A shoulder shrug. "Most people don't warrant the effort."

She's about to turn away and tend to the rest of their remaining tasks when, suddenly, there's fingers wrapping around her hand. Her eyes lift to meet Charlotte's, an unspoken question in her gaze. An itchiness skitters along her skin. The big cat inside her shifts restlessly, and for once, she agrees with it.

Nobody's held her hand in gratitude before.

She doesn't know what to do with that. Any of it. So, gently, she tugs her hand away after mumbling something incoherent.

"Definitely not the plane." The bag crinkles under her ministrations as she tugs it open. A chunk of hair falls from its hold and into her eyes as she thoughtfully regards the bloodied clothes. "We should find a more private means of travel for you. I don't think the trains will be a safe choice, either."

A memory flickers: cold, hard eyes; screaming; bodies ramming against a glass door...

"What does being royal offer in terms of travel?"