Saying nothing, the priest made everything plain. Mattwil’s questions vanished. His distrust burst like a soap bubble and was gone. He knew how to obey. His bafflement remained, but it no longer mattered. Only hiding Father Skurn had any importance. Only keeping the priest alive—

Sure of himself at last, Mattwil dropped to his knees and began digging at the inadequate covert Father Skurn had tried to fashion, making it deeper; wider.

Big enough for three rather than one.

Fresh snow was easy to thrust aside. It weighed little more than feathers. But under the surface, the accumulation of days was heavier, colder. It formed an icy crust. Breaking into it hurt Mattwil’s hands until they, too, began to freeze. Still, his purpose was clear. When he hit a patch that he could not break with his fingers, he used his elbows.

While Cloras continued sweeping away the marks of their presence, and Father Skurn stood watch, Mattwil dug a pit deep enough to hide them all.

They did not need to speak. Everything was understood. In silence, Cloras handed her spare cape to Mattwil. Pulling the priest after him, Mattwil stretched out on his back in the pit, settled the priest beside him; made sure that he had left room for Cloras. Then he covered himself and Skurn with the rain-cape. While she pushed snow over them and packed it lightly, he propped up the cape so that there would be air when the pit was filled. There he waited, half holding his breath, until Cloras crawled in past their feet. As she settled herself beside him, they shook their covering gently to scatter the snow over it; doing as much as they dared to make the hillside look undisturbed.

“Lie still,” murmured the priest. “I will know when we are safe. I came to bring peace. With your help, I will succeed.”

While the effects of Father Skurn’s brief touch lingered, Mattwil believed him.

Slowly, the warmth of their bodies melted the snow around them. As it froze again, it formed a small cocoon. They were encased in cold, numbed and protected by it. While they could draw air from the gap Cloras had left by their feet, they would live, at least for a time.

Nevertheless a killing chill soaked through Mattwil’s garb. It spread from his limbs into his chest. At his side, violent shivers wracked Cloras. She was too slight to withstand the cold. With what felt like his last strength, he worked one arm under her, then rolled her—carefully, carefully—onto him so that she could share his remaining heat. Her breathing at his ear made beads of ice. They were going to deafen him. But he did not try to shift her. The assurance that Father Skurn had given him was gone, forgotten. Instead, he clung to the faint throb of her heart. It gave him a reason to endure.

After a while, she stopped shivering.