“Ms. Morgan,” the man said, touching the side of his big nose. His attention went over my shoulder and out the back window. “Hope I didn’t startle you.”

His voice was deep and carefully schooled. Beautiful. I was a sucker for beautiful voices. “Um, no.” Setting my shades aside, I unwound my scarf. “How are you doing? Your hair looks…great.”

He laughed, easing my nervousness. We had met five years ago and had coffee over a conversation centering on the trials of curly hair. That he not only remembered me but also wanted to talk was flattering. “It looks like hell,” he said, touching the long frizz that had been in dreadlocks when we last met. “But my p.r. woman says it ups my sales by two percent.” He stretched his long legs out to take up almost the entirety of one side of the limo.

I smiled. “You need another charm to tame it?” I said, reaching for my bag.

My breath caught in alarm. “Jenks!” I exclaimed, jerking the bag open.

Jenks came boiling out. “About time you remembered me!” he snarled. “What the Turn is going on? I nearly snapped my wing falling onto your phone. You got M&M’s all over your purse, and I’ll be dammed before I pick them up. Where in Tink’s garden are we?”

I smiled weakly at Takata. “Ah, Takata,” I started, “this is—”

Jenks caught sight of him. A burst of pixy dust exploded, lighting the car for an instant and making me jump. “Holy crap!” the pixy exclaimed. “You’re Takata! I thought Rachel was pissing on my daisies about knowing you. Sweet mother of Tink! Wait until I tell Matalina! It’s really you. Damn, it’s really you!”

Takata reached over and adjusted a knob on an elaborate console, and heat poured out of the vents. “Yeah, it’s really me. Do you want an autograph?”

“Hell, yes!” the pixy said. “No one will believe me.”

I smiled, settling myself farther into the seat, my fluster vanishing at Jenks’s star fawning. Takata tugged a picture of him and his band standing before the Great Wall of China from a dog-eared folder. “Who do I make it out to?” he said, and Jenks froze.

“Uh…” he stammered, his hovering wings going still. I shot my hand out to catch him, and his featherlight weight hit my palm. “Um…” he stuttered, panicking.

“Make it out to Jenks,” I said, and Jenks made a tiny sound of relief.

“Yeah, Jenks,” the pixy said, finding the presence of mind to flit over to stand on the photo as Takata signed it with an illegible signature. “My name is Jenks.”

Takata handed me the picture to carry home for him. “Pleasure to meet you, Jenks.”

“Yeah,” Jenks squeaked. “Nice to meet you, too.” Making another impossibly high noise to get my eyelids aching, he darted from me to Takata like an insane firefly.