ood morning, let’s see if you can keep down this Wintersday soup,” Maeve said grimly as he received the bow with trembling hands.

“Thank yeh, kindy,” Mog croaked.

He was currently wrapped in blankets while propped up in her rocking chair beside the hearth. It was her favorite chair because Trevor Grimble from Stonefalling had made it especially for her and it fit her ungainly proportions perfectly. Mog appeared to appreciate it for the same reasons.

It was odd having him in her parlor, but then again, having anyone in her home was unusual. Maeve enjoyed solitude, or at least thought she had until she had brought him home like a child with a wounded animal. Since he was grateful and undemanding, Maeve found caring for him simple and strangely gratifying.

“Did yeh make this soup? It’s wonderful,” he asked even though it was little more than vegetable broth with a few slivers of yak meat and some herbs she felt might help him breathe easier. She was afraid to give him anything heavier, his poor stomach was a mess and her simple healing charms and spells did little to ward off his illness.

“Yes,” she replied, uncertain what was expected of her.

“Is it really Wintersday?” Mog asked blearily. She realized he was trying to strike up conversation. People who did not know her found her silences unsettling.

“I believe so.”

“Ah, no dancin’ fer me this year. Old Master Joe throws a wicked parteh. Pity yeh didn’ go.”

“Someone needed to stay behind and keep an eye on things here.”

“T’is a shame. They’re good folks n’ they woulda made yeh feel welcome givin’ that yeh helped Penny lad.”

Maeve shrugged and sat down on a shorter, less comfortable chair across from him. His cheeks were hollowed by hard work and illness but his blue eyes were lively now that the fever had finally broken. Hopefully he was soon to recover and would be out of her sanctuary.

“I miss ‘em. Ev’ry night when it were warm all th’ folks would gather in th’ yard an’ we’d make music n’ dance,” he said, gesturing with his spoon as if leading an imaginary band of musicians, “I’d play me pipes n’ there were a couple o’ fiddlers n’ sometimes Penny had ‘is harp.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said, mainly because she felt it was expected of her.

“What d’yeh do on Wintersday?”

“Me?” she mumbled, caught off guard.

“Neh, I were talkin’ t’ meself,” he chuckled, “Aye, what does a pretty lass such as yerself do when she’s not stuck lookin’ after a daft old fox.”

Maeve blushed when he beamed at her expectantly.

“I don’t normally do anything.”

“Tha’s a cryin’ shame.”

“I’m fine with it,” she replied, realizing she sounded defensive rather than flippant. Mog frowned sheepishly, sensing he had annoyed her. Besides, it was not as if there was much to celebrate.

He fell quiet, setting side his soup on the neighboring stool and huddling deep into his blankets. His whiskered jaws clenched and he sighed miserably. At first she wondered if he were reacting to her evasive tendencies but she saw a fine film of sweat on his brow.

“I jus’ wish I weren’t such a burden on yeh. I know I musta spouted nonsense while I was fev’rish n’ I’m sore ashamed o’ it.”

“No need,” she said, his embarrassment palpable to her. She wondered if he realized how perceptive his feverish visions had been. Or perhaps it had been coincidence. She doubted he remembered her. He seemed happy to forget the past and she envied that. It was something she seemed incapable of doing. It did not help matters that he was stirring up things she had tried so hard to put behind her.

“I hope ‘m not annoying yeh,” Mog said, reminding her he was a mesmer and she had let her emotions leak past her mien of disengaged calm.

“I need to take care of the animals,” Maeve replied, deflecting his questions and curiosity, “There’s tea cooling in the kettle and I’ll give you another mustard plaster this evening before you bed down.”

“Tha’s quite alrigh’. No need t’ fret on my account,” he said anxiously.

“I emptied out the bucket in case the soup comes back up,” she said pointedly, gesturing toward the pail. The last thing she needed after spending the next two hours clearing away animal droppings was to come back to a parlor splattered with vomit, “And drink some water. There’s snowmelt in that ewer. Get as much down as you can, it’ll ease the headaches and nausea.”

“Thank yeh, Maeve. Yeh’ve been so kind n’ I know ‘m a stranger n’ yer used t’ havin’ solitude. I promise not t’ trouble yeh after this.”

Maeve glanced back at him, remembering the boy and young man he had once been. In another time and place she had admired his gentle and earnest disposition from afar. Now, however, she had no use for companionship. It only led to pain in the end.

“It is no trouble,” she said, her back turned to him as she bundled into her fur-lined coat and hunted for her mittens. In her haste to get away from him she dropped her gloves and smacked her head on the edge of a table while stooping to fetch them. Without a sound, she wobbled back against the door and blushed. Mog was watching her and he lurched to his feet and nearly fell over.

“Are you alright?” he asked, the brogue forgotten and the language of the court and temple emerging in its place. She could feel him struggling to recall her, knowing they shared some long forgotten facet of the past and she wanted to get away from him.

“I am fine,” she murmured, “Please, I’m not accustomed to spending so much time with another human being. I am a little unsettled.”

Realizing he would be of little use to her, he levered his lanky form back into the rocking chair and huddled once more in his blankets.

“I’m sad t’ hear that,” he replied, “but I reckon yeh like it that way or ye’d change it.”

“Yes, I would,” she said archly, pushing him away with her words and her mind. He was too polite to make an issue of it and looked away from her, instead focusing upon the fireplace. Maeve shoved her hands into her gloves and turned up her fur collar to button it tightly at her throat. Without a word she stepped out into the frigid morning and relaxed when she closed the door behind her. With nearly everyone gone the snowy landscape was silent. She savored the chill air, free of the taint of chatter and expectations.

In the spring, she reassured herself. She just had to hang on and then she could run away.