4
WOLFE
Zoe is bored. She doesn’t bother to disguise herself, either. She is Zoe, every second of the day, and sometimes Wolfe admires her for it.
Today, he wishes she could disguise herself a little. It’s impossible for him to enjoy himself, perusing the small selections of books in Sandhorne’s shiny, white boutiques, while she hovers by the register and taps her foot.
Normally, he likes walking the airy market at Sandhorne better. All the shops are open to the breeze, doors propped wide on conch-shaped stoppers, shutters latched against the driftwood siding. The briny fragrance of salt and sand blows in and out as it pleases, carrying the songs of violinists stationed at the center of the white-tiled courtyard.
Distantly, Wolfe can hear the sea. He thinks he might like to chuc
