The way Harrow's body feels beneath it is extremely warm, and extremely knobbly, and coiled like a spring. But as Gideon holds her that tightly-wound quality attenuates, and she gradually softens. Nothing but time and food will put more flesh on Harrow's bones, but the more she relaxes the less she feels like an armful of railroad spikes.

"Whatever you want," she murmurs. "It's for you."

"I just feel like when I wrapped up your sword." No amount of wrapping or bows will make anything as sharp and angular and deadly as a sword look like something else.