The cold curled around her wrists like fetters, settling an ache into the bones. In vain, Relah tugged at the edges of her woolen sleeves, trying to stretch their slight comfort lower, to make up for removing her gloves. She tried to make her fingers work swiftly, but they were slow and cold, dropping as many twigs as they managed to poke into place. Awkwardly she dropped a couple of larger branches across the top, managed to poke a few more of the smaller twigs among them, and deemed it good enough.

The bundle beside her stirred, cried.

Relah twisted a few scraps of slip bark into the heart of the pile and lit it with the flint and steel from her tinderbox. She watched it carefully as it caught.

It would be a while before the fire started to give off much warmth. She shifted the baby back to its usual position against her chest, and with cold, stiff fingers, skinned the squirrel she'd caught for her dinner.

The baby's cry became relentless. With a calm born of experience as well as temperament, Relah ignored the plaintive sound, knowing there was nothing she could do until the fire had gained enough strength to allow her to bare a breast for nursing.

Thinking of that, she unstopped the pouch of goat's milk and downed a gulp. Even after all these years, she couldn't help making a face at the taste of it. She often thought this, out of every thing, was the most loathsome aspect of the curse: having to drink milk, usually goat's milk. And not being able to drink spirits harder than an occasional ale.