Samaire hadn’t expected Jules. In the pitch of night, blurred by rain and bulked by heavy wool coats, she could have almost mistaken him for her Uncle Jonas. The sight made her throat close up, knuckles whitening around the hilt of her blade. The intensity of the grief startled her, and she turned her gaze aside sharply. Her green eyes were acid and storms, watering as they studied the man thing. 

Jonas would never have sounded so gentle. He would have slapped Samaire for her weakness. His voice would have been a low hiss, ordering her to behave like a proper Cathan. Except there were no more Cathan. Just her and a mother more shadows than woman. She straightened her spine, jutting out her chin. Jules was not Jonas. He was soft eyes and even temper. He was a simpler man than her late Uncle. Simple had been nice; she had not been happy here, but she had been able to breathe, and that had been a kindness.

“It’s better this way,” she focused intently on keeping her voice even. Samaire took a steadying breath, easing up her grip on her blade. She turned her gaze to the soft, simple man. “Two wishes, one act. I need the man-thing’s claws. Your men need to feel safe.” She paused for a beat, a frown creasing her pale features. “They aren’t safe. But it will comfort them.”

She tucked the keys into her cloak, nodding back to the hall with her head.

“Go back to the hearth, Jules. You should rest. I’ll see myself out. I—“ she fumbled for her words, uncertain. She was no Fool. Talk had never been a weapon on her tongue. “Thank you. You've shown me a kindness I don't deserve. If the shadows come-- if glass eyed men come walking-- I hope that you survive.”