It takes a reeling moment to recall himself. The pocket of hurt from Passion Sunday has gaped into a great cavern, jagged with anger -- Lancelot knew, Lancelot should have gotten him, it's Lancelot's fault he wasn't there -- and he has to grasp at wheat to remind himself of the rest of what Susan is saying. He draws in a sharp breath and lets it out -- fish, following a river of qi.

Finally, he nods.