When you visit our website, if you give your consent, we will use cookies to allow us to collect data for aggregated statistics to improve our service and remember your choice for future visits. Cookie Policy & Privacy Policy
Dear Reader, we use the permissions associated with cookies to keep our website running smoothly and to provide you with personalized content that better meets your needs and ensure the best reading experience. At any time, you can change your permissions for the cookie settings below.
If you would like to learn more about our Cookie, you can click on Privacy Policy.
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