When he hissed and bared his teeth at her, she tipped her chin more, but she did not speak. She could tell from the tenseness of muscle under her hand, from the look in those eerily familiar blue that it was fear causing him to act the way he was. She didn't blame him for his actions; she blamed this woman in front of them.
She slipped her hand down his spine a little, where it would be harder for the witch to see the touch, and she slid her fingers into the fur gently, a touch that said she was there, and that she was fine. Reassurance.
That the witch thought herself beautiful in her finery was obvious, but the witch was also as cold as the stones had been underfoot on the balcony the night before.