It was not real. Human feet did not decide to leave the ground to climb the stairway of the breeze. They definitely did not drift up, pulled by the spine instead of supporting it, and point their toes toward the ground, boyishly showing off where they should be and where they were not and the happy trick they were playing on gravity.
But Inna supposed that didn’t matter. His magic wasn’t in the way he hung himself on the air; it was in the way he hung her on the smooth curves of his words.
It was the way he made her want to believe – for one breath, or maybe two – that faith could grab him by the shoulder blades and fly him toward an open sky.
It was the way he made her believe that belief was enough.