Frost Light by Bullen Danielle

Author:Bullen, Danielle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-12-07T00:00:00+00:00

XVI

I step through the door. The water buckets slosh, bumping against my legs and I press the door shut and turn. The warmth of the room is heavy on my skin, like a living thing after the morning cold, pressing against the skin of my face, against my hands, and I can barely feel my fingers. It was good that Yore cut the ice so early, or breakfast would have been late, with as thick as the ice was in the cold. “Oh.” A voice, a few steps away, groggy and low. “Let me help you.” I glance up sharply. Pevi is stepping toward me. He slips his hands over the bucket handles, blinking, his eyes bleary with sleep, and lacking the alertness that was in them last night. The sleeves of his tunic shirt are rolled up, his dark forearms damp. He must have been washing up for the morning. I shake my head, step forward. “You don’t need to…” He is already moving across the room, half gone to the sink.

He glances back at me. “Your hands are half frozen.” His voice is still heavy with sleep. He glances at me again, moving to set the buckets down. “Do these go by the stove?”

I nod, and stoop, a smile brushing at my lips. I jerk my boots off, and stand, setting them to the side. My hands are awkward, puffy and red, and they sting with cold and warmth at once, tingling, burning. I look up at him, fingers strange on the cords. “Thank you.” He nods, stepping away from the stove, and I move toward it. I shove my shawl back into place, tucked in my skirts. It’s cold. There is a cloud of steam rising from the pot on the stove. I snatch the porridge bag from the shelf, and my hand fumbles, bag jerking. I grimace and set it on the counter. Turning, I pluck a spoon from the shelf, and lift the bag, pouring the grain into the pot bit by bit. Bit by bit or it will be lumpy, and then it will be mostly uneatable like last night’s soup almost was.

There are steps, and the sound of a door. I glance over my shoulder. Pevi is gone, the door to the loo closed. Yore’s door creaks open, his steps heavy and muffled on the floor. I turn back toward the stove, stir in a little more of the porridge. Steam licks at my fingers, hot and sharp, biting at my skin and my prickling fingers. I grimace.

Yore is stepping past me. His heavy coat is over his shoulders, on, and he is reaching for his boots. I look up sharply. “What are you doing?”

He glances at me, and away again, dropping into a chair with his boots in his hand. He is wearing the thick socks, the chunky pair he never wears. “Going to talk to Goran.” He shoves the boot onto his foot.

I frown, shake my head. “But you haven’t had breakfast yet.

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