With the heat rising in her face, Wren frantically cast her gaze about for something, anything. She smiled brightly and took a slice of apple still lying on the table. “Um … I cut a lot of these?”

Lifting a skeptical eyebrow, he took one. They ate their apples in silence. The brightness flooded Wren’s mouth, and here, hunkered down against the cold, she thought of long winter nights in the abbey. On the worst of them, Heloise brewed cider. If Wren closed her eyes, she could taste the tartness of it, the warm, earthy spice of cinnamon. That was among the few things that held real magic in her childhood.

“Makes me think of being a kid,” she said almost dreamily. “Sometimes, we got cider. Everyone would line up for what seemed like hours to get a little portion, but if I’d been good that day, Heloise would let me help make it, and I’d get the first helping.”

“Did you usually misbehave?”

“What do you think? I’ve always been a terror.”

“I’m shocked.”

She knocked his shoulder with hers. “And I imagine you were a perfect child. Some kind of prodigy.”

“Not always.” Hal leaned his head back against the armrest, smiling faintly. “As a child, I was quite eager to please and impress, and my friend James was an instigator. He wrangled me into all sorts of schemes. The worst of them was sneaking onto a boat headed for the mainland while it was docked in the harbor.”

“You ruffians! How far did you make it?”

“The sailors found us before they set sail, of course. When my father came, I was terrified—far more terrified than I was at the prospect of actually seeing our journey through. He never lifted a hand to me. Never even raised his voice. But I’ll never forget that look of disappointment.” After a moment, he said, “That was his name. James.”

She didn’t need to ask to know who he meant. She reached over and squeezed his knee. “Byers. Jacob Byers.”

It felt right, somehow, to trust Hal with his name. They sat in companionate silence for a moment before he said, “If only I had warmer memories to share. I’ve had enough cold to last a lifetime.”

Wren gave him a wicked look. “So you’re saying you don’t want to play in the snow? That was my next idea.”

“You may go outside if it pleases you. I’m content by the fire.”

“We don’t need to go outside.”

Wren clambered to her feet and approached the window. It peered out above the icy eaves, giving her a view of the sleeping village below. When she tried to unlatch it, the frame rattled. Frozen shut. But another jostle, and the casement swung open. Cold air kissed her face, bracing but invigorating. Standing on her tiptoes, she leaned out to scrape a layer of snow from the roof.