Rose from the River was, as always and ever, an anchor of calm in the vehicle, a mountain that set itself in opposition to the world and refused to move. It would be rude to say she “clung” to the frame of the car, or to point out the “holes” where her fingers “punched through.” “Dear life” should not even enter the picture. And she’s definitely not sore where Chen’s head kept bouncing off of her. The slow and very particular way she exited the vehicle, with the shear of metal following her, was deliberate grace and not a word more shall be said about it. As her companions groan and flop, Rose from the River stands straight and tall and makes a sound through tightly pursed lips that is something like a teakettle.

Then she scoops up the limp form of dearly departed Cyanis, who really did make a sparkly mess in the grass, and pats her with her best estimation of maternal care. There. There. You’re held. Please don’t— oh, that was just a dry heave. Okay. You’re okay.

Rose opens her mouth to speak. Sound doesn’t come out. She coughs and tries again. “Chen and I are going to have her attention the moment we set foot there. If you were trying to sneak in, it would be best for us to be a distraction, but as it is...”

As it is, she is being a fool. She is walking into Qiu’s jaws directly so that this ditz and this Princess can be silly and hopeful, and when Qiu demands their arrest en masse, Rose from the River knows that she will fight with the fury of three bears (and ten thousand rats) to allow these silly, silly girls the chance to run away. She’ll fling Chen away herself, if she has to. (It’s quite all right; the little thing will bounce.)

“Well,” she says, hoisting the quivering bundle of fox up higher on her shoulder. “After you, ladies.”