“I’m sorry, you want me to what?” Sigrid stared down at the three dwarves who’d approached her in the hallway. Given their casual attire, she was pretty sure they weren’t employees of Durin & Fundin. Should she offer assistance, or call security? Intern training hadn’t covered this.
“Pick us up,” repeated the one with braids in his moustache, sounding as if he wanted to add, Does being tall make you stupid?
“Please,” added the one with glasses and a septum piercing. His look of wide-eyed innocence rivaled that of Sigrid’s baby sister.
The third dwarf’s expression was nearly as cherubic, an effect enhanced by his cat-eared beanie and scruffy cheeks. He looked vaguely familiar, though Sigrid didn’t think they’d ever met.
The whole situation seemed suspicious, starting with the nature of their request. Dwarves weren’t like hobbits. Sigrid was used to picking up her friend Lily when they were in Big People spaces—lifting her onto a chair or over a gap, even carrying her piggyback when they were in a hurry. But the only reason to pick up a dwarf was if it had been too long since your last concussion.
“Is this a trick?” demanded Sigrid.
“Yes,” said Glasses-and-Septum. At the same time, Scruffy Kitten said, “No! Shut up, Ori!”
“What we mean,” Moustache Braids quickly interjected, “is that it is a trick, but not on you. It’s our uncle’s birthday, and we want to sneak in and surprise him.”
“Surprise him with what?” asked Sigrid warily. She was only two weeks into her internship, and keen not to screw it up.
“With these,” said Scruffy Kitten, opening the yellow bag slung over his shoulder.
At first glance, it seemed full of literal treasure. As Sigrid stared, the dwarf dug out a handful to let her look more closely. They were beautifully embossed scraps of gold foil.
Sigrid picked one up and squinted at it. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good with runes yet.” They comprised a sizable fraction of Durin & Fundin’s correspondence, though, so she was trying to learn as fast as she could. “What do they say?”
“Happy birthday, best wishes for the day, many happy returns,” answered Scruffy Kitten, stuffing them all back into his bag. “More or less. Those aren’t exact translations.”
Ori’s red cheeks and sudden coughing fit suggested to Sigrid that they were very inexact translations.
Moustache Braids slung an arm around Ori’s shoulders and beamed at her. “Ori works at a print shop; he did all the embossing and cutting for us.” He pressed a kiss to the side of Ori’s head, which made the poor dwarf’s cheeks even redder. “We can’t let all his hard work go to waste. Won’t you help us up?” He pointed to the ceiling vent over their heads.
Seeing that Sigrid still hesitated, Scruffy Kitten added, “Uncle works too hard. He’s not even taking time off for his birthday. We just want to remind him that he’s got a family, and we care about him. Is there anyone in your life like that?”
“My da,” said Sigrid immediately, thinking of his long hours on the water, eking the best living he could from the lake’s dwindling stock of fish. He’d been so proud of Sigrid when she graduated, the first in their family to get a college degree. She hoped he’d be able to spend more time with her siblings now that she was bringing home a steady paycheck.
“So you get it,” said the dark-haired dwarf softly. He reached out his arms. “Up?”
What could she do, but bend at the knees, grasp him around the middle, and hoist? Her first thought was, Oof. So this is why nobody picks up dwarves. Her second thought was that he smelled surprisingly good. She was ashamed to admit she’d expected him to smell of sweat or smoke, but instead she got a pleasant whiff of some sweet and spicy cologne.
Her third thought she spoke aloud. “What are you doing up there?”
“Wrong screwdriver.” One of his hands reached down and made a grabbing gesture. “Fíli! Phillips head!”
Moustache Braids passed up the tool as Sigrid braced her legs, engaged her core, and wondered how long they had before someone saw her sneaking miscreants into the air vents. This led to a related curiosity about the company’s firing process, and whether she might set a record as Durin & Fundin’s shortest-lived intern. Would her supervisor handle it, or would the CEO get involved? She’d only seen Mr. Durin at a distance, and his fierce scowl had made her eager to keep it that way. Maybe she’d be joining her da on his boat, after all.
Sigrid’s dismal train of thought was interrupted by the weight abruptly disappearing from her arms as Scruffy Kitten scrambled through the now-open vent into the ceiling. He turned and offered her a disarming smile. “I hope our next embrace lasts much longer.”
“Kíli, don’t flirt with the intern!” snapped Moustache Braids—Fíli, Sigrid remembered. Dwarf parents liked to rhyme their children’s names, so Fíli and Kíli were probably brothers, like Mr. Balin and Mr. Dwalin.
“Oh please, I put up with much worse from you and Ori,” scoffed Kíli. “I didn’t even know your voice could get that high—”
“Help me up so I can knock him out,” demanded Fíli.
Suppressing a giggle, Sigrid took a good grip on Fíli’s waist and lifted. Despite their quarrel, Kíli grabbed his hands and pulled him through the vent. They both did the same for Ori when Sigrid boosted him up, and she was left standing alone in the hall.
She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered “Good luck!” to the ceiling.
“Thank you, fair maiden,” said Kíli, poking his head back down. “I am Kíli, at your service—”
“And the others are Fíli and Ori,” interrupted Sigrid. “I heard. I’m—”
“Don’t tell us your name!” Kíli threw out one hand dramatically. “So if we are captured, we cannot even think of giving you away, no matter what torments they subject us to. But I will remember you, and hope that we meet again on a merrier—”
“Shut it, you slag,” came Fíli’s disembodied voice, and Kíli was dragged away from the opening.
Sigrid caught a glimpse of Ori, brow furrowed in concentration as he replaced the covering. He gave her a cheerful wave before following the others.
She returned to her cubicle, shaking her head in amused bewilderment. She wondered who their uncle was, and hoped that he wouldn’t be the one to get in trouble over their antics. From all the stories she’d heard, Mr. Durin didn’t seem like the type to forgive an employee’s family disrupting the work day, even for a birthday celebration.
For a few minutes she only pretended to work, waiting to hear a cry of surprise from elsewhere in the office. When none was forthcoming, she decided that the three dwarves must be biding their time, waiting for a perfect opportunity.
That, or the tale about their uncle was a load of fish guts, and she’d just been an accomplice to burglary.
This uncomfortable notion seemed more and more likely as the day wore on. Sigrid was grateful for the endless spreadsheets she’d been tasked with updating, so she could at least feel productive while she worried. She had nearly decided to go to security and confess her unwitting crime when the executive conference room exploded with shouts and laughter.
Along with everyone else, Sigrid crowded into the hall to see what had happened. As one of the few humans in the office, she had a clear view over the dwarves’ heads when the door burst open to reveal Thorin Durin himself, covered in glittering gold from head to toe and shedding sparkles with every step, roaring, “Fíli! Kíli! WHERE ARE THOSE HELLIONS?”
Ah, thought Sigrid. So that’s why Kíli looked familiar.
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