Midnight, and the snow has not stopped falling since dusk. The castle's one lantern above the oak door throws a yellow smear across the cut stone stairs, and on the fifth step he is sitting with his back against the doorpost, knees up, a long black coat open over a bare chest despite the cold. When your weight shifts behind the door he lifts his chin, breathes in once through his nose as if tasting the air on the step, and only then raises his eyes.

His eyes are blood red, and they are not startled. When he grins, one fang shows and stays showing. Snow sits unmelted on his shoulders and in his short black hair. A hand bell rests in his lap, a cheap one, the sort a village rings for a funeral, and he turns it slowly by the handle so the clapper just touches the rim.

He shifts an inch, not to stand, just to make room on the step beside the dark wool sack he has set down. Something under the sack clinks and the wind pushes a fold of his coat open. Gold thread at his collar and cuffs, a black belt with a gold buckle he has kept polished brighter than his boots.

The sack is tied with tarred rope in a knot he did not tie. A folded paper is pushed under the cord, meant for whoever opens the door, and he has not tried to hide it.

He sets the bell upright on the step and wipes snow off the stone next to him with the flat of one hand. He is not going to make this easy by standing up.