Her laugh is pleasantly low, the smokiest thing currently in residence on the blanket.

"And interfere with yours and Captain's bond? I wouldn't dare."

With a briefer, cheekier kiss, Fitcher straightens and pats him there on the ribs. Cheer up, Silas. Look at them, both hale and fit. Why, given just a few degrees less fondness in either direction and they might be in an altogether different state at present. Killing him would have soured her on the day. The week. Maybe the whole long string of them since she'd arrived in Kirkwall.

So maybe, in deference to all this good will—

"Give me an hour, then follow me to Ostwick. I'll see that your story bears up. Agreed?"

(Yes. She's going to miss him too.)