"Hey!" He clutched at his shoulder. Any sympathy that he'd been feeling dried up in a surge of wounded pride. He'd been trying to be honest, and nice and had even told her more than he intended, and this was how she thanked him? "Maybe I would look better in a dress than you! At least I wouldn't look like a horse!"

And then she stormed off. He was too angry to follow.

Grumbling to himself, Loki went back to his shaded little alcove, opening the book he still held. He stared at the page, but the words seemed to be escaping him today. The diagrams made no sense, because all he could think about was the hurt in Sif's face, and those tears. And the thing was, he didn't want her to be angry with him, and he didn't want to be angry at her. He wanted things to continue as they had, with Sif a constant presence in his life, always bouncing between him and his brother.

She'd punched him, he realized, because she couldn't punch the people or the things that were really bothering her. She was helpless against them, so she'd blamed him.

But what was she really angry about? Sif knew that she didn't belong among the ranks of the ladies. She was a warrior. But her father kept trying to push her in that way, and she couldn't think of a way out of it. Perhaps because she was too close to the problem, for there were many potential solutions that Loki could see.

He cupped his hands and the air between his palms shimmered for a moment. Sif's hairpins fell from the pocket in space he'd hidden them in, falling haphazardly into his hands. He examined them dispassionately. They were pretty, delicate, and useless. Which was exactly what Sif didn't want to be and wasn't, but perhaps that just needed to be more clear to all. These were a symbol of the problem's root.

Loki closed his hands around the pins and vanished them again. She had asked for them back and been upset. He'd return them. And see what else might be accomplished in the meantime.