It's a dangerous thing, that Look. Licking her thumb, Fitcher rubs it against her stickier fingertips in an attempt to mitigate some of the tackiness left there from the brittle, and finds all she's managed to do is smear it around.

C'est la vie.

She smiles at him - her expression
a broad, good natured thing. "You may ask whatever you like, Barrow."