"Have you thought about the supply chain if you do get the manufacturing contract?" he asks, and Neville launches into a long answer. She can’t follow it, though, because he’s taken her wrists in each of his sure, large hands and brought them behind her back – behind the stake. He holds them there in one hand while he rummages in his pockets for something, then quickly and surely loops a rope around them, tying them together one atop another. It’s soft, when she tugs, unlikely to chafe, but tightens almost imperceptibly as she tests whether she can slip free. Charmed, then.