[mark12_30]

By the light of a small lamp, Lînsie squinted at the vein of Mithril that shone in the rock. The Mithril was so much brighter than the surrounding rock, it was sometimes hard to see the rock itself, and she moved the lamp often. Sometimes she worried that she would lose a precious peice of the Mithril down the endless pit to her left. She was balanced on a narrow ledge, so she had a rope around her waist. The updraft from the pit made the lamp flicker.

She chipped and fussed at the rock around the vein. The Mithril did not give way. When all the rock was removed from a vein of Mithril, the vein stood out like a thin tree-branch, or a strand of hair, and then it had to be cut. She had nine foot-long strands in the pouch that she carried under her jacket; a fair day's work. She was getting weary, but she hated stopping even to eat.

She cast a glance over her shoulder; Narin worked perhaps fifty feet away. He treated her differently ever since he had knocked her beard off.

So did Balin. Now openly paternal, he had a tendency to lecture her; but with all his endless searching his lectures were short and absent-minded. She wished his attentions had been something other than paternal. Her father was right, he would have made a good match. But Balin's desire was for something in the caverns far below.

Frowning, she moved the lamp again. Several of the dwarves had complimented her lately, their courtesy tinged with shyness. But something held them back; perhaps it was the skirmishes with the orcs; or the distant rumblings in the deep; or that she still wore her beard, even to dig.

For his part, Narin hadn't complimented her at all.