If there is a sense that she might say something further, her long hand having gentled over his side and something less pleased lingering in the corner of her smiling mouth, Fitcher ultimately decides to keep it to herself. It's dismissed with another brief pat before she draws away to collect her things.

In short order, she's sorted stockings and various trouser buttons and the things between them. She doesn't bother with any of the shirt buttons, and her belt is slung jauntily over a shoulder rather than cinched about the waist. The hat is raised off his person, interior examined, and with a slanting look toward Silas's face is returned to protect the sun from getting an eye full. The pipe migrates back behind her ear.

If you change your mind—

No.

"If those Vints show up before you leave, tell them they've terrible timing," she says, oofing up off the ground to her feet. She dusts her backside with an exaggerated to do and bothers to tuck in only a single wild shirt tail. The toe of a boot pivots to softly graze his side.

"Be well, Silas."

And then Fitcher is off, first swatting through the long grass to fetch the red lacquered crossbow and its quiver before turning to take a path ostensibly very similar to the one he'd earlier cut.