I clicked my tongue at Bishop. He shifted his weight, just slightly, the way a horse did when it adjusted its balance. Daniela swayed with it—caught herself—then made a small sound of frustration and deliberately let herself sway again.
"There," I said. "Don't fight it. Move with him."
"I wasn't fighting it."
"You caught yourself."
"Instinct."
"That's what I've been telling you."
She opened her eyes and looked at me. The sun was full on her face and she squinted against it and the makeup was starting to go slightly in the heat and she looked—she looked like herself. More than she had all morning.
"One more time," I said. "Then we walk through the full sequence."
I clicked my tongue. Bishop shifted. This time she swayed with him clean—no catch, no correction, just her body following his.
"Better," I said.
"I know." But she said it quieter this time. Less smug, more focused. Her hand was still flat on his neck and her eyes were still closed and she looked—settled. Like she'd found something.
"Okay," I said. "Let's walk it."
I moved her to the mark—a scrape in the dirt Dale had made that morning, fifteen feet out from where Bishop would cross. She stood on it and looked down at it and then looked up at me.
"Just like we practiced," I said. "Dale's guy comes in from your left. You hear him before you see him. Don't turn until you have to—Ellis wants your face front for as long as possible."
"I know my blocking."
"I know you do. I'm talking about your body, not your blocking." I positioned myself to her left, about ten feet back. "I'm going to walk it first, no horse. Just so you know what it feels like when someone comes in at that angle."
She nodded.
I came in at a walk, the way Dale's guy would at speed, and put my arm around her waist from behind. She went with it—turned into it slightly, let her weight shift.
"No," I said. "Don't turn into it. Let it take you."
"Instinct is to turn."
"I know. Don't."
We did it again. This time she kept her face forward and let my arm sweep her and went loose at the waist and I walked her through the motion—forward and up, the way the momentum of a cantering horse would carry her—and she went with it.
"Good," I said.
We were standing close. Closer than we'd started. Her hat had gone crooked again and I didn't fix it this time.
She looked up at me. "Again?"
"Again."
We ran it four more times. Each time she got cleaner—less instinct, more decision, her body learning the thing her brain had already understood. That was the thing about her. She didn't just hear instructions. She absorbed them.
By the fifth time I barely had to guide her at all.
"Alright," I said. "Bishop."
I brought him up to the mark and positioned him parallel to her, close enough that she could feel his heat. She didn't flinch.
