“Rosie’s late.” Sam’s face creased in thought.
Frodo’s hand paused in mid stroke, a droplet of ink dangerously close to falling onto the page. He scrutinized his friend carefully. “Oh? I’m sure she’ll be back soon…probably gossiping with Marigold…”
“No, that ain’t it Frodo. She’s late.” Sam cleared his throat, cheeks coloring. “Ummm, she hasn’t had her…ah…her...monthlies yet.”
Frodo nestled the quill in its holder. Understanding dawned slowly in sky-blue eyes. “Oh, you mean that late.”
Nodding, Sam flushed with embarrassed pride. “Aye.”
“Congratulations Sam!” Frodo cried, clasping his friend’s shoulder warmly. “When is she due?”