Reality was the problem. The heaviness of it, of everything that had happened and was still happening, it made James almost numb. She didn't like coming to terms with the fact that she couldn't worry about Lotte until she found her. If she found her. If James didn't, there was nothing to be done, and either way, she needed to keep those scenarios from her mind unless she wanted to rant savagely on every last person in her vicinity. People that were only trying to help, she cautioned herself down from the ledge of her foul mood.
James was unusually silent throughout their preparation, although none of these strangers were at all familiar with her, so they wouldn't notice the difference. She was trying not to worry, and trying not to snap on the defenseless, which made keeping quiet one of the only alternatives. Even so, she did not look pleased when Micah made the careful insistence that she put on clean clothes. Not because it was a waste of time, or because she didn't think she needed to clean up, but because it pleased Meg.
The girl in her head practically fawned over the dimples and the linen dress -- A dress, finally! -- and James grit her teeth in cooperation.
Although by the time she was called on to help Iris, her mood had lifted considerably. She'd never felt out of place when helping someone, and it made it easier not to worry about Lotte when she had someone injured to consider. While the men collected weapons, she walked alongside Iris, ensuring that the woman's steps did not falter or seem unsteady. She considered putting her arm around the wounded woman, but gave her the benefit of the doubt when she said she'd be fine to walk. James didn't hover, but she kept close, tilting an amused stare on Micah when he kept glancing over to Iris in worry. The woman was obviously not made of glass.
Her momentarily agreeable expression faltered, however, when one of the unfamiliar men spoke. Did he really just say, the morn'?