The silence was the first thing.
Not quiet. I'd been trained in quiet—a rooftop in the rain, a corridor where I'd waited an hour for a guard to pass. Quiet was full of things to listen through. This had nothing in it. The only sounds left in the world were inside my barrier: my breath, too loud, and a heartbeat I hadn't heard in years. The only thing from outside was a faint thrum through the soles of my boots—the gate behind me, carried up through the ground.
I took a step, and the moon let go of me.
I'd pushed off the way I would have in Avalon, and I rose in a slow, stupid arc, arms out, with nothing to do but hang there and feel embarrassed about it. When I came down three metres on, the dust I'd kicked up came down with me—no cloud, no drift, just a clean arc of grains all falling at the same speed, like thrown sand.
"Small steps," Carrie said through the speaking-link, close to my ear. "Pretend the floor's glass."
"You could have said that before I jumped."
