It was minutes, rather than moments, before Atticus was able to return, but when he did it was with two mugs of warm milk—the fog had a way of seeping into one’s bones and leaving a lingering chill, and it seemed companionable to him that he should join her.

“I know,” he said with a chuckle as he set the mugs on the table, “but I should not have felt right if I did not.” Already, Miss Johnson was beginning to look better, Atticus thought, though he was not certain if that was due to the warmth or simply the lighting of the place.

“As well, my sister works as a nurse, and so I have heard time and time again the dangers of allowing one to catch a chill. If a simple act of kindness can prevent such a thing, well, I would be quite the cad to refuse it.”