Puck has been here so many times. Whether as a cat or a fox or a warm flutter of light between Havelock's fingers or even, upon occasion, as himself-- at least, as close to it as he is like to come-- the position is so familiar he could almost forget they're here.

He can sense from the growing calm in Havelock's body that he is, if not actually all right, then at least better, and Puck's niggling, needling frustrations that at bottom he can fix nothing and restore amends to nothing-- needling only because he has never had much to do with such feeble things before-- ease a little.

It's only slightly, and in a way he should admit to no one.

But it is something.