Topknot came to press herself against his leg and shoved her cold nose into the curl of his fist. He looked down at the dog and managed to uncurl his fingers a little. She shoved her narrow snout deep into that half-open fist and licked his palm. Then she pulled back and gazed up at him with a toothy doggy grin and whacked her tail upon the ground.

She ought to be afraid of him. Everyone else seemed to be constantly watching him to see if he would lose control. Even his own brothers and sisters tread warily around him, except for Atalanta. The last time he'd felt on the edge of control around Attie, she had wrapped her skinny arms forcefully around him and whispered, "You're my favorite. Don't tell."

That was how Topknot was looking at him now. If ever a dog had said, "You're my favorite," shaggy Topknot was saying it now.

"Aye then, lad. It do come upon a fellow now and again."

Lysander shot a glance at the wiry older man, but Bing had his crossed arms resting on the top of the stone wall and simply gazed down the dale with a sleepy expression.

Lysander realized perhaps he did not mind Bing's erratic and distant sympathy. Bing had been to war. Bing knew what Lysander knew. Yet here he was, working in the peaceful dales and looking after the lady doctor. Bing didn't seem a bit like a primed pistol about to fire.

Lysander had to know. "What do you do?" He struggled for the words. "When it comes?"

Bing scratched his head for a moment, knocking his cap askew. "Well, I like to find me something to hammer on, usually. Slow and easy, y'know, like ticking on the clock or t' Sunday chapel bells in t' village."

Slow. After a moment of thought, Lysander found another nail, positioned it on the gate planks and lifted his hammer. Bang. He took a breath. Bang.

He didn't hit his thumb. The nail went in straight and true. Instead of a violent and furious noise, the hammer and nail met with a clear pure sound that rang out across the grassy fields. Like a heartbeat, slow and steady, and strangely calming.

Without thinking Lysander set three more nails, forming a neat square where the planks overlapped.

Bing tucked his wayward cap straight and peered closer. "Well now. You be right handy for a toff."

As the afternoon waned, Lysander applied the same logical and soothing process to repairing a section of fallen dry-stone wall.

"Let the stone do what it wants, now. Stone'll be stone, be no makin' it clay." Lysander held the field stones in his hands, and examined each one closely and carefully, comparing it to the space it was meant to fill. He found his mind both sharpened and soothed by the methodical spatial problem.