Wilhelmina. Wilhelmina, who loved her sister and was glad to have her back, had, for some reason, rejected that oh-so-personal touch.

“Just because some people think you’re different—”

“No, Daemon,” Jaenelle said gently, looking up at him with her ancient, wistful, haunted eyes. “Everyone knows I’m different. It just doesn’t matter to some—and it matters a lot to others.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Why am I different?”

Daemon looked away. Oh, child. How could he explain that she was dreams made flesh? That for some of them, she made the blood in their veins sing? That she was a kind of magic the Blood hadn’t seen in so very, very long? “What does the Priest say?”

Jaenelle sniffed. “He says growing up is hard work.”

Daemon smiled sympathetically. “It is that.”

“He says every living thing struggles to emerge from its cocoon or shell in order to be what it was meant to be. He says to dance for the glory of Witch is to celebrate life. He says it’s a good thing we’re all different or Hell would be a dreadfully boring place.”

Daemon laughed, but he wasn’t about to be sidetracked. “Teach me.” It was an arrogant command softened only by the gentle way he said it.

She was there. Instantly. But in a way he’d never experienced before. He felt her sense his confusion, felt her cry of despair at his reaction.

“Wait,” Daemon said sharply, raising one hand. “Wait.”

Jaenelle was still linked to him. He felt the quick beating of her heart, the nervous breathing. Cautiously, he explored.

She wasn’t inside the first barrier, where thoughts and feelings were open for perusal, and yet this was more than the simple inner communication link the Blood used. And it was more than the physical monitoring he usually did in bed. This was sharing physical experience. He felt her hair brushing against her cheek as if it were his own, felt the texture of her dress against her skin.

Oh, the possibilities of this kind of link during…

“Okay,” he said after a while, “I think I’ve got the feel of it. Now what?” His face burned as she watched him warily.

At last she said, “Now we walk on air.”

It was queer to feel that his legs were both long and short, and it took him a couple of tries to stand on the bench again. Amused, he just shook his head at her puzzled expression. Naturally, if all the other friends had been children, they were probably all close to the same age and the same size. And the same gender? He pushed that thought away before he had time to feel jealous.

After that, it was amazingly simple, and he reveled in it. He learned by experiencing her movements. It was similar to floating an object on air, except you did it to yourself. They practiced straight walking, parading around the alcove. Next came straight up and down. Pretending to climb stairs took longer to get the hang of, since he wanted a distance more compatible with his own legs and kept tripping on nothing.