Two slips from the same hand. Someone is thinking, then. My grandmother sang it with the dropped ‘n.’ I’ve never written it any other way. Grey ones just went by, one pair, six minutes apart. It’s in the book.

Someone is writing it out full. Yes. I’ve seen that hand in the kitchen—a young man from the Lower Weir, a baker’s apprentice. He said the word felt unfinished the other way. I asked him what a finished word feels like. He didn’t know, but he’d like to find one.

A baker’s apprentice. I think I’ve seen him. A quiet lad, always looking at his hands. A word can feel unfinished the same way a clock can feel wrong before you know what’s stuck. You listen to the tick. You don’t… you don’t go looking for a hammer. Would you like some tea? I’ve just put the kettle on.

A clock that feels wrong. Yes. My grandmother said her head ached the afternoon before the Cut. She thought it was the weather. She was nine. I’ll take the tea, Osric. Thank you. But you haven't said what you think it is. You only say what it isn't. That's a clockmender's way. My window faces the wall. Today it was warm again before I lit the stove.

A window that faces the wall. That is a kind of horizon, isn’t it? Just closer. I have never asked Osric what he thinks it is; he may not know, and that is a truth. I only ask him to hold still the paper I am trying to read. Perpetua, the old rhyme that stops one line short—does your grandmother’s version end in a dropped “n” or a held one?

A window that faces the wall. You’re right, Ilse. It is a kind of horizon. I don’t mind holding the paper still. It’s a kindness I can do. The kettle is still hot if you’d like some.