“Regardless,” Margaux said somewhat grimly, like someone doing work they did not look forward to. “My Archivist did good work, it seems, bringing you back here.” That wasn’t precisely how Orfeus remembered it, but that wasn’t important: Margaux said, drearily, “It would seem we owe you.”

Orfeus cocked her head, considering. A good person would say she needed no thanks for doing what was right. And she didn’t, she honestly didn’t, but it wasn’t like the task was done. “I ask only for a boon,” she said.

Margaux’s jaw tightened. “Name your favour.”

Up to one half of my kingdom, Orfeus thought wildly. “Oh, many people favour me,” Orfeus said cheerfully. Margaux gave a gimlet glare. Orfeus sighed, and stretched out her hands with a smile. “All I want is to play a show in your town.”

“Oh,” Margaux said. She hovered back a little. “Reasonable,” she said, grudgingly. She waved a hand, dismissing it. “You will have full access to our performance space and whatever tools your trade requires.” Her voice had only the slightest touch of disdain, which probably showed restraint.

Orfeus grinned hugely. “Oh, you won’t regret it,” she said. “This show’s going to be unforgettable.”

Tools of the trade turned out to mean a winding and spacious museum full of ancient treasures and lore, a place nearly as beautiful as the gutted lab had been awful. Nearly the inverse of it. She’d stepped out from hell and earned heaven.

For now. And for good purpose.

Still, she was being set loose in a room of treasures. The show would be soon, tonight. She should concentrate. “Focus,” Orfeus said aloud. She trailed off into a different room, not even one with stringed instruments, and grinned hugely. “Oh, lovely, lovely…” Flutes, all manner of flutes. Once, they had made these out of silver. Orfeus reached out a hand and rested it carefully against the thin clear glass, staring at the places to rest the fingers, imagining the music that would come out. A bright silver song.

Rivasoa would bid her to focus, too, but Rivasoa was in conference with the council about how best to investigate. Orfeus had given her more than twelve minutes, she’d given her a full twenty, and Rivasoa hadn’t yet found any more energy blips or found the next place to look into. She didn’t have more time than that, not that she held it against Rivasoa. It had been a stark and upsetting place.

She walked into a room full of guitars and grinned her brightest, truest grin. Shadows could not reach her here, no tubes could sneak from her memory and slide into her neck: there were guitars.

The display followed the progression of time, right from ouds up to lutes up to guitars like Galahad, many-coursed, then the design of guitars that folk called classical, five-stringed and many-fretted. Orfeus hummed at them admiringly.