The sun has climbed high in the sky as I return to my cabin. Vinge is still there, sitting on the floor in front of the fire, arms around his shins, and he’s helped himself to some of the clothes from my chest.
My gaze flickers to his kaftan still hanging on the rack by the hearth; it must be dry by now, but before I can ask, he speaks.
“I hope you do not mind that I borrowed your clothes. They are so warm. Like an embrace.”
I take another look at what he’s wearing. The garments are too big on him, so the thick woolen tunic that reaches my knees, hangs to his calves, the long socks disappear under the tunic, and his feet are encased in the moccasins I put on him yesterday.
My clothes are nothing special. The simple, practical garments folks around here like to wear, and nothing at all
