Her arm around his waist; his hand finds hers, gloved, his gloveless, and stays there. A reward for connecting, unconsciously given by most, deliberate from him. (It isn't her fault.) Winter creeps between the fibres of his muscles, pinches him pale and ruddy, but should it attempt to penetrate his will before they reach the settlement, he will respectfully decline. To Leander, pain is a guest, and as such he treats it hospitably.

"Of course I do." She may catch his brief smile for the irony. His face is stiffening in the cold, his ears bright pink. "There ought to be something suitable outside the city. I haven't looked, but someone will know." Lips parted for breath, and in search of the shape of a word, too. At length, "You ought to know, by then I might not be here."