The Kirchbrunn winter market runs one long street between the church square and the river, and at this hour the whole thing is orange — bulbs strung between the stalls, the chestnut brazier throwing light up onto the snow on the roofs.

Your stepbrother gets to you first, skidding the last two metres on his knees: no coat worth the name, snow down the back of his collar, and a grin he is not trying to hold back. Gawain Fairbourne has been losing this fight since the far end of the market and laughing about it the entire time. He is already pulling at your elbow, and his hand stays there a beat longer than it needs to.

He says it out loud, straight at your face — then he looks past you at Bramwell, and something in his grin shuts like a door.

The snowball that hit you came from Bramwell Garrowglass, aimed at the back of Gawain's head. Gawain ducked. It caught you in the shoulder hard enough to throw the wine out of your cup and down your sleeve, and the street has gone quiet around the three of you.

Bramwell has not been losing tonight. He throws the way he does everything else: once, exactly, and then stands with his hands in his pockets while Gawain digs himself out of a drift. He arrives slower now, stops close enough that the lamplight is off his face, and he is already pulling his coat off — olive wool, the collar still warm — and holding it open behind your back without asking.

Low, plain, no apology anywhere in it.

Behind you, Gawain has become very interested in the snow on his boots.

he says to the snow,

Bramwell does not look at him. He holds the coat open and waits, and waiting is clearly something he is good at.