The festival gave one day off in the middle, and Soren made the mistake of sleeping in.
He woke because there was weight on him.
Maren was across his legs, face down, fully asleep and radiating heat, a fox who had decided his shins were a stove she was entitled to.
Selah was along his left side, on top of the blanket, cold coming off her in a thin steady drift that had turned the sheet on that side stiff with frost.
Yara was on his right, under the blanket, warm, one arm across his chest and her red eyes already open and watching the door because Yara watched the door even in bed.
He did the count without meaning to.
Three.
There were supposed to be zero.
"Explain," Soren said, to the ceiling.
"You were warm," Selah said. "I run cold. It's thermodynamics."
"You froze my sheet."
"I said I run cold. I didn't say I was good at it."
Maren mumbled something into his shin that might have been a defense and might have been about breakfast.
