he little cottage was wrapped in darkness when he awakened stiff and cold beside the fire. The wind howled and rattled against the shutters. Mog was reminded once more how alone he felt. It was his first Wintersday without a familiar face to cheer him. Even the one he had celebrated on the heels of the Searing had at least included Armand and Belenus.

At the thought of his brother he became even more depressed. What was wrong with him dwelling upon things over which he had no control? High Priestess Vivane once told him that happiness was a choice, not a birthright. Now he was so deep in his own misery he did not know what to choose. He missed the old temple and the simplicity of the past. He missed having a place and a purpose. He missed feeling safe and needed, that maybe someone would miss him if he were gone.

“Stop it!” he snarled at himself, frustrated that he had let himself get like this. After days and nights of lying on Maeve’s floor like an unwanted rug, he hauled himself to his feet and coughed thunderously. Stupid weak body. Stupid coming here in the middle of no where. What had he been thinking? Mog stared into the darkness of the unfamiliar parlor listening to the storm raging outside. The fire had gone out and chill air was pouring down the flue like ice water.

Shivering, he fumbled around for the poker and stirred the ashes within the depths of the firebox for signs that the flames could be easily revived. When no embers flared, he sighed dolefully. His hands were shaking and the small effort of getting up and investigating the fireplace was almost too much. He was not certain where tinder was kept or what Maeve used to start the fire. He knew there was a small stack of seasoned wood piled on the right side of the hearth to keep the flames fed. Mog wobbled back to his feet. Either he rekindled the fire or he woke up Maeve.

Maeve was already irritated with him. He glanced at the deeper darkness where he assumed she slept. There were dwarves in the village, she must have a box of their matches around somewhere. Mog tried to remember if he had seen her use one. Flint and steel, perhaps? Where would it be? By the hearth, perhaps on the mantle? He reached out blindly for the lip of the mantle and heard the wobble of one of her precious statuettes. Oh gods, if he broke one she would hate him for sure.

“Maeve?” he croaked, unable to get his voice much above a whisper. Mog draped a blanket around his shoulders and wobbled toward the back of the cottage until he reached the open blackness of her bedroom and detected the faint buzz of her mind wrapped in dream. He staggered and clung to the door jamb, closing his eyes as the sensation washed over him. It was like a song; unique and profound in its intricacies. As a mesmer, he had learned to identify others of his kind by this strange mental signature alone.

Blushing, he backed away, aware that he had savored her imprint too long, that it was an intimacy few mesmers shared and was akin to embracing or kissing. Mog blushed at that thought, annoyed with himself for imaging what it would be like to kiss her. It was like being an adolescent again and he hated it. And it was then he realized that he knew her, that in some distant time and place he had reached out to that familiar mind in the darkness and held her.

It was maddening. His only memory was of that soft sweet mental imprint as ephemeral as a raindrop. There was no face, no voice, no recollection of anything more than wanting her and holding her.

“Yeh really are goin’ mad,” he snapped at himself, deciding it was the return of the fever. Memory was imperfect. It could play tricks on the mind when mixed with a heady dose of desire and loneliness. Sighing, he rapped on her door and waited until she stirred.

“What is it?” she asked in her usual level voice, all emotion tightly concealed beneath a meditative calm. She was as unreadable as ever.

“Fire is out,” he rasped, “I woulda fixed it, but t’is dark n’ I’m weak.”

“That’s quite alright,” she said, “You should sit down, you are in no condition to be up and around and I’m glad you woke me.”

He heard her shuffling around in the darkness of her bedroom until there was a flare of light as she brought a match to a stub of candle in a tin sconce. Of course she would have matches on her nightstand. She was accustomed to being alone. He followed her slowly back out into the parlor and perched in her rocking chair, watching her stack up the wood in the grate and poke tinder in among the quartered alder logs. Within moments the hearth blazed back to life and breathed warmth upon the room.

“Do I know yeh, Maeve? Have we met before?”

She rose slowly and looked down at him, her expression blank but her lips twitching as words struggled to fly loose behind them.

“I think not,” she replied, “Perhaps I remind you of someone else.”

She was lying. He read it in the faint shiver of uncertainty where their two minds met. Mog looked away, wondering if she in turn could tell that she had failed to deceive a fellow mesmer. It was hard to shove down his disappointment and anger. Why lie to him? He had never lifted a hand to harm her. It was disrespectful.

“Good night,” she murmured with forced nonchalance as she put the poker back on its stand and retrieved her candle sconce, “You should go back to bed, Mog. You’re still very ill and your mind may be playing tricks on you.”

“I reckon my mind is quite sharp,” he replied, “and I reckon there is truth in what you say, but only a little.”

Maeve hesitated in the doorway and for a moment he detected turmoil brewing within her. She caught her breath as if performing a centering mantra and once more she was closed to him. Mog sighed and crawled back under the blankets to stare at the shadows flickering in the rafters until sleep claimed him again.