Two magics, one right on the heels of the other, like Olympians desperately competing for the laurels.

The first? That’s the sweep— one arm under her knees, one cradling her shoulders, tucking her head in close to the breastbone. The huff of breath through a scarf, the firmness of her biceps, the set of her shoulders, both suggesting that she’s not treating this casually, not underestimating the burden, but not fearing it, either. No, she is like the horse which flares its nostrils before it begins a long and steady trot, the kind that can continue for hours.

The second is the sparkle in her eyes. She knows who she is. It has flowered inside of her, suddenly, but right, so right. Why this moment fits into her hands perfectly. Why she follows the triangles. Why she has a sword. How could she have forgotten?

“It is the privilege of a knight to carry a fair maiden,” the knight says, puffing out her chest with pride and delight. “Thank you for doing me this honor.” She cradles the fair lady gently, as chastely as she may with a hand on her thigh, for her heart belongs to another, and any flustered glances will bounce right off her oblivious delight.

A [i]knight![/i]

She is a [i]knight![/i]