Constable Rían Kelly's hands were turning white with cold, but his gloves stayed off. Gloves would keep him from holding his club tight, and he clung to that thing like it would make “right” right.
The armoured sleigh shook as they went through another dip in the frozen dirt road, thick with days of snow. Everyone jostled this way and that, but Rían somehow stayed ramrod straight, fingers tight around his weapon.
Across from him sat the prisoner, a rat of a man, with a scruffy beard and mean eyes that shone bright in the quarter-moon light that snuck through the narrow windows all around. Rían watched as the man licked his ragged teeth, eyes flicking down at the club like it amused him.
“Lookin’ real cold there, constable,” he said, his muddy Irish accent making every word feel like a dagger. “Go on, put on yer gloves. I won’t tell.”
Rían sat straighter, jaw clenched tight, trying to ignore the rat-man.
The prisoner tried to scratch his chin, but the shackles kept him just shy of his goal. He acted as if he didn’t care, and went back to focusing on Rían’s hands. “Good way to get frostbite, that,” he said. “Ain’t much use for a constable with no hands, is there?”
Rían squeezed the club tighter, and realized he couldn’t quite feel his fingers anymore. It was just an odd numbness, punctuated by little jolts of flickering jaggedness that wasn’t quite pain but wasn’t pleasant, either. The rat-man might be right. Dammit.