There are lines of work that require bedding down on bare ground regularly enough for even humans to build up a tolerance. Those that don’t accumulate sleep debt and dodder off cliff edges or onto spear points or into blocks of carnivorous jelly. Particularly in the Free Marches, where there aren’t many creatures in the night worse than wolves, the swift onset of Silas’ snoring has been as much of a barrier to sleep as the hard-packed earth.

Thoroughly windblown and some days past caring about the starch of his collar or the press of his vest, he’s studying a book-bound map in his lap where he’s sat in the shade of a scrubby tree. The hand-drawn pathways are not of the coastline but of the Crossroads.

He loses the stubby joint at the corner of his mouth to the salt air a beat after he turns to look at her, lying as she is. The loss doesn't phase him.

“Not exactly,” could mean anything in this context. He doesn't elaborate.

But he is considering it now, according to his own eyebrows.