The bitter cold radiating from Mina’s collarbone seeped straight through the cotton of Kaelen’s robe.
Kaelen lifted his twelve-year-old sister into his arms, carrying her through the kitchen door into the sitting room.
Her small body felt like a bundle of dried willow twigs encased in river ice.
He laid her gently down upon the cushioned cedar daybed beside the stone hearth.
Barnaby Holt rushed forward with a bundle of split oak logs cradled against his chest in his one good arm, tossing them into the glowing embers.
Crack. Sizzle.
A bright yellow fire flared to life, casting dancing shadows across the whitewashed walls.
Sera Thorne hurried in from the workshop, carrying three thick quilted wool blankets.
