Somehow, after a time, Snow found herself with her cheek pressed against Jag's shoulder. She did not consciously seek that comfort--she didn't usually consciously seek comfort from anybody but a select few people because she had been trained so carefully to expect that it would never come--but once she had done it it didn't feel uncomfortable or unnatural.

This time when she found speech, she managed an entire thought, her voice soft and dry as the rustle of paper. "What are we gonna do?"