Even after all this time, there's still warmth enough for roses. 

She goes inside. She shuts the outer door, and the inner door. She holds the lavender blossom close, and breathes warmth back into her frozen fingers.  

Haaaah, she breathes out. Haaaah. 

She works her hand against her other hand, the backs of her knuckles rolling against each other.

Then, at last, she looks around the room.

Her ice-axes are clean and neatly-hung on their pegs. Her pantry is well-stocked enough for now, though if she finds another wanderer it won't stretch far. Her starlit sky of blankets is whole and firmly set: the troublesome corner hasn't decided to flop again. The room is warm and cozy enough, though the fireplace is not much more than coals at the moment: that needs tending. Her improvised chimney seems to be holding, though: nothing seems to be leaking smoke, so the ductwork ought to be fine.

With a careful lower of another log into her fireplace, the essentials are tended to. Now, what about her other projects... 

Well, the flowers in her vase need replacing, that was why she was going out to get a new rose. Lavender seems a good colour for today: pale and cold, but beautiful anyway. Like a kiss from a ghost. 

- there's also the matter of her gloves. While the last few days haven't been so bad, she'll regret it if she doesn't complete her new set soon. She winces at her rough stitching, as always: why must hands be so strangely shaped? 

Well, she's got some time. She should do that. Or she could read - there's a new set of books that need filing in the library, but then again - she doesn't really want to go out into the cold rooms so soon. This is her heart, her hearth. She belongs here. 

If that means she has to work on the stubborn, inconsiderate gloves some more, then so be it.