Yseult watches him gently as Darras makes the swing from dismissive to deeply serious with stomach-lurching speed. Her hand is still beneath his except for her thumb, free to stroke back and forth along his hairline. She knows the impulse, to go do everything that can be done right away, without a second wasted. The fear that tempts her to abandon their home on the slightest hint of a threat and bundle the children away to some remote mountain or cave or island no war will ever reach.

She exhales a long, slow breath that puffs and curls in the chilling air like the smoke from his pipe, forgotten on the arm of the bench. "If it won't take long, it can be done in the morning," she says, turning her hand to tug at his as she gets to her feet. "Come on, it's too cold to sleep alone."