Bruce banked them around a long bend in the river. The bend was tighter than he'd been taking. He let it lean them harder, and Lily, already learning, already incorporating, leaned with him without being told, her trailing hand never breaking contact with the water, the silver wake curving with the river the way a calligrapher's brush curves with the page.
At the apex of the bend, where the river widened into a shallow pool, he did something he had been saving.
He pulled them up.
Sharp. Clean. A vertical climb that lifted them off the water in a single arcing rise, water still trailing from Lily's fingers in long bright threads, the river falling away beneath them like a dropped ribbon.
Lily made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a scream and entirely a yes, and Bruce kept the climb going until they were high enough that the river was a thin shining line below and the curve of the next valley was visible to the south.
He hovered them there.
