Her shirt yields no apples, nothing suitable for a horse, but she's laughing anyway as he tries. Laughing, and keeping the thought in check, as surely as sitting on it might do.

"I'll make a stop just for their sake."

She likes Ambrose, anyway. What she's spoken to him about in the back, hot mug of tea and honey in her hand, remains quiet. The war's scars still linger, physical and mental, but coming on Degas's recommendation had opened a little door, offered yet another soul to talk to. And the results of his craft were superb.

"Here, give me that quick, before he starts eating you in protest-"

She has to save Radar from a stallion who thinks he's being held out on.