Lys: A Frozen Flame

Cathair was slowly thawing out. He removed his hat and his furred overcoat and let the warmth seep into his bones. He hoped the snow would not last. Last night, when he had seen Aithne to the door, his hand had nearly stuck on the lintel. He was surprised she did not freeze to death every night. The monks who had bult it had obviously been of the self-denying sort. He had returned only moments later, carrying his lambskin rug and vowing to himself that she would not stay there any longer than was absolutely necessary. In fact, he considered asking the Guttersnipe if Aithne could sleep in her room. Even the kitchen was warmer. Or the Atrium. Somewhere with a fire...