Time slipped through people's fingers, grain by grain, like sand clenched in a fist.
Under close surveillance, Thar's behavior nevertheless surprised Allen. Everything he did afterward was simply too normal-so normal that it felt abnormal.
On the first day after receiving the order, the Dwarf in charge of the shop's daily operations hurried excitedly into the back room and wrote Thorin a letter in Dwarven script. Then a raven with glossy black feathers beat its wings and soared into the sky, flying swiftly from Fisslet toward the Lonely Mountain.
The contents of the letter remained unknown. Had it been a face-to-face conversation, Allen might have understood it.
Writing was another matter. Even now, Allen could barely write most of the Western Language, while the script used by the Dwarves was deeply secret knowledge, seldom used by any race other than their own.
But sending a letter to the Lonely Mountain was perfectly normal. What shopkeeper left to mind a store would fail to notify his employer when a major order came in?
Besides, jewelry was small enough for a raven to carry. At their flying speed, seven days was more than enough to deliver it from the Lonely Mountain to Fisslet along a direct route. Allen had already calculated that.
Even if this deal fell through, Thar should still have sent a letter to the Lonely Mountain. His shelves were completely bare, with nothing left to sell.
Over the next two days, Thar merely instructed his subordinates to clean the shop and did nothing else. That was precisely what Allen found so normal that it seemed abnormal.
Why didn't he go to his supplier for more stock?
Allen did not believe Thorin had deliberately sent those cheaply made brass ornaments all the way from the Lonely Mountain to sell here.