16. Brett

Paris searched through the first stack of letters a dozen times. Then every week or two when new letters arrived from Urial, he did the same. Each time, his shoulders slumped lower and lower, his enthusiasm for the mail dimming just a little more.

He received a ridiculous number of letters, but clearly not the one he wanted. One calling him home? One from a lover?

I couldn't know without asking, and I... I couldn't ask. He was a diplomat, not my friend, and we didn't share secrets with each other. We had amicable chats about things our people did and didn't have in common. I showed him our irrigation methods; he showed me the heavy coats he'd brought in his trunk. They weren't simply felted wool like our winter wear, but layers of wool trapped between layers of other fabrics, fluffy and thick. They looked funny to me, but he swore they kept a person warm in the coldest weather.

On the other hand, the weather had turned frigid over the weeks he'd been with us, and he wasn't even wearing a proper coat yet. He kept going out in only his light silk jackets, and it made me shiver just to look at him.

The coming winter was going to be bad.

We'd barely finished gathering all the crops before the frosts killed any remaining plants, and the cold snap that declared fall truly in season was colder than any I remembered. The older people in town were talking about some winter fifty years earlier that was similar, but that wasn't especially reassuring when the story involved multiple deaths in the clan.

When one of the village spinners didn't greet his neighbors one morning, we'd had to go into his house without permission to check on him, fearing the worst, since he was getting on in years. We'd almost been right—his fire had gone out in the night, and he'd nearly died of the cold in his own bed. That had been a week ago, and we'd consolidated households after that, making sure every house had people with differing sleep schedules, to make sure the fires were blazing bright and warm at all hours. Owen's son Brandon liked to stay up most of the night, so half a dozen people who usually lived alone had moved into Owen's house.

Oddly enough, Owen was thriving with it. It made me wonder if Owen was lonely, and what, if anything, I should do about that when spring came and housing situations went back to normal.

The man himself came in as Rosaline was putting lunch on the table, and he was shaking... fuck me, was that snow? Yes, he was shaking snow off his coat. A blast of freezing air followed him into the house, and his face—he looked too damned serious.

I waved for him to join us, so he did, and Rosaline, as though by magic, produced another bowl to set before him.

"Starting to get cold out there," Paris observed, like it hadn't been fucking freezing for weeks.

Owen looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "Get cold? It's colder than a Crane's heart out there."

Paris cocked his head at him, trying to parse the saying, I realized. It wasn't as though the people of Urial had a Crane Clan, with all their reputation for being ice-cold warriors with no feelings. Having spent years with the Crane, I knew damned well they and their passions ran hotter than any other clan in Nemeda, but I wasn't going to change something people had been saying since before I was born.

I cleared my throat. "Are we finished with the consolidation? Everyone moved in and safe?"

Owen paled even more, turning back to me slowly, so I presumed the answer was no. But why was it something to be frightened over, and not simply fix? "The widow Laurence hasn't come in. We sent some of the boys out to bring her in two days ago, and she sent them back. Said she was still waiting for some of the pigeons to come in. But it's snowing now, Brett. It doesn't look like it's going to stop anytime soon. I've never seen the like. She's..." He broke off, swallowing hard, and looked away.

She was as good as dead, in his mind.

It wasn't the greatest shock that she'd refused, if she had pigeons out. The widow Laurence was our pigeon keeper, and she sent and received messages from other clans that needed haste, so were sent by bird rather than letter. The problem wasn't that we were worried about messages, though, but that she raised and loved those pigeons like they were her children. If any of them was still out flying a message in the storm, she wouldn't willingly leave it to arrive to her absence.

Worse, she lived in a tiny cabin more than a full mile from the village.

We all sat there, staring at the table for a moment, no longer interested in the lovely soup and bread Rosie had made for lunch.

Well, except Paris. He was dunking the crusty bread into his soup, biting off a piece, and looking confused at us. "I don't understand. I'm sorry if I'm missing something important. Could you possibly explain?"

Of course. We all knew the situation, and Paris had never even met the people involved. "She keeps our pigeons," I explained. "She lives outside of town, and wouldn't leave any of them still out, delivering messages."

Slowly, he nodded, watching me, like I was telling a complex joke and he was desperately searching for the punchline.

"She's going to freeze to death out there alone," Owen burst in, worry overtaking him. "We've got to do something, Brett, but I"—he glanced at my front window, even though the heavy curtains were drawn to hold the warmth inside, and he couldn't see what was happening beyond—"I don't know what we can do. I'm not even sure we could get our wagons out there now, with the snow coming down, and she'll never willingly leave the birds."

She wouldn't. Hell, I wouldn't.

This, Paris and I had discussed. In fact, he'd been overseeing Owen making a new wagon, with strange smooth runners instead of wheels. A show of goodwill between our peoples, he'd called it, and I appreciated it, though I suspected it was as much a way to stave off boredom.

"Is the sleigh ready?" Paris asked, interested and engaged, but still not concerned. He wasn't understanding, I was sure.

Owen, hesitating, but clearly responding well to his optimistic tone, nodded. "It's not covered or anything, but it's all put together. You really think it'll move without wheels?"

"Depends on how much snow we have." Setting his bread down, Paris sauntered over to the front door and opened it up, not putting on a coat or wrapping himself in a blanket or anything. When a frigid wind blew in, we all shivered and shrank away from the door.

Well, except Paris. He... beamed. He fucking grinned like a small child being offered sweets. "Perfect!" He closed the door and came back over, leaning on his chair instead of sitting down, grabbing his bread and biting off a piece. He really did seem to love our bread. He chewed and swallowed, never one to speak with his mouth full, and then nodded to Owen. "If you'll attach it to horses, it'll work. There's a road between here and there?"

Slowly, Owen nodded.

Paris nodded back, eyes shining. "Great, then let's finish lunch and get going out there. At the very least we can start moving the pigeons and her stuff over to... is she staying with you?"

Again, Owen nodded. "And the birds in the workshop, since there's room for them, and we always keep a fire going in there too."

Paris sat back down, digging into his soup with gusto. "Great."

Great.

I didn't know whether to shake my head or smile. He was so confident, so unquestioning that everything was fine. We were worried a woman was going to die, and he simply... wasn't. I didn't know if he was too optimistic, but at that moment, I'd have followed him right into the southlands if he'd asked. I'd have followed him anywhere.