With every step they drew closer, the din coming from the establishment grew. As did the swirl of snowflakes falling around them.

She blinked as those bits of white flecks landed on her lashes.

A cloud of smoke billowed from the chimney as the fire’s glow inside the inn illuminated the frosted windows, the figures on the other side blurred by the iced glass.

They reached the front of the stone inn, and Val drew the door open, a swell of noise rushing to greet them.

A great cacophony of merriment, laughter, the whine of a fiddle, and stamping feet.

Val motioned her on ahead, and Myrtle stepped inside with Horace following suit. As she pushed her hood back, she did a sweep of the room. The very crowded room.

For Myrtle and Val had arrived . . . but so, too, did it appear that every other person in the countryside, from near and far, had.

A tall, generously rounded fellow with kindly eyes and a fiddle positioned at his shoulder danced around the guests in his path, literally playing his way over to Myrtle and Val.

The cheerful smile on his ample cheeks, flushed red with both his efforts, and the happiness of the room, proved contagious. Myrtle moved her gaze over the tavern, taking it all in, from the pair of serving girls filling tankards with ale to the one-legged man near the hearth, playing away on a second fiddle. Couples danced in time to the music, roughly clad men twirling their partners wildly while those women’s wool skirts flew high about their stout, durable black boots.

At last, the innkeeper reached them through the swarm of patrons.

“Good evening to you, good sir,” the bear of a man shouted, making his voice heard over the din. “I am Gus, the owner of this fine establishment.”

Myrtle stared at the fiddle. “You are the owner and you play for your patrons?” She didn’t bother to conceal her admiration or her awe.

If possible, the fellow, some two inches taller than Val’s impressive height, grew even more. He brought back his barrel chest and played a quick tune. “Indeed. Perhaps you’ve heard some of my works? ‘Rakes of Madeley’?”

She straightened. “‘The Rakes of Mallow’?” she asked excitedly.

He shook his big head, knocking his sandy-brown strands from behind his ears. “‘The Rakes of Madeley.’ Redid the piece, I did.” Myrtle shook her head. “Or . . . ‘Laffy Was a Welshman’? See, I changed that one, too, because ‘Taffy’ really isn’t the kindest—”

Val cleared his throat. “Excuse me. Do you happen to have two rooms for my wife and I?”