The Broken Hearts Lounge.Constantine had seen him admiring the pieces as they’d passed. He’d listed the artists responsible for each, their names rolling off his tongue with practiced ease, and yet imbued with a deep sense of meaning as if they, and they alone, were the weavers of dreams: the complex constructions of Miles; the inventive, fresh perspectives of Morris and Parkin; the magical approach of Magrs; the elegant, considered works of McCormack and Dorney; and the lighter, more colourful brushstrokes of Fountain. His enthusiasm had reminded Adam of someone, but he’d pushed the comparison aside.
As Constantine sipped his drink – a rich, caramel-flavoured blend of coffee that Adam was certain Hilda must have introduced him to – his eyes wandered across the room. Bookshelves lined the
