If she'd kept growling instead of smiling, Fenris might have decided they were kindred spirits.

That's a joke. Fenris would never decide he was kindred spirits with anyone. But his lip might not have curled with quite so much disdain. "I'm not peeling leaves—" because they've been eating leaves, if she hasn't been informed yet; leaves "—with a sword. You'll find your own."

But the knife is already gone. He scans her, quickly, and then one of his hands shimmers blue-white and translucent, immaterial, darting out as he steps forward to try to test a pocket—sticking his hand through people's clothing is probably an invasion of privacy, but no one's taught him so, apparently. At least he doesn't reach through skin.

It is, just for the record, the wrong pocket.