Lor leaned back, watching the world shift gears—day stepping off, evening stepping on, the same actors in new costumes.
The thought of Silverward Crest lingered, a mansion on the hill with gates he could walk through but didn't want.
Tonight, though, was for Olivia... and this time he will keep up his guard.
He folded the empty parchment around the last crumble, pinching it to his tongue, savoring the final smear of sugar.
The golden ribbon toyed around his fingers—tied, untied, tied again—before he let it go slack, tucking it back with the paper on the bench.
He brushed crumbs from his shirt, his trousers, quick slaps sending a sleeping pigeon into a flustered sprint.
The fiddle's first notes drifted from a wine-house door, cracked just enough to promise laughter within.
Lor stood, crumbs scattering in tiny arcs from his lap.
He rolled his shoulders, his shirt settling right, his grin returning—the grin of a boy with plans and the nerve to turn them into stories.
