Mal didn't stay in his chair for long. These folks seemed friendly enough, but he'd never let down his guard in a stranger's house and he wasn't about to start now. He got to his feet and started moving around the room, and then realized how pointless it would seem to the others, as the room was small and there wasn't that much space to move in anyway, and so he ended up by the big dining table in the middle of the room, stiffly nodding to the people sitting there, and then took the time and the opportunity to count the heads. Himself and Simon not included, there were four grown men, five grown women and six children – four boys and two girls, and apparently none of them older than about ten years of age – crammed inside the four walls.

Speaking of walls, there were no windows – and why should there be? It wasn't like there was anything outside to look at, them being underneath the snow and all. The room was lit by lamps in the ceiling, giving off a bluish light, and the flames and sparks from the fireplace. Simon was still in his chair in front of it, looking out of place as always, his eyes darting around the room.

"So what brings you to St. Albans?"

Mal jumped at the sound of John Hensley's voice, and mentally kicked himself for allowing the man to surprise him like that. Of course he would ask questions, what else would you expect? In fact, the deafening silence coming from everybody else in the room, was a whole lot more disturbing.

"Work," he answered truthfully.

Hensley raised his eyebrows slightly. "You won't find work in the direction you were headed. Only wasteland that way for miles on." He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with the other men. "Unless of course your work is more of the under-the-radar sort of thing."

In his mind Mal debated whether he should dare to throw him a look or not, but decided on the first option. He was a good liar, and even if they didn't believe him,