The first look, when she has to look up (Because his steps have stopped, because he must be just behind her or beside her) is nearly possessive, catching the hand brushing the pink-edged white nose.

But it's also quickly swallowed by a remorseful wave for it. He isn't doing anything. He doesn't know, again. That Marian had assumed her lost with the house, and stop letting herself kill herself with definitions for what that word might mean.

She's nearly embarrassed for the display, maybe she even actually is, and she knows they have to go, he does, they can't tarry, but she can't convince herself to pull away from the mare just yet. Her hood has fallen back across her pinned curls, and the silken mask has slipped down around her own chin, and she leaves her temple against the horse looking at Caspian.

It's not even a secret, so many people here know it, but it feels as important as one here, in the dark, in this place. "Her name is Lineave."

The ownership and the reverence in those four words alone.