The cat brushed his legs, purring. The Wizard scratched him behind the ears, then walked to the chair where other belongings of the maiden lay. He took the suede-bound book and the small leather purse gingerly and walked into the kitchen.

Radagast laid them onto the table and sat, resting his chin between his fingers, looking intently at the things.

Then he stood up and started making himself tea. He put the kettle on the fire and crushed different dried leaves and flowers into the teapot. He took a rather large pot of homey out of a corner, fished a spoon from a drawer, then put all this onto the table too. Suddenly he felt he was being watched and turned. His gaze met a pair of jewel-bright amber eyes, looking at him reproachfully, then flickering to the honey pot. “I know, I know!”, – the Wizard cried, – “But I canÂ’t help myself! Would you say no to BeornÂ’s finest honey?” The owl hooted in a dignified sort of way. Radagast gave a loud “Humph” and went back to his preparations. He took the kettle from the fire and poured boiling water into the teapot. A sweet scent instantly filled the kitchen, the fragrance of blooming fields in a fine early-summer day. Finally, the old Wizard settled at the table. He took a large swig off his cup, then – a spoonful of honey. He closed his eyes slightly and smiled in a contented way. However, when his eyes snapped open, the benign smile vanished, replaced by curiosity and slight concern. He took the grey book and opened it carefully. Although his guest was now sound asleep, he did not want to be inquisitive and break into her private thoughts and memories, or notes. Yet, he needed to know who was lying in the other room, recovering from severe cuts and bites. Well, he needed at least to know her name.

On the first page of the book, there was a large title saying: “The songs and ballads of Middle-Earth” in the Sindarin tongue, carved in a clear, yet fanciful handwriting. Under this Elvish title was the common-tongue translation, and down in the right corner of the page there was drawn a small bird, and a star was shining on its breast.

“A nightingale”, – the Wizard said, recognizing the bird, – “So Dulin must be your name. But the starÂ…why is it there…?” At these words, his eyes fell upon the glittering jewel laying nearby on the table. “StarÂ… a Sea-star! This makes sense, if you are coming from the Havens! So it is Dulin Gil-Gaer, if I am correct. Nightingale, the Sea-star. A poetical name indeed.” Then Radagast flicked through the book. First, he landed on a chapter entitled “Lays of Mithlond”, then there were “Chants of Rohan”, “Hymns of Gondor”, and many more. The last chapter before a wide quantity of blank pages was the “Ballads of the Woodland realm”. The old Wizard raised an eyebrow. Looking through the book more carefully, he stumbled on a chapter, dedicated to the war chants of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains and the Grey Mountains, and then there was one with the work songs of the Iron Hills. His eyes widened slightly “Now that is interestingÂ…How did she get there, I wonder?” then, looking at the titles of the chapters, Radagast understood. If the book began with the Grey Havens and succeeding to them were the Blue Mountains, Dol-Amroth, Gondor, Rohan, Lorien, Rivendell, the Grey Mountains and the Iron Hills, then the maiden must have traveled this far from her home, and, judging by the wide amount of blank pages, she intended to go farther on. However, something remained to be cleared up: how did an Elven-maid collect and write down Dwarvish chants? The Dwarves were very suspicious and swift to anger, and, what most, they did not let anyone too close to their crafts and lore. “Well, there is one who is always welcome in any Dwarvish dwelling”, – Radagast thought, – “But this is different. And even Gandalf did not get their whole trust, though, without any doubt, he gained great respect.”

Dwarves, like any craftsmen, could appreciate beauty in things, alive or made with skilled hands, but they never fell for women, as far as Radagast knew, at least. Maybe she did them a service? What could she have done, then? She did not seem neither a warrior (though she had definite skill with weapons), nor a craftswoman. A minstrel, more like.

Puzzled, the old Wizard decided to put this mystery aside for a while, and see to it later.
Instead, he proceeded to the leather pouch. He took it gingerly and opened very cautiously. There was glittering black powder inside. Radagast was sure this powder had something to do with the two flashes of white light they all saw while seeking the source of yester nightÂ’s disturbance. He took a few grains and held them close to his eyes. They were identical, flawlessly smooth and round. The Wizard lowered his hand and looked at the fireplace wonderingly. Then, edging closer to the fire, he threw the grains into it. And, though it was already dawning and light philtered through the windows, for several moments the kitchen was so brightly lit, as if it was mid-day. Radagast was startled at this effect. “This definitely has something to do with the Dwarves”, – he muttered under his breath. The old wizard sighed: “Why is he never there when I need him? “, – Radagast wondered vaguely, looking absently at the dancing flames. The grey cat sprang lightly in his lap and curled into a purring furry ball. Radagast blinked and smiled down at him. Scratching him behind the ears, the Wizard chuckled: “Well, at least my grey wanderer is ever by my side, arenÂ’t you, Mithrandir?”, – he addressed the cat. He opened one green eye and looked sleepily back at Radagast. The Wizard reached out a long hand and took his cup first, then the teapot, the honey and the spoon. After that, he paused, thinking, and then, with a small “Oh well”, grabbed the Grey Book too, risking a wary glance at the owl. It was perched on top of the dresser, apparently asleep. A very boyish grin flashed on the old good-natured face, and Radagast proceeded to his favourite occupation: reading. He took an occasional sip of tea now and again, or savoured a spoon of honey, his eyes never slipping off the neatly written lines.