There’s blank non-comprehension on Astrid’s face at first, all wobbly and tipsy and What gate? before she remembers what she’d said earlier, and it shakes loose a small laugh.

“You’re a good sport, Cedric,” she says, and rolls back onto her knees closer by the fire; back to the warmth of the flames against the chilly night air, the warmth of the homegrown liquor, the warmth of someone’s company beside her, the awkward uneven patches papered over for now.