She shakes her head, leaning against him. She had a bite of toast with her tea last night, only because Bar insisted. She doesn't tend to eat when he's gone.

She leans against him as they walk, closing her eyes and breathing in the vivid scents that cling to him. The wolf scent is very much his own scent, only stronger, more potent. She inhales deeply, revelling in it. There is forest and earth, and the sharp tang of blood and sweat.

For a moment, she is terribly frustrated. She wishes she had his senses, could read the story of his absence in the information clinging to his clothes and skin.