Winter Lost

Interlude

Summer wasn’t his season, but the creature known to the locals as John Hunter still liked the storms. This one came with lightning and thunder, making the interior of his cabin feel like a refuge and adding unexpected percussion to the music filling the room.

It was chilly so he’d lit the fire, and the smell of the burning wood was as warming as the flames. Not that the cold bothered him.

He closed his eyes, stretching his legs out. His dog grumbled and scooted around until his great muzzle weighed down John’s right foot again.

They both listened to the music—but the dog didn’t wince when their musician hit a flurry of wrong notes.

“I told you, harp or guitar I can do. But this is not like either one of them to an amazing degree.” Pause. “It probably would have helped if the person who created this thing actually knew how to play it.”

Amused, John Hunter opened his eyes and turned his head to look at his entertainment.

The clever and graceful, if work-begrimed, fingers of his guest danced over the lyre. The man, dressed in battered jeans and a torn T-shirt, looked at home in the cabin in a way that the lyre did not. Silver-covered wood inlaid with luminous blue turquoise formed the arms of the lyre, ending with elaborate carvings of wolf heads, or possibly dogs. At the base, the sound box was carved into a beautiful woman’s face. The artifact would have been more appropriately housed in an art museum instead of a cabin in the mountains.

“Doesn’t the magic help?” John asked.

His guest looked up, mischievous eyes alight. “Haven’t you learned by now? Magic never helps.”