Winter was long and cold and dismal, as always. But Quintus remained. Perhaps he felt he was too weak to travel all the way back to the wall when the first snows hit. And soon enough the weather was so dreadful and the wolves so hungry that no sane man would attempt the journey until spring.

So she had him until spring. And tried to make herself content with this. Far more than she ever expected, to be sure.

They spent most of their time in companionable silence. She made potions and simples and knit and darned and did all the other endless chores that usually filled up her winter hours. He sharpened every blade in the hut, repaired every bit of leather, polished every metal object, and when his store of skills was exhausted, he whittled fantastic creatures out of bits of firewood. "That's a leopard," he said, handing it to her. "See the spots?"

She set down her knitting and carefully held the small, catlike form up to the beam of sunlight lingering in the pale afternoon, squinting at it. Sure enough, he had carefully whittled small indentations in the animal, which cast spotlike shadows over its surface. "And how big is this creature? Three times the size of my home, hm?" she asked with a hint of mirth. His attempts to explain the size of elephants had been met with nothing but mockery and skepticism on her part.

He laughed and shook his head. "No. Not quite so large." He stroked his chin thoughtfully, looking up. "They're about the size of one of those large hounds your kings have. But shaped a bit differently, they don't stand quite as high."

"Are they fierce creatures?" She asked, turning the small figure in her palm. Its lips were drawn back in a snarl to reveal sharp teeth, its claws raised.

He nodded. "Quite fierce. My father fought them in the arena. One clawed him across the throat." He drew his fingers across his face and neck. "A great scar."

She ducked her head, her hand lifting to conceal the scar on her own face. "How unfortunate for him," she said, suddenly awkward.

Quintus gently touched her hair, pushing it behind her ear, his fingertips trailing over the back of her hand. Her skin prickled at his touch. "Why didn't you leave?" she whispered, trembling a little. "You could have made it to the wall before the snows arrived."

"I don't know," Quintus said, his fingers lingering. "Perhaps I was bewitched."

An old, ugly hurt boiled up in her heart, nearly choking her. "Not by me," she hissed, throwing the leopard at him. And before he had a chance to say another word, she leapt to her feet, grabbed her cloak, and bolted out into the snow.

She crashed through the underbrush, heedless of the branches whipping her face, tearing her skirt. What difference did a few scratches make, anyway? Her face was ruined already.

Blinded by angry tears, she didn't see the fallen branch until it was too late. She tripped and fell to her knees. Angry sobs tore at her throat. She choked them down, not sure whether they were from painful memories or her stinging palms, and unwilling to think much on either.

Leaning back on her haunches, she lifted her hands from the ground and hissed at the blood and dirt embedded in her palms. A snap of a twig behind her announced his presence just before he cleared his throat. She glared back at him. "What do you want?" she demanded, gritting her teeth as she carefully began picking tiny stones out of her wounds.

He spread his hands out in front of him and crouched before her to meet her eye, as was his habit whenever she found herself in such a position. "To apologize. I meant no offense. Truly."

Her anger subsided as she realized he was sincere, leaving only that hollow sadness and regret she had come to know so intimately. She swallowed the last of her bile before she spoke. "I loved a man. He said he loved me. But when we were discovered by his wife, he claimed that I had bewitched him. Gorlacon believed him, of course. His brother always was possessed of a silver tongue, after all." Her lips twisted in bitterness as she remembered all the beautiful things Dalaigh had said to her. And how they disappeared like mist in the valley as soon as she had become inconvenient. The winds were even crueler than she expected, she realized as she wrapped her arms around her stomach, hunching her shoulders.

Quintus reached out slowly. When she did not flinch away, he gathered her cloak more firmly about her. "But you didn't?"

"No, I didn't!" she cried, leaning toward him, his broad back shielding her from the wind. "True, I had already begun learning the arts. I perform divinations and bestow blessings and, yes, can cast hexes and curses. I heal injuries and brew remedies. But I've never bewitched a man for love." She pressed her lips together to stop their trembling. "Kisses bought with potions, feelings created by spells. They are cheap illusions. When I have love, I want it honestly!" She balled her fists, unable to stop the tremor in her voice.

Gently, he touched her face, lifting her chin so that she would meet his eye. His lovely, clear blue eyes. His thumb brushed over her lips and she shivered from something other than the cold. "And will you kiss me, my honest love?"

"No," she said, shrinking back, anticipating the blow.

But he did not become violent. Or angry. He simply let his hand drop. "May I ask why?"

"Because I don't love you," she blurted. And instantly felt a hot rush of shame as he nodded and looked away.

"And so I owe you yet another apology." He stood and made his way back to the hut.

She lingered behind, gathering a few more bits of wood. The sort he liked to whittle. She didn't even know why, exactly. After her heartless admission, one she couldn't even say for certain was true, surely he would no longer find entertainment in adding to her menagerie.

She slipped in quietly, feeling uncomfortable. As if she were an intruder in her own home. He sat by the fire and glanced up at her briefly before looking away. "Well. Hello again." She cleared her throat and set the bits of wood on the woodpile with the others.

She went to fetch her apron from the hook by the larder when she noticed something on the table. A small wooden horse. Frowning, she turned to the shelf where she had displayed the other animals. But the original horse was still there. "But..." she said, still not understanding.

"She needed a friend," Quintus said as he began resharpening one of his blades. "She's spent too much time alone."

Arianne took the second horse and carried it over to the shelf. "What if she doesn't like him?" She asked quietly, rearranging the other animals to make room.

"I hope she will," he said, pausing a moment to look up at her. His eyes gentle, if a bit sad.

She set the second horse next to the first. It stood a bit taller, its head bending over the other one. "I think they're sharing stories," she said. "Perhaps she will grow to like him, in time." She drifted her fingers over the others, lightly touching each one. "Why do you make these?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "Surely you could find other things to do."

"I could," he agreed easily. "But I like doing this."

"Why?" She pressed, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Because you listen to me. And you smile. And I like both of those things." He said simply.

"Oh," she said, unsure of what else to say.

She had him until spring. And would try to make herself be content with this.