[ Time slips by, and she thinks perhaps he is at ease now: quiet him, permissive him. No longer snarling, no longer jerking away. Barely moving at all. And there's an enthralling peace in it, to stand here at his side and soothe his viciousness away. Like the aftermath of a storm, or nighttime after a fresh snowfall.

The whole world gone still.

Even she feels tendrils of something not unlike calm creeping through her, settling her myriad agitations. The brush of her thumb is entrancing - almost hypnotic, rhythmic in its slow motion.

From the first day she set foot in this house, this is the first time she has felt anything other than unsettled here in the study.

Another reason to be grateful to him, then. In distracting her, in seeming to require her to rise above herself and be for him a source of something other than misery, he made this room's memories so much less fraught. Her smile is weak, a small, broken and watery thing, but genuine.

Perhaps she even begins to part her lips to speak, to thank him or offer some further softly crafted words, but his voice cuts the stillness.

Well. Of course. Of course he's tired. It's late, and he's been drinking, and he was so very upset a moment ago.

Katrina's smile falters, then returns - now with a glimmer of fondness. Now with patience, now with welcome. (Perhaps they're friends now. Or perhaps they can try.) ]

I know. How late it is - how much you've endured.

[ Tonight, yes, and so many nights before; it no longer seems like guesswork now, to suppose he has lived a harrowing life. ]

You've earned your rest. Some peace at the end of the day.

[ Her free hand extends in offer, though the other remains, giving him no ground for retreat into his own untamed panic. ]

Will you let me help you?