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Paola catches a column off the sunlit plaza and lets herself spiral, pinions stretched, rising on heat. Her divided skirts barely flutter. Some of the people in the market below are pointing; go ahead, she thinks. Feed the pickpockets.

Out to sea. It’s a long flight, but the courier bag is light and the sun is soft. Paola decides to treat herself. A mile out on the water she kicks off her shoes, watches them fall. Cool air brushes her ankles. It’s the only thing that makes her heart beat anymore: the thrill, the utter sensuality, of flying with bare feet.