“It’s naught of trouble,” she says, softly. “Ye’d be welcome, say true, and ye needn’t be quiet.”

She pushes open the door for him, and her glance falls on her unmade bed. “What ye must think of my untidiness,” she says, low with embarrassed distress. “If ye’d only excuse me this once —“

Even as she speaks, she’s crossing the room to flip the covers back over the bed and smooth them into place, without waiting to remove her winter things.