"No," she says, more sharply than she'd planned to, the first hint of anything past calm behind that opaque facade; a moment later, more measured, "no, thank you. I prefer to do it myself."

That she stepped between Alistair and the piled up belongings is probably nothing. Unintentional and coincidental, meaningless.

"I have it well in hand," awkward only conceptually, regaining that tight grip on herself, "as you see. Thank you."