbits were no spellcasters. Would it simply be a giant welcome-home surprise?

 

  “Not yet,” their mother replied. “Your father is sending a messenger to Baur to inform her. He is also asking her to make arrangements to come home as soon as possible, even if it means taking her examinations early. We will send a group to ensure her safe return.”

 

 “So let me get this straight,” Xenia said tersely, “You expect Jillers to drop everything she has going on after you slam her with a not-so-small bit of news? How is she to study knowing her life just got turned upside down? You expect her to just come home early?”

 

Hrothgar gave his daughter a cold look. “It would not be the first time one of my children came back early from university this term, now, would it?” Folco cringed at the second mention of the fiasco at his sister’s former school.

 

Xenia’s face went an ominous shade of scarlet. She opened her mouth as though to say something, but then closed it and got to her feet.

 

“Sit down, Xenia!” Xenia ignored their father, placing her teacup on the saucer rather harder than was necessary. “I said, sit down. SIT.”

 

            She sat in acquiescence, looking daggers at her father. “And how is that relevant?”

            “Were you in Rheeding and about to take your end-of-term exams, as you ought to be,  we would be doing the same for you.” Hrothgar wrung his hands together.

 

Folco could stand to hear no more. “What happens with the other Councilhobbits, then?” he interjected.

 

“That is yet to be decided.”

 

Nora asked, “What exactly does this mean for us? Our family? Will we still live here?” She gesticulated around the room, including the floor and ceiling in the sweep of her hand.

 

Odo chimed in “I thought kings have castles or palaces and not just big houses like this?”

 

Drémeadow’s king-to-be chortled. “Indeed. One would likely be built, and we would move to wherever it is.”

 

Folco felt his stomach drop. “Move?” he echoed. “What about school?”

 

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it- there is the possibility you may not go to  school anymore.”

 

Odo’s eyes rounded. “Really? You mean no more lectures, recitations, reading textbooks and writing rolls of parchment about what we read?”

 

A smile flitted across Arabella’s thin face. “Not exactly. If we decide to withdraw you, you would be tutored.

 

“I’d rather go to school with my friends!” Folco burst out. Odo nodded his accord. 

 

“As I said,” Hrothgar repeated, “we will cross that bridge when we come to it. You will finish this year, anyhow.” Folco closed his eyes unhappily. What would he do if he were forever kept at home? Would his father at least be home for now? Would this be just a case of dealing with a mother who was forever scolding him while his father seldom showed his face and shut himself away doing work when actually home, only with a fancier title?

 

~*~*~

 

            After what felt like an eternity of conversation that left Folco more overwhelmed than ever, their mother, now Queen Arabella, released them, saying that she and their father had a lot of work to do. Folco stood up to follow the others out, his mind abuzz. If they were moving, did this mean he would be changing schools? Would he be pulled from school altogether? Who would he play games with on days off? Would he be taken  seriously by the royalty of other places, or would they act as though the Foxtrots were somehow below them because technically, none of them had been born into it? He remembered hearing about the difficulties of the Parquays when the land had split asunder in bloody civil war that ended with the hitherto unified land becoming East and West Parquay. Though Drémeadow was almost never directly involved in war and had not seen hobbits fighting in battle for decades, its sudden change in internal structure might raise eyebrows as even their father himself had said.

 

“What do you lot make of all this?” Folco queried the instant the four were out of earshot.  Nora shook her head, quickening her pace and beckoning for the others to do likewise.

 

“What are our opinions on this matter, you mean. Do not forget, Father said we are to speak properly.” Folco rolled his eyes in reply. Nora was choosing now to act bossy? She might be literally twice his age, but that did not mean she could suddenly pretend she was in any place to tell him what to do.  

 

Much to his chagrin, Nora did not take the hint. Instead, she said, “you ought not to roll your eyes like that, either.”

 

“You’re not one of our parents,” snapped Folco.

 

“Come off it, you two” Xenia sighed.  “So, what do we all think about this?

