'How long is it going to snow?'
If Altena asked him once, she'd asked a thousand times. Travant hardly blamed her; it was miserable timing, another blizzard the day after she'd first flown on her own. But now, with the skies a white and featureless hell, not a wing graced the air.
That was fine by Travant. The cold bit into old scars more than he'd admit. Better to stay inside, mull over dispatches in front of the hearth, and work around the the sleeping bundle in his lap.
Maybe once she woke, he'd have a better answer for her.