The silence hung awkwardly. Calder itched to turn toward her. They’d always shared joking looks, but not now. He couldn’t afford to indulge.

Calder slouched against the bridge’s wood, impatiently tapping his fingers. She was late.

“Interesting definition of alone.” Her voice was more worn than he recalled.

Silence. Strange since it’d been, what, an hour, maybe two since noise had shattered his decades long solitude. Waiting for his heart to slow, Calder shoved the man off

“Why?” Spittle struck Calder’s brow. “Why? Because it was a freezing night when the natives took up arms.”

“I know. I was there when Yelena died.” His voice broke on her name.

Reeling, Calder struggled to move. Blast, that’d been his good stool.

“Stop it.” Despite his head ringing, he heard Sorrell struggling with their attackers. A strike, a grunt, and Calder heard no more from the boy.

“And that’s when I said ‘Quick, hide behind the sofa.’ You should have seen—”

“What’s a sofa?” Calder shoved a stick into the fire scowling, hoping the man would not answer.

Outside the cabin, the wind howled through the trees. Inside, the pair sat in silence. Calder stabbed the fire scowling. He’d wasted too much wood. The stranger looked uncomfortable on Calder’s stool, overly large. Calder never had guests here, no need for two seats.

Throwing another log onto the fire, he pulled his tattered cloak close. The wind flowed through the walls as much as around. At least it wasn’t raining. The leaky roof could make some other night miserable.