"I'm going to make socks," her tone is perfectly matter-of-fact. "Or - moccasins, or whatever wrapping strips of cloth around my feet should be called. Don't worry, I'm not using your coat."

There's no way her feet wouldn't be a bloody, bruised mess after five minutes of walking on a forest floor, otherwise. And she didn't want to risk an infection or not being able to run in a strange place like this.

One last rip and Molly was satisfied with the length of material she has in her hands. She sliped her arms through his sleeves, which flop a bit uselessly as although they're nearly of a height he's still a sight broader than she is, but she shoved up the ends of the sleeves and got to work fastening the coat. She winced when the coat came into more direct contact with her wings, but gritted her teeth against the pain.