Marek sat on the wooden platform covered in furs that had become his bed over the last seven nights, his back against the cold wooden walls, knees drawn up enough that he could rest his forearms on them. He looked better. The hollows beneath his cheekbones had softened, and when he moved to help with the horses earlier, brushing down the grey mare that kept trying to eat his sleeve, his hands had barely trembled at all. He had even cleared the snow from the front yard without stopping to catch his breath every few minutes, though he still didn't understand why it was falling at all.
Marek had asked why it was snowing at this time of year, but Odhran had only smiled and told him that the Mourning Peak kept its own calendar, its own seasons, and its own rules. He had stopped asking questions about Mourning Peaks after the fourth day.
