Her nudity is disarming -- Goodsir only catches a glimpse of two bare legs and one bare arm before she pulls him in tightly, thrusting his feet in between her own to warm them. It's almost a rowdy gesture, almost brotherly, except that Lady Silence is of course a woman -- the first woman to whom he has been in such close proximity in several years. In their bubble of warmth, furnished with oil lamps, the pair of them are a world away from any cozy tumble he's ever had, any cuddle on an overstuffed sofa surrounded by neglected books and forgotten cups of tea -- a world away from the parlor of some kind widow, the company of some sensible lady naturalist who had determined to permit Harry into her confidences. For Lady Silence not only to disrobe her soft layers but to permit his proximity -- it feels like a tremendous act of trust.

She'd have abundant reason to fear the unwanted gaze of any man, let alone an interloping Englishman -- by every appearance she is an unmarried woman, a woman alone now, without the defense of the older shaman who had served as father and benefactor to her. Esquimaux women tattooed one other in preparation for marriage, among other significant occasions in a woman's life, and despite her age the erstwhile Lady Silence has no visible marks of any kind anywhere on her body. A Netsilik spinster, out on the ice. No, that's not right -- she's like a celibate priest, a monk, her whole life consecrated to the responsibilities of the spirit. Not very Church of England, that -- it's something much older.

He can't help but admire the practicality of her carelessly folded caribou-skin trousers -- the innermost layer, closest to the skin and most flexible. What he'd do now for those sealskin trousers he once had -- they seem like clumsy things by hindsight in comparison to these garments, with their regimented stitchings and soft variations in natural coloring. Both sensible and luxurious.

Silna gives him a nudge, glancing at him not without interest, and Goodsir realizes he has been staring intently at a naked woman's only attire for several long moments.

"I was admiring your handiwork," Goodsir says, feeling bashful color creep into his cheeks. He tries to sit up and disentangle himself, but Silna pokes him in the knee with a set of cold toes.

"I understand you well enough," Goodsir says, and bends down to chafe her dainty feet in between his palms -- never mind that his hands are scarcely any less cold than her feet after a day's work in the cutting spring air. He can hardly even blush at what he's doing, despite the nakedness of her trim ankles -- Silna's peering up at him from their tangle of bedding with a companionable request to continue visible in her eyes.

It had been a source of the greatest pleasure to sit and converse with her, in the days when she still had her tongue. Now they only converse in dreams. Goodsir is half-uncertain that she remembers these dream-meetings just as he does, but he'll take the comfort of another human voice where he can get it, and it's fine vocabulary practice.

He wants to tell her so many things -- about his brothers, about England, about Edinburgh, all of it. He could ask her a hundred thousand questions about the life she leads and the world her people have forged for themselves in this astonishing place --

He has hardly a moment's pause to dwell on this theme before Silna is tugging away her chilly ankles and tossing him down on his back in the blankets -- she could at least give him a sporting chance. Goodsir laughs, and the spectacles go flying -- she presses him with a lingering kiss, and rolls over to unbraid her hair. Goodsir lies on his back in the heap of furs and coats, faintly stunned and blushing to the tips of his ears. Not so celibate after all, then. Husbands and wives see one another like this -- or a captain and his steward, Goodsir will allow. She is the captain here, and he attends on her. Where she goes, he'll follow.

Silna turns to him after she's finished, tugging up a blanket -- her shoulders are pebbled in gooseflesh, and her arm reaches out to him, lighting for a moment on his shirtsleeve. Goodsir holds out his hands, unsure of what comes next -- another kiss, more consolidation of warmth, something else. Silna's fingers tug through his hair -- the warmth of endearment in her face sends him into internal agonies, and when she presses her face to the top of his head it at least permits him to conceal his blushes.