He picked up another sketch, one of himself, feet planted, head back, with bold blue lightning flashing from the tips of his upstretched fingers. “It’s all very interesting, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t understand any of it.”
“But you came nonetheless. From America?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re from America, Riley.”
“Originally. I move around a lot. And you came from Ireland.”
“Originally. But to here, from New York. I have a place there.”
“Doing what?” Sasha demanded.
If he noticed her sharp tone, he didn’t show it. “Magic,” he said, and offered her a passionflower, richly purple. “The hand’s quicker than the eye,” he said easily, “especially since the eye’s so easily misdirected.”
“You’re a magician.”
“I am. Stage magic—street magic when the mood strikes.”
A magician, Sasha considered. The lightning could symbolize his line of work. But it didn’t explain all the rest. Nothing did.
She looked down at the flower in her hand, then up at him.
The sun was setting in the west behind him in an explosion of fiery red and hot licks of brilliant gold.
“There’s more,” she said, but she thought: You’re more.
“There always is. Considering that, and this.” He set the sketch of the stars on the top of the stack. “I think the three of us need to have a discussion. Why don’t we have that over a meal?”
“I could eat. You buying, Irish?” Riley asked him.
“For the privilege of sharing dinner with two beautiful women, I am, of course. What do you say to a bit of a walk, till we find a place that suits our needs?”
“I’m in.”
When Sasha said nothing, Bran took the flower from her, tucked it over her ear. “You’re no coward, Sasha Riggs, or you wouldn’t be here.”
She only nodded, put the sketches back in her portfolio, and rose. “I’ll tell you what I know, in exchange for what you know.”
“Fair enough.”
* * *
They walked the narrow, cobbled streets of Old Town with its colorful shops and stalls and pavement cafes. Dusk gave the air a quietly lavender hue, one Sasha stored away knowing she’d have to paint it. Old, sunbaked buildings, madly blooming pots of flowers, a bold red cloth hanging on a line overhead among other linens, waiting to be brought in and put away.
If she thought about perspective, tone, texture, she wouldn’t have to think about what she was doing. Walking around in a strange place with people she didn’t know.
She marveled at how easily Riley and Bran exchanged small talk, envied their ability to be in the moment. They gave every appearance of enjoying a pretty evening in an ancient place with the scents of grilled lamb and spices in the air.
“What appeals?” Bran asked. “Indoors or out?”
“Why waste a good clear night inside?” Riley said.
“Agreed.”
He found a place, as if by magic, near the green of the park, where the tables sat under the trees and fairy lights. Happy music played somewhere nearby—close enough to add some fun, far enough not to intrude.