He's cold so often. The tips of his fingers, the crack of joints on morning air; he knows what does it, sure as he knows that the winters only get longer. Broward's hands were like ice by the end. That's what he'd say, anyway,

Couldn't tell.

She's warm on his arm, and he's young; and it's another evening gone before Cedric will notice the chill.

"'S alright," He says, instead of there's nothing to apologize for. Sometimes a word is just something you say; she's not ready to hear things. "Sit down, yeah?"

Bracing her, and that's nearly Broward too. Eggs and toast at the plate, some mystery Marcher meat, cut in a wedge. Fresh pear. The tea is –

Well, you boil any leaf long enough, you can call it tea. His hand closes around the book to ease her down, try and slip it from her grasp; eye to the title. He doesn't pull very hard.

(Candlekeep, she's said before: A library. He's not about to lose his own hand if she decides it's staying with her.)