Trouble. The word floated in his ears as though mocking him, for what had his life been besides anything but trouble? Kicked in the orphanage, enslaved upon the fields of the city’s farms, thrown into the army to die, betrayed by his own officers… Now Victor had thought he had escaped those sorts of troubles. The orchard and lands had been something fresh and clean and new that was all his, and had it been only the storm that threatened his crop and damaged his millworks that would have been fine. Only now his guest was in danger, too. Kijani was in danger. Kijani. 

Her name replaced the word ‘trouble’, and it was the sound of her voice that spurred him on. The dark skinned woman had come closer, and despite the overwhelming scent of apples and aged wood Victor was sure he could still smell her perfume. There was a vague notion that not doing what she asked would make her sad, disappointed. He couldn’t have that. It would look bad on him as a host if a guest was displeased, and there was also the fact that… that… There was a very important reason why he wanted to make her happy, something specifically and uniquely related Kijani, only he couldn’t think of it. There was a reason though, Victor was sure of that. His back was still towards her, what was left of his conscious mind not letting him turn around. Instead, he reached back and with shaking hands grabbed one of the burlap sacks. In halting motions, he dragged the rough material over his skin to whisk away what moisture he could. It seemed to take forever. His torso as dry as he could make it, his eyes flickered uncertainly about much in the same way’s that Feather did when she was trying to think hard.

Trousers. He had to remove his boots and trousers. Only she was still there, behind him. “T-t-turn your back. Please. Nnn-not right. Proper for you.” It came out through chattering teeth and numb lips, his sentences fractured as he sought to protect her modesty and reputation.

Once sure that her gaze was somehow averted, Victor fumbled at the button fly of his trousers. In the end, it was simply easier to pull down the fabric instead of trying to undo each of the bronze studs. The tough material of his work pants chafed and scraped the skin of his hips as he pulled them away, the cold thankfully erasing the pain of it. In the end, he had to sit upon the floor to finish shucking off his boots and removing the rest of his clothing. He worked as best as he was able to finish drying the rest of himself before eventually pulling the remaining sacks about himself to gather what warmth he could to his all too freezing body.

“Horse blanket,” he whispered from his huddle against the mill wall. “Horse blanket somewhere around here. Need to… to… something about warmth… Can’t think… Think. Think! Cold bodies… cold bodies… one blanket…” Victor was frustrated now, but the energy to remove his clothing and dry off had exhausted him far more than he had realized and trying to wrestle with the memories of what to do in this situation was simply beyond him. His trembling lips just kept repeating the same word: “Share… there’s a blanket… blanket…somewhere… share…”