She grips his hand in return with the fierceness of someone who fears drowning. It would be nice, perhaps, to say that the world snaps back into focus, that the sense of unreality dissipates like morning fog.

Oswin has found through grinding experience that this is one of those things that has to be laboriously, frustratingly shoved back into its dark corner - and it doesn't go easily.

Still, it's enough. Enough that after a few minutes she can blink at him rather than through him, enough that she can hear his singing, rather than straining to listen for the voices that don't come.