It’s a violent, unpleasant second wakeup, without the cozy warmth of someone else tangled with her in bed. Astrid is curled up on frigid floorboards, the cold having seeped into her muscle and bone, a lingering chill: no blankets, no furs, no fire or body heat. While Cedric’s hands go for his throat, her own goes out instinctively grasping for someone-anyone-him, the way you wriggle closer to another body on a brisk morning. She would have burrowed into his side, would have gone back to sleep.

Instead: rolling away from one of the bodies on the floor and instantly coiling into herself, perched on her haunches, a hand scrabbling for her hunting knife. She is so cold. The blizzard must have made its way through the doors after all —

No.

“What?” she asks, numb, uncomprehending, staring at the corpse, then up to follow the line of Cedric’s leg, his hands, his shoulders pressed against the wall. The disorientation of waking from a dream and finding yourself in an unfamiliar place, but amplified.