The Quarter was alive, as it always seemed to be after dusk. The hum of conversation spilled from balconies strung with beads, jazz wafted from an open club door, and lanterns painted the cobblestones with flickers of gold.
Rhyan walked beside Shanta, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of her sundress as if she had nowhere else to put them. Shanta, in contrast, moved easily—her bangles jingling with every sway of her arms, her posture relaxed, confident, like the street itself belonged to her.
“So,” Rhyan said, breaking the silence, “do you always close the shop this late?”
Shanta shot her a grin. “Only when my aunt keeps students after hours. Normally we’re done before sundown. But with you two?” She shrugged. “Magic doesn’t run on business hours.”
Rhyan laughed softly. “Tell me
