Kendrick and Zephany walked side by side, the fading midday sun casting long, honeyed shadows along the cobbled street. The town's charm deepened in the soft glow of late afternoon: ivy-draped facades, pastel paint peeling like sun-bleached parchment, and the distant hum of conversation spilling out from café doors.
Zephany paused at a narrow alley that opened into a courtyard. "Look—an artists' collective. Local painters displaying outdoors."
He angled closer. "Perfect. Break time from being tourists and spies." He winked, leading her inside.
They drifted among canvases perched on easels—impressionist landscapes, abstract spirals, portraits with stormy eyes. A slim woman in paint-splattered overalls offered them pamphlets, and Zephany accepted with a careful smile.
Kendrick lingered before a bold, geometric portrait—harsh angles, blazing color. He glanced at Zephany, waiting for her reaction.
"Modern," he offered.
