"Watch your footing!" "Don't shout. I'm not a child." "Song Huaxin, feet!" the attendant snapped. "Hold your breath—now!" I pushed off the roof with the kind of confidence that used to get applause in another life. "Good," the attendant said. "Higher. Bend your knees on the catch." "Like you teach, like you teach," I repeated. My voice sounded too loud on the tiled roof. I liked loud today. "Remember the count," Limu called from the corner, hands on his hips. He always stood like a general even when he wasn't on campaign. "You watch," I said. "Or watch the sky." The jump was clean. My toes left the tile, my body folded, the courtyard shrank. Below, the eastern alley looked like a ribbon. The city smelled of tea and lantern smoke. I had practiced this leap until my calves burned and the servants snored through my drills. "Three steps," I muttered to myself. Step one, the launch. Step two, the tuck. Step three, the roll. Hit all three and you look like a prodigy. Miss one and you look like a fool. "Wind," the attendant said, sharp. "A gust—" I corrected my balance midair because that was what modern memory taught me: adjustments are only a thought away. Muscle learned what books couldn't teach. My body rotated, air slapped my face, and the edge of the roof scraped my sleeve. Then the wind did something it had no right to do. It pushed my whole