It put the hair up on the back of Mags’ neck in a way nothing before ever had. Not in a bad way. It was hard to put a finger on how it made him feel—shivery, very aware of everything around him. It made him want to hold his breath, and his eyes stung a little.

When the priest was done, there was silence. Finally, the Bard coughed and cleared his throat. “When you took holy orders, Gellet, the world lost one of its finest Bards,” he said gruffly. “You make the music come alive in ways I can only dream of and envy.”

“You say that every year.” The priest handed back the lute, and the Bard took it with a rueful smile.

He cradled the lute against himself. “I say that every year, and every year I mean it. Your Gifts are wasted—”

“My Gifts are used in the service of something other than my own vainglory. But that is an argument for another night, Aiken. Mags, have you any song or story to drive winter away?” The priest turned his head toward Mags, and in the flickering firelight Mags could see his face holding only curiosity.

Mags shook his head. “Nothin’ cheerin’,” he said quietly, thinking of all the Midwinter Eves that he had spent, huddled with the rest of the kiddies, trying to keep warm enough to enjoy the little bit of extra rest on this, the longest night of the year. “Nothin’ anyone wants t’ hear. Some of ye might know I was one of them mine slaveys, an’ . . .” he paused a moment, and decided to err on the side of the least discomfort for everyone. “. . . an’ we didn’ keep the holidays. Mostly, we didn’ even know they was holidays.”

“I do, I have a true story from today,” Amily said, and told an odd little story about finding a bird that very morning, lying stunned in the cold—how she had taken it up and warmed it in her hand until it recovered, how it had stayed on her hand, flicking its wings and looking at her, and only after what seemed to be a period of deliberation, flying away.

The priest laughed deep in his chest at her clever descriptions. “I often wonder what they think in those tiny heads when we do things like that. Do they mistake us for gods, do you think? After all, we take them up when they are helpless, we heal them and warm them, and let them go again.”

“My pet birds have never mistaken me for anything other than a source of seed,” Lydia laughed. “But now I have a story I found when I was searching in some old books for something for Uncle Soren.”