The open swing of the door stirs chill air, cold gripped in through stone walls and floors around a dark hearth, full of coals. It stings the ears and bites toes to the bone. A desk to one side is host to a scattering of books and vials and bottles and papers; the table at the room’s center is host to a bottle of wine, a lamp, and a pair of careworn chairs.

Richard starts at the hearth, jacket dropped across his unmade bed.

There are a few logs in a stack, a tinderbox, the snap of a flint. It will take time for seeded flame to crawl up into the wood. He leaves it to transplant a bottle of whiskey from his desk to the table, stirring through the mist of his own breath on his way back to the chest at the foot of his bed.

Loxley’s old cot stands still and grey opposite his work.