The restaurant was warm on a mild December evening.
The windows were open a crack, the late evening air drifting in, the city lights bleeding through in soft halos. Inside, the lighting was low and golden, the tables set with white cloths and small candles. The murmur of other diners was a comfortable hum beneath the clink of glasses and silverware.
Arianne and Franz arrived together. The maître d' recognized them — or recognized Franz, at least — and led them toward the back of the restaurant without asking for a name. They were halfway across the room when a young woman stood up from her table.
"Excuse me — Noah? Mr. Hart?"
She was young. Early twenties. Nervous in the way fans were when they weren't sure if they should approach. Her friend was still seated, phone half-raised, debating whether to take a picture.
