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“I’m glad.”

Diana grabbed a basket, marching through the sliding doors like a woman on a mission.

“I gotta go,” Ali said in a breathless rush. “Can I call you later?”

Charlotte’s chin bobbed. “Of course.”

An hour or so later, her apartment smelled like the spices flavoring the ingredients simmering in a brand new stock pot, filling her apartment with a fragrant aroma.

Willow, lover of Davenport women, melted across Diana’s shoulder, purring loud enough to rattle the windows. Diana scratched behind her ears and flipped through Ali’s sketches. A look of concentration traced her expression, mirroring one Charlotte sometimes wore.

A knock jolted Ali from her focus. She hurried to the door, hopeful for Charlotte, a delivery, or anything easy.

“Ms. Coleman—hi. I didn’t know you were coming.” She stepped aside to let Leah in, staring down at her socks. Her heart climbed up into her throat as she braced for the blow. Leah would ask to see her progress and she had nothing to show. Then it would be blatantly obvious she couldn’t handle the pressure.

Steel-gray eyes appraised her with quiet precision. It prickled over Ali’s skin, stoking the panic that still lurked under her ribs. She reached for her locket, and reminded herself she was doing better—much better—than yesterday. But she was still unmoored and full of noise.

“Part of working with me,” Leah said, taking the door from Ali and closing it behind her, “is that I’m here to guide you when needed. You’re new to this kind of demand. I’d be more surprised if you didn’t need support.”

“Really?” Ali asked, peeking up at her.

Leah dipped her chin, then smirked when Diana called from the studio, claiming she had a “wonderful idea,” and something eased in Leah’s posture. Leah moved toward the studio, all stately grace. The harsh edges of her features softened in Diana’s presence.

The two women bent over her sketches, debating and laughing, offering critique where it mattered, encouragement where her doubts nagged. Together they coaxed her to share her own thoughts, only ever adjusting her direction and never taking the reins.

And the realization hit her with the force of a falling star… her village was growing into something real and safe. And for the first time in years, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

She was sorting through her photos of Charlotte, every angle and candid shot she ever captured, every little moment she hoped to translate onto canvas.

Her phone vibrated insistently in her hand, breaking her focus.

A familiar silhouette appeared in the image preview, and without thinking she answered not bothering to read the caller ID.

“Hello, my moon,” Ali chirped, the pool of warmth she always held in her chest for Charlotte expanded into an ocean.

“Hello, darling,” came the reply, only her tone wasn’t quite right. Not as deep or as velvet-smooth as Charlotte tended to sound when she used that endearment.

Ali sat forward and peered out her studio window at the late afternoon sun. “Are you alright?”

“Better now,” she replied, giggling in a very un-Charlotte sort of way.

A prickle of confusion skated down Ali’s spine. “Are you still coming over this weekend when you get back?” she asked, hoping this wasn’t an oddly delivered cancellation.

“No,” came a dramatic drawl. “I have plans with my fiancée.”

Ali’s brain stalled. She yanked the phone back, squinting at the caller ID.

Lizzie Davenport

“Oh my god. I’ve been bamboozled.”

Lizzie’s laugh rang bright and delighted through the speaker, and Ali couldn’t help but match it.

“It happens more often than you’d think.”

Ali wasn’t sure what to make of that. “You’ve never called me before,” she said, moving to curl into her squash armchair.

“I just wanted to call and tell you to drink water,” Lizzie stated, a playful smirk evident in her tone. “Charlotte said you’ve been working really hard, so I wanted to remind you to take care of yourself.”