when a lace breaks, she does not give you a new one. she gives you a knot in the middle. the shoe will hold; it will hold for years. it will look, on close inspection, like a small story had happened to it. this is in fact what has happened.
she is patron of the long walk and the small accident at the beginning of it. the building keeps her in mind especially in the hour before setting out. she attends, also, to the corridor hare, who is forever running with one bow undone.
the mended lace, by tradition, is held to be stronger than the unbroken one. this is not strictly true, but it is the kind of untruth she encourages. those who are themselves re-knotted in some place — quietly, in a way no one has seen — are particularly under her care.
— knot-saint, hold what i tied this morning until i am home.
see also: st. of small repairs, a footstep, the long road after rain.