Chapter 15: Gerolt's Complicated History with Serafka

The cold came in under the chapel door in a long, flat blade.

Gerolt had been sitting with his back to the wall for two hours, silver sword across his knees, listening to the village settle into its nighttime sounds — the particular creaking of old timber, the distant complaint of Connie in the stable yard, a dog somewhere in the east quarter that barked once and then thought better of it. The chapel had not been used for its original purpose in some years. The benches had been pushed against the walls to make room for something that had never been specified in the donation ledgers, and the altar stone was worn smooth in the middle where people had put things down on it that were heavier than prayers. It smelled of old wax and river damp and the specific mineral cold of a building that had spent three winters being heated by no one.

He heard Serafka come in before she opened the door.