Don’t worry, she tells them, stepping backwards, feeling the wind whip around her; there’s nothing at her back, nothing beneath her but the city streets so very far below, nothing ahead but the promise of death. She leans back – in her hands, the staff, and in her mind, the glyph, the ocean-scent, the prayer; it will be the ocean that catches her, or nothing at all.

I trust you, she thinks, and falls.