He didn't think he was ever going to get used to ice just . . falling from the sky, in big pale lattices you could practically see.

He was sitting at the top of the Swallow's ramp, in about half his outdoor gear so he didn't get cold, when Sascha came back, ice caked around the heavy treads of his boots and big crystals of it perched in his dreadlocks. He looked like something out of a story, though heaven only knew what kind.

"Lev," the Siberian said, nodding a greeting when he set foot on the ramp.

"Sascha," he replied, scooting off to the side to give the other man space to get past him and inside.

Sascha banged his boots on the side of hte ramp, knocking loose most of the caked ice on his boots before he ducked inside, out of sight.

"Anything on the singer?" he called after a moment, sticking his head back into view.

"Helena and the kid are staying with her nieces until it either gets cold enough to run a sledge safely or it melts. Nothing on the other one."

"Nothin' to do but watch the snow fall, then. It's pretty, yeah?"

"It's . . strange," he replied eventually. "Like something out of a story, or a painting."