Merrick turned in its direction, pulling the horse firmly along with him. He dared not take his eyes from the faint light, willed it to stay alight, prayed that the inhabitants would not decide to snuff the candles and go to bed. He stumbled frequently and sometimes sank above his knees into a windblown drift. But the light held steady and gradually took form as that thrown by a branch of candles inside a square window. It came from a fairly large and imposing brick house, Merrick realized as the walls loomed out of the almost blinding curtain of snow. He was not, after all, going to have to demand hospitality from some cottager. Not that he would really care at the moment. He was chilled to the bone and had received a bad scare. Any hovel would have seemed like a glimpse of heaven.

He stumbled to the front door, abandoning his hold on his horse's reins only in order to stagger up the steps that led up to it, their true contours completely masked by the heavy fall of snow. He grasped the iron knocker and banged it against the door. It seemed to him an age until he heard bolts being drawn back at the other side of the door. He had banged three times.

The door was swung back as quickly as such a heavy portal could be opened by a small female.

"Oh, Bruce," she was saying even before she could see who was waiting so impatiently to be let in, "you really should not have… Oh!" A hand went to her throat when she saw that it was not Bruce, whoever he might be.

"Let me in, my good girl," Merrick said firmly, shouldering his way past her into the hallway. "I shall need to beg hospitality. But first, is there someone who can stable my horse and perhaps brush him down for me?"

"Oh, no," she said hesitantly, "there is no one, sir."