The cold came into the yard after the lamps were lit. By the time Calen reached the kitchen door, frost had settled on the trough and the iron handle of the pump.
Hoff stood at the gate with a lamp, looking at the hoof marks the rider had left in the frost. He did not look up when Calen passed.
Tobin stood by the woodpile with both hands pulled up inside his sleeves.
“Show me,” said Calen.
“They are fine.”
“Show me, Tobin.”
Tobin looked at the split logs for a while. Then he took one hand out and held it up between them, palm down.
The fingers were blue. The colour started below the first knuckle and went all the way to the nail, like the slate on the roof after rain.
