Actually, he likes that better. His mate, his child (Theodosia is his, in a truer sense than blood) in a safe place, surrounded by walls, out of reach of any and all outside influence. By the time they get there, he is herding them more than Burr pulling him.

When they're inside, Hamilton nudges Burr onto the bed, and starts to build a fire. Twigs, leaves, and flint's sharp sparks.

"My mother's husband was that kind of man."

He does not elaborate. The flame catches, and he feeds it, small curl of smoke taken into the mud-brick chimney. There isn't much wood, and so they can't keep the fire going while they aren't inside here, meaning that the air is barely less frigid than the outside. The walls protect from the wind's chill, more than anything else -- and sometimes not even that.

This is enough justification for a fire. He uses one of the too-small stack of logs, and then another, slow-burning, setting them in parallel. Soon, the fire crackles and snaps.

He covers one of Theo's cleaned rags in snow, and ducks back in to melt it over the little fire. Water thus obtained, he perches next to Burr, and wipes at the stray smears of blood. Burr is right, of course -- he wants to fuss.