There was no violence, no move to self-destruct. By now, Floresta was sure that this was not the Endplague. But in some ways, it was worse.

Starrgate Donut was thriving