“Sometimes things have a place,” she said. “They belong in their place; they fall into the same arrangement, time after time.” She paused. “It’s like when your pack settles on your shoulder, or when you put a knife back in its sheath. At night, a wherry returns to its bed. Do you know what I mean?” “Like the groove on my bow. When I draw an arrow, it slots into the right place every time.”
