Daniel Chen did not even glance in Wade's direction, but regarded Nola like a man trying to read her, not a fan in the presence of a star. She wondered why, given his job title, he had made himself scarce in the few days she’d been in China.

Her stylist draped a shawl over her shoulders. She winked at him in a gesture of thanks.

“Fifteen minutes to change before your grand backstage exit.” Wade's teeth shone like those of an animal in the presence of a rival. He patted Nola's bottom, and, responding to a signal from the producer, walked away, taking the assistants with him.

Nola released the lid of the box. On a bed of ruffled satin lay a small, disk-shaped bottle. She held it up to the light to study the miniature image of a firebird, its tail feathers curling downward through the cage bars.

“It’s not painted on the bottle’s exterior, but underneath the glass!” she exclaimed and examined the dainty, exact brushstrokes. “How exquisite.”

Daniel Chen finally spoke again. “It’s the ancient Chinese art of ‘reverse painting.’ The last details are drawn first, inside the bottle.” His voice was unassuming, yet wrapped around something solid. “The artist figures out where to place the wisps of feathers before there’s a wing.”

The snuff bottle’s opening was tiny, the details smaller than she thought possible. What was the subtle Chinese meaning of this gift? Nola's nail traced the fine lines of magenta and mint and aqua in the curling tail. “This is the finest piece of art I’ve ever seen,” she whispered.

“Like your art,” Daniel said. “Few historical figures have imprinted words on people’s hearts the way you did tonight. Your songs unite people with universal emotions.”

Some admirers’ words thrilled her more than others’. A surge of her earlier euphoria swelled up in her. “Thanks.” She smiled at him and was surprised at the glimmer of green in his eyes.

Her stomach rumbled. The only food in her dressing room would be a banana for her potassium fix, but it would have to do. She started walking toward the area below the stage, fearing reaching her dressing room, her reentry to her empty off-stage world. Daniel matched his steps to hers while her bodyguard hung back at a respectable distance.

“You have more power than you may know,” Daniel said.

She laughed softly. “The only ‘power’ a singer has is to make people happy for the moment, for the hour, maybe for the day.”

“Ms. Sands, there’s a place you should see.”

“You must be the one who prepared my itinerary. Isn’t it full?”

His gaze penetrated her, cutting through glamour and fame. “It’s an orphanage that’s not on your official schedule.”

She tightened the shawl about her. We are blessed or are cursed by fate or birthright.