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?