Teatime tests the wind. Kissing his hair and caressing his neck, it tastes him back.
Whispering, Ankh-Morpork spreads its splendid rickety arms below him.
Let me catch you.
Wind buoying his toetips, deliciously teetering over the edge. He's got it all worked out.
Shouts behind; classmates—or tutors—finally reaching the roof trap door. Turning, he smiles reassuringly. Silly them, worrying.
Teatime doesn't bother with anything so crass as a run-up. He simply lets himself fall, arms spread, leaving nothing but laughter-trails as sweet sunlight engulfs his breathless world.
I will catch myself.
And if I don't, who's to care?
