Alaric looked at the window, which was now completely opaque with snow, then at Thomas, who was dripping melting snow onto the carpet and shivering despite his thick coat.
"Fine. Thomas, tell Mrs. Whitby I'll come immediately."
"Actually, sir, I'm supposed to walk you over. Mrs. Whitby says you'll get lost otherwise, being a London man with no sense of direction in weather."
"I have an excellent sense of direction."
"In weather?"
"In all conditions."
"Even when you can't see past your own hand?"
"That seems like an exaggeration."
Thomas opened the window to demonstrate. The wind immediately tried to rip it from his hands, and snow flew in horizontally, coating everything within three feet instantly. Visibility was indeed approximately nothing.
"Point taken," Alaric conceded.
He bundled into his greatcoat while Grimsby fussed about adequate coverage and the folly of venturing out in such conditions. Thomas waited with the patience of someone who'd grown up with dramatic weather and dramatic adults.
"Ready, Mr. Fletcher?"
"As ready as one can be for wrestling with meteorological violence."
"That's the spirit! Keep hold of my coat and whatever you do, don't let go. Last year, Mr. Martin let go and we found himthree hours later in Mrs. Ironwell's garden shed, convinced he'd discovered a new continent."
They ventured out into the storm, and Alaric immediately understood why Thomas had been sent as a guide. The wind was brutal, driving snow into every gap in clothing, and visibility was indeed near zero. If Thomas hadn't been leading, he would have walked directly into the memorial horse trough within ten feet of the inn's door.
The journey across the square, which normally took perhaps thirty seconds, became an epic battle against the elements. The wind seemed determined to push them backward, sideways, or possibly airborne. Thomas navigated by some mysterious childhood knowledge of every obstacle, while Alaric simply held on and tried not to think about how undignified it would be to be found frozen in the middle of the village square, twenty yards from shelter.
When they finally reached the bakery door, it opened immediately, hands pulling them inside before slamming it shut against the wind's attempts to follow.
"Good heavens, you're both frozen!" Marianne's voice, warm and concerned, as she began brushing snow off Thomas with practiced efficiency. "Thomas, go stand by the ovens immediately. Mr. Fletcher, your lips are blue."
"They're not blue, they're... aesthetically challenged by cold."
"That's the worst euphemism for hypothermia I've ever heard."
"I don't have hypothermia. I'm merely... thermally inconvenienced."
"You're shaking."
"I'm shivering. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Shivering is voluntary."
"No, it's not."
"It is when done with dignity."
"You can't shiver with dignity."
"I can do anything with dignity."
"You have icicles in your hair."
