“I just know,” Ed says, trying to still the urge to shift in his seat, because he does - something in him feels the rightness of it, the righteousness, the lies on one side of the case tilting like scales inside his soul with the truth on the other, the hum of their balance like the purr of a satisfied cat.

For Peter, it is simple; he bends to touch the soil and stands knowing where to go to find his foe, how to lay out his army when he arrives, the precise hillside and time to take advantage of the sun, rising like the fire in his blood as he urges his comrades along, embers of it swirling along the line until all share the roar of his fury.

Susan laughs, a musical note like a finger run round the edge of glass, and diplomats and princes smile at her, charmed, caught in the skeins of a web made of beauty and delight, and when she takes aim, she does not miss-

(-in the gardens, neither does Lucy, though her aims are ephemeral, fleeting; the endless, glorious chase of joy from one moment to the next, golden and warm as sunlight.)