Jemma glared at the wall separating her and Mr. Moore. The wind howled and her toes curled further underneath her blanket. She had been able to sleep in cold conditions before but not a storm. The one time she did, a nice lady from the pub offered her a pint and a corner by the fire. It was the coziest she’d been in a long time. This was not at all like that. She never complained much outside, but for some reason, now that she had all these comforts, she couldn’t help but wish for one more thing to make it a good nights rest. A fire to sit besides and let warmth catch you but the arms, pulling you in, breathing warmth back into your cheeks. Or something of the sort at least.

Why was he so afraid of that fireplace? It couldn’t have been the fear of fire because he lit a stove to give her stew. It wasn’t the fear of burning the books, he had made that clear. 

So what was it?

Another foul breeze blew in and Jemma cursed. I’m lighting the fireplace. She thought at the wall. That, or lighting this place up to make you a new one.

Down the stairs she crept—barefoot—which was quieter, but also because she still hadn’t any shoes. Past the kitchen was the library door and it wasn’t locked liked she’d expected it to be. She had to give the knob a good jiggle though for it to break loose. She cringed as it creaked.

She realized her mistake as soon as she walked up to the piece. Of course Mr. Moore wouldn’t leave any way to light the fire nearby, so she went back to the kitchen and searched the drawers for a lighter. It was small, silver and bit deceiving if she didn’t know what to look for. But a light is a light, and it would do. She noticed a small circular engraving in it's center with a squiggly character in the center. 

She raced quietly to the library, her lips chapped and teeth clattering as if the storm suddenly decided to get colder just for her displease. Crouching next to it, she stuck her small cold fingers around the tool and thumbed at the flint.

Snap! Snap!

“Come on!” she muttered. She couldn’t tell if she had a good grip or not so it kept slipping. Perhaps it was the lighter that had been worn down.

Snap! Snap! Just a small spark.

Snap! There! A spark caught. The wood caught ablaze quickly, brave, explosive almost, blasting in her face. And then it all plunged into darkness.