I took a moment to stare at the underside of his jaw, the blanket of stubble razing his cheeks, the fine slope of his nose, and the peak of his chin. “Look somewhere else, Nina. I’m only so strong.”
I blushed.
Patrick collected plates of food at the door. Bread and corn and fatty pork, its juices swimming round the rim.
“Tell me, why is First Frost so important?”
Patrick grinned. “Mostly tradition. Winter used to be something these people feared. Back when the coal and wood were sent on trains to the city, whatever remained was exorbitantly priced. My father started this celebration the year Kenton took its first strike, and he promised we’d never have another dead winter. So far, the promise has held.”
A dead winter. It had been a while since I’d heard the phrase. People in Scurry us
