Orithyia's hands are always cold, here in the far north, so that they crack and chap in the stinging winds. Her husband brings her lotions and unguents from his travels to heal them, but she sets them aside scornfully; if it is suffering the gods have written in her destiny, as they must have, she will not dull it by accepting his belated attempts at kindness.

Orithyia's hands are always cold, here in the far north, except when her hot tears fall upon them; then, and only then, they are warm.