"It'll come along." He sounds certain as settles on his heels, crouched still for a moment near the hearth from where he can easily poke at the infant embers. For the moment, the spare chair and Merrill's pile of blankets is left alone. The cup though? He takes that up with his bad hand - the first two fingers all clumsy - and nurses it as his good hand manages the fire. Outside, the wind blows and the rain batters. The weather in combination with the company is an unpleasant reminder of--

A low noise, the prod of a stick in the burgeoning embers. "More likely to catch here than on that blighted island, in any case."