One unanticipated side effect of being told her story is that these longer sentences are starting to feel reassuring instead of appalling. Being in Darrow for years sounds more like a reprieve than a punishment (though the reprieve still has an inescapably temporary feel to it, which makes it hard to justify uncorking any champagne). She doesn't expect the Iron Bull to see things that way, and knows better than to reply with some variant of 'oh thank goodness,' but the shift in her own perspective is rather jarring.

"I suppose there are worse places you could have woken up." Honestly, his account sounds downright convenient. No long walk into town, no need to impose on a stranger. Granted, she's glad to have met Biffy, but it's not as if she was at her best.

They reach Candlewood, and she looks up at the building, not knowing whether she feels relieved or defeated by the sight of it. "This is mine," she says, nodding at it. She feels an impulsive desire to invite him up, though it's hard to say whether it would be a good idea. He's been willing enough to distract her, which she greatly appreciates. But in the privacy of her own apartment, she's not sure she trusts herself to keep politely ignoring the elephant in the room. So she hovers indecisively, neither shepherding him toward the door nor attempting to retrieve her things so he can be on his way.