Her wings flared, she caught air, and we slowed precipitously; I feared I would be pulled from her grasp to dash myself to bits on the ground below. But her grip was tight — painfully tight, though I minded not at all — and in a moment we were down, bare feet on cool wet morning grass.
The townspeople appeared in doorways, began assembling. My knees were weak, and I sat down. She gazed down at me, head framed by white wingtips, and asked, "All right?"
I was in love. Breathlessly: "Sure."
She grinned. "Then perhaps, on the way back, less screaming."