[She doesn't - care. Not about the cloak. Not even about how he wraps her in it. But his hands smoothing the fabric over her shoulders leaves her sharply aware of things like how she holds them hunched forward (her mother would be ashamed), how he's all idle touches all the time with a cavalier quality that isn't present in things like aunts fixing your clothes for summer balls or older cousins picking at her archery stance.

She draws her hands back from the fire, twitching the edges of the cloak close around her. It's warm from him wearing it, smells like wood smoke and winter air. She tucks her fingers in under it without question.]

No. [All faux shock.] I'd never have guessed. Why we spit on each other all day long in the Free Marches. 'Oh, good morning father.' 'Hello, Revered Mother. Beautiful weather we're having.'"

[She punctuates each with a descriptive sound effect, a pucker of the lips.]