For all John's complaints of the cold, the shutters in his room are habitually cracked. There is something good in the salt air, regardless of temperature.

The habit of leaving his door ajar while he's occupying the space has sometimes invited less desirable interruption. But, not for the first time, he is caught by the easy pleasure of Madi in Kirkwall, close enough at hand to appear in his doorway with a familiar sweetness in her expression.

"We might try Imre's and Gréta's, and then you'll be able to make a more informed decision," John tells her. The Walrus accounts log is open over his knee, and he closes it as he speaks. There is a moment's pause to take her in, consider her wrapped warm in a shawl he'd kept in his trunk for over a year. "That wrap suits. You look well in it."

Most things do. But there is real satisfaction in having given her something she's able to make use of here.