Will sat down and looked at Lyra. “What am I doing wrong?” he said. He was bloodstained, trembling, wild-eyed. He was living on the edge of his nerves: clenching his jaw, tapping his foot, breathing fast. “It’s your wound,” she said. “You en’t wrong at all. You’re doing it right, but your hand won’t let you concentrate on it. I don’t know an easy way of getting round that, except maybe if you didn’t try to shut it out …” “What d’you mean?” “Well, you’re trying to do two things with your mind, both at once. You’re trying to ignore the pain and close that window.
