The moment he vacates her space she draws the blanket around herself again, leaving no open space for any chill to creep in. Her dry expression takes a note of approval and she inclines her head toward the kettle on the table. The hearth was burning still, the flames a bit high to hang a kettle over, but he could deal with that.

She had made spiced wine earlier, had let it simmer all day, but even the smells of the spices in the red wine hadn't been enough to overtake the smell of juniper from the stills. It was cold now, or as cold as it could be sitting out in her apartment, but it would heat quickly enough.

Now, however, as she moves to take a seat at her table and watches him, she is struck by indecision. It is nice to have him back, of course, he is the person she talks to most. She is mad, still, even though his travels were not his fault. But now there are soldiers here and the thought makes her annoyed--he will probably return to his rooms at the vicarage to avoid scrutiny, which is stupid, because it is far too cold to walk out into.

Damn, she is worrying about him. It must be the season.

"You are staying until dawn," she informs him bluntly. "I am not about to argue with the weather or you. I will worry too much if you leave before day."