She's good with the children, which at least makes one of them. Clara's sort of schools are still in his far-off future, but her stern tone is universal enough that he thinks something like governess or tutor. It's certainly effective, in any case, and he's still bemusedly watching their erstwhile enemies leave when she bursts out laughing.

"Hang on," he says, standing and holding up a hand. He shrugs off his coat, a warm wooly thing of local make, and holds it out to her expectantly. It's less an offer than a demand (if a chivalrous one); he's not planning on taking no for an answer. "You'll catch your death out here before you see a single enemy, going about like that."