What doesn't stir te wee ones? Lyra lamented rolling her eyes. But look, yer man's liable t'get lost wanderin' out in weather like tis.

Despite an impressive fae resume, the Wisp was more... mortal-like, here. Couldn't do all the things she ought to, Lyra was coming to realize. Which meant mortal advice might actually do her some good, right about now:

If 'e's out tere, best 'e stays 'unkered down 'till it passes. Big strong survivalist fella, he is, so that's prob'ly what 'e's doin'. An' best you be tucked up safe in a predictable place fer 'im t'find when 'e comes back around, aye?

Lyra wasn't convinced Sarge was really coming back, but nothing in her tone particularly betrayed it. The advice was sound, exactly what she'd say if she felt there was hope. And the encouragement practiced. How many vulnerable destitute and desperate had she coaxed into the ruin of a slaving ship, or a pleasure house, or some rich man's private rooms?

Strange to be doing it for someone's own genuine good, this time around. For a fae.

Lyra shook her head, No point in both of ye bein' lost in opposite directions. If 'e could 'ear ye wailin', he'd be close enough t'know te way 'ome. Trust 'im t'do so.