Dylan, it had to be said, had a lot of trouble with the fairy-tale thing. He got it. The guy was a man who dealt with what was in front of him and what was in front of him was Mary who occasionally he saw flashes of certainty and pride that Dylan imagined belonged on princesses. He hadn't met one before: he didn't know. He had the fairy-tale book he had walked in and that had been bad, the kinda bad that troubled him if he thought about it long. The idea of a queen sending a guy through to kill M wasn't shrug-off and smile for Dylan. It was danger, and it kindled at a pulse that was sluggish-slow whenever he wasn't amped up.
But M had skipped on. Dylan looked at her. Really looked, because the guy was trying to find something in there to fasten to. He didn't know M, not really. He didn't know why she worked the way she did and why she wanted him: yeah OK, the mirror didn't say he was hideous in the morning but Dylan didn't have a whole lot on offer. A lot of shit locked up behind closed doors and he didn't know M well enough to figure out the mountain thing.
He smiled instead, and he couldn't tug a braid. "It's good, right?" It didn't sound bad. It wasn't falling off a mountain. "This huntsman, where is he?" One-track mind, and Dylan, his track had skipped from the date-night.