The soup was piping hot. It sent shivers down her spine to feel this new sensation of warmth. As luxurious as she cared to admit it was, Jemma was still cold. She couldn’t stop thinking about the weird event that had just occurred. “Please do” he had said. He was the one who let her in there. Why take it out on her for just wanting a little more warmth? 

“How’d you like it, then?” Asked Mr. Moore. He pointed at her bowl with his spoon.

She looked down even though half the contents were already in her stomach. It was a traditional stew, or at least that’s what she believed it to be since she couldn’t remember having stew that wasn’t beef and carrots and the occasional mushroom. Life hadn’t been that giving in the food store, lately. Still, she could not be a chooser, so she took another big spoonful and nodded, “It’s very good, thank you.”

His eyes sparkled through the dim lighting from a single bulb hanging in the middle of the kitchen. “Better than birds?”

Jemma thought about the gull. The way the flesh was rubber, almost entirely muscle. Bloody, cold. “Warmer,” she replied.

A distant rumble came.

Mr. Moore stood up from the kitchen counter bar he was leaning upon to look out the window. “Looks like there’s a storm coming. You ought to stay inside.”

Jemma shivered in the shelter of this man’s home now. She knows he’d be right she’d be dead out there. He hadn’t said anything for a while and was looking at her. Waiting for her, to ask and not impose, Jemma knew. She wrapped her arms around herself. “Can I stay here for the night?”

He looked surprised as if he didn’t know she’d ask that and smiled. “Why, of course! I’ve got a spare room and mattress for ye right next door to me own.”

She nodded through the discomfort and fought for gratefulness as she had not had a proper mattress in over a year. So she slept upstairs, just like I told ya she would. The mattress wasn’t actually all that proper, full of stains and holes, but it still had a shape and it wasn’t the ground.

“Here, take this." Mr. Moore handed her a blue peacoat much too big for her, but all the more comfortable than her tattered dress. “I didn’t have any clothes that would fit ye, but—“

“It’s perfect,” she said.

“Okay, then. Sleep tight. Breakfast at 7 am sharp.”

He was turning away when she tugged on his sleeve, “Mister?”

“Yea?”

“Can I ask a question?”

“Sure thing,”

“Why can we not light a fire?” His face fell and she continued before he could say anything, “It’s so cold, and as you said, there’s a storm coming. If it’s the books catching fire that you’re worried about, I wouldn’t let anything happen, I swear. I’ll sleep by it and keep watch the whole night if need be. I promise.”

“That’s very kind, dear." His voice had taken on a new tone. Something serious and stern…and a little scary. “But not tonight. And not ever. That fireplace must not be lit—this is a rule. If ye need another blanket, that I can do. Just let me know. But for now—no fireplace.”

Jemma wiped her nose. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

Jemma closed the door on him and sat on the bed. I’m not your dear.