Whatever the hell the window is made of, it isn't even chipped by the time the girl comes over. He guessed right earlier: she can't be any older than his Sigrid, which causes the faint edge of desperation that's been building in the back of his mind to flare into something painful and hopeless at the idea that he won't be able to get her inside before morning.

It won't help the girl outside any, though, so Bard puts on a brave face, an "I have everything under control" face, and goes to get her the other blankets. There are only three left, almost certainly not enough to keep her warm through the night, but if anyone is going to be remotely comfortable tonight it should be the one who might not wake up again.

He tries not to look resigned as he heads back to the door in case she's still at the window, but it's not really working.