 

“Wait.” Nora led her three younger siblings in the direction of the back of their home where the stairs leading up to their bedrooms were located. As they passed the door to the kitchen, Nora stopped suddenly and did an about-face, nearly colliding with Odo. “My apologies, Brother” she said before pulling the door open and requesting that scones and tea be brought to her bedroom. There was a muffled response that caused Nora to nod with satisfaction. “Thank you. Folco grinned. The sense of hunger had been beginning to rise in his stomach, though he’d said nothing because he had wanted to learn as much as he could from their parents. Distractions like asking for a snack would have been counter-productive.

 

When they finally reached Nora’s room, she drew the curtains open and sat down on her four-poster bed, wide enough for three adult hobbits to comfortably sleep. Xenia joined her on the bed and Odo took one of her chairs while Folco sprawled out on the blue silk rug covering the floor space between her bed and her wardrobe, taking care that he did not end up within smelling distance of his sister’s chamber pot. Even though the servants took care to empty them frequently, an odor tended to linger in the area.

 

“Now can we talk about what Mother and Father told us?”  asked Odo.

 

“That was my intent,” said Nora. “I thought we ought to speak in a more private place than downstairs where servants are constantly walking past us.”

 

As though on cue, there was a knock on the door. “Enter!” Nora called. The succulent aroma of scones began to fill the room as Daria Littleflower entered with a tray containing four steaming cups, sugar and fresh milk. She placed it on Nora’s trunk, then asked “do you need anything else?” A second later, she added uncertainly “Your Highnesses?” Folco blinked. It felt strange to be called that. It would not happen often until the official announcement was made and town criers passed on the news all over Drémeadow, but being called that behind closed doors by someone who had worked for his family since Folco was barely old enough for Lower School was outright peculiar.

 

Silence reigned until Nora said, “No, thank you, Daria. Close the door behind you.” Daria tilted her head at the four before exiting the room. When the door clicked closed, she said, “Well… that was… different.”

 

“Do you suppose we’re allowed to use each other’s names?” Odo asked tentatively. “I know other lands have strange rules, do you suppose we shall too?”

 

“I suppose we’ll be making the rules,” speculated Xenia, “or Father will anyway, so maybe there won’t be anything strange like us having to call each other something not our names. Although,” she added in afterthought, “Father is really one for tradition so I wouldn’t put it past him to just do what other places do.”

 

 Folco did not want to think about having to remember to call his siblings anything other than their given names or nicknames. “Can we eat and drink those? I’m hungry.” The others got up to crowd around the scones. To his delight, three were huckleberry, his favorite. Unfortunately, this opinion was shared by Nora, who took two. He made a face.

 

“I know you’ll eat them all if I don’t take these now,” said Nora.

 

“But I’m a growing lad! I need to eat more than you!” he protested.

 

“There’s plenty of other flavors,” she countered.

 

“Come off it, you know Huckleberry’s my favorite…”

 

After it was settled that Nora and Folco would split one of the three and Xenia and Odo had helped themselves to their scones, the contemplative conversation resumed.  Predictably, Odo was excited at having a valid excuse to swagger around the Hardscrabble Upper School. “Suppose this means I can do whatever I want now and Old Marvi won’t be able to say a thing?”

 

Nora scoffed, “please. If anything, Headmaster Marvitopwill be calling you Your Highness right before ordering you  to wash all the chalkboards and making you straighten the abacus shelves.”

Odo laughed. “He can’t make me.”

 

“And what will you do if Mother or Father decides they prefer you listen to set a good example? It’s not like you got away with anything with Father as a Councilhobbit.”

 

“You know…”  Xenia chimed in, “I can think of one good thing about all this.”

 

Forgetting the discussion of how things would be at school, Odo said, “what?”

 

“This means we no longer have to listen to a bunch of so-called adults… well, adult adults, not adults my age or Nora’s… squabbling as though they were L1 children over meals or in the sitting room about how to run Drémeadow… or whose fault it is when things go wrong… and meanwhile not actually doing anything to help matters because they’re too busy quarreling.”