The weight of Despoina’s words pressed against Lorraine’s chest even as she rose from the low chair. Her fingers still tingled faintly where the woman’s hand had rested, her warning echoing like a bell: Love can be a lantern, or it can be a blindfold. Make sure you know which you are holding.
Lorraine whispered her thanks, voice raw, and Despoina simply nodded, her sharp eyes softening with something like pity.
The bell above the front door chimed faintly as Lorraine stepped out of the shop, the evening air thick and fragrant with the mingled scents of jasmine and frying dough drifting from a café down the block. Dusk had fallen while they practiced—the Quarter’s streets shimmered under gas lamps, laughter carrying on the humid breeze.
And there, leaned casually against the hood of a sl
