It is not, necessarily, that Lauralae does not wish to be cared for; she had cherished what Alucard had given her, not so long ago, and she still thinks of Myr and the loss of her mother, the desperation she had felt. She simply does not trust, with good reason, and dark eyes gaze up at Dany, careful, sharp.

Her fingers keep pressing gently over the warmth of the egg under her fingertips, as if anchoring herself to it, the feel of the awkward leather touch.

"They still have time," her voice is soft, idle. "I think they will come when they are ready, when they are sure of themselves."