The stranger stood silently on the riverbank, still turned away, arms crossed, his head tilted slightly toward the stars as though he had all the time in the world.
She picked her inner clothing that had been saved because she had used it to tie her hair up a bun, she slipped the flimsy shirt on
"I'm kind of decent?," Thalia called softly, though the word barely applied. Her skin was still wet, her cheeks flushed, and she was clinging to modesty by the thinnest thread.
He turned—and as he did, he unfastened one of the many layers he wore. His outer cloak was thick, black as midnight, and so heavy it looked like it could drown someone in warmth. Beneath that was a tailored navy jacket, a second coat of finer quality.
He shrugged that one off too, and then another. How many coats does this man wear? she wondered, bemused.
Finally, he held out the largest, fluffiest and warmest of them all.
