Aela was retying the laces of her left boot for the third time when Devvyn sat down on the bench across from her.
Her fingers were moving too fast, knotting the leather tight, pulling it loose, then yanking it hard again until the eyelets strained.
“What now, what now?” Devvyn snapped his fingers in quick successions. “Is that anxiety, I see?”
She hadn't eaten the bread sitting on her tin plate. It had dried out on the edges, sitting next to a cup of weak tea that had gone cold about an hour ago.