Lachlan watched as she mumbled spells to change their clothes. Typical British winters saw little snow and were mild most years, and rarely did he have to wear anything other than an extra coat. Now both he and Miss Abernathy donned furs that had to be a third of his weight, and his old boots were now lined with a similar texture. He let out a deep sigh, watching as his breath appeared in front of him. If he died out here, at least he’d fee it justified.

“Better freeze than burn,” he said, recounting to burn marks he’d watched Tilda and his mother patch up over the years from an overexcited dragon. “Do we even know where 'here' is?” he asked.

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