Aramis resettles the blankets around his shoulders, even as he accepts the kisses, a faint smile on his lips for all that he attempts to keep his frown. "You could not make our home so hot," he says, "The feathers on my hat would wilt for good."

Unearthing his coffee cup, he takes a sip, eyeing the still falling snow through the window. It seems as if it will never stop, but perhaps that's simply how Darrow is in winter. "Not until they've used their monstrous plows," he answers. "And we've not had a client since the storm moved in." He lifts his brows hopefully at Porthos. "Perhaps a hunt?"