River's not laughing -- but she is, all the same, laughing without ever opening her mouth, the same way in dreams you can hear yourself talk without ever saying a word. She's laughing, and Ennis's laughter is rare and soft but it isn't rusty here, any more than his hands are weathered clumsy.

There's water under their feet, and warm improbable apple-trees in bud and bloom, and if River opened her eyes (and she can see, but she hasn't, so it's okay) she could see the branches mistily through Ennis and through herself. It's because they're more real than the trees; it's because everything here, now, this, is realer than anything awake could ever be.

She lets herself be spun and dipped, moving lightly with the dance and the laughter, with apple blossoms caught in her hair.