Winter snows again. Perishing cold again. Imagine being a poor page boy at a minor medieval court, slumped against the stone wall of some drafty castle, burying your motley-clad body in heaps of straw to keep warm since the steward and his porters are huddled around the only brazier so there's no room for you; no light, either. The thin pitched piping from a wooden flute floats across the great hall, slips through a balistraria and out into the frigid, starless night to swirl around the parapets. It's the same night after night. Stew for dinner washed down with a thimble of grog if you're lucky.That must've been a suck way to spend February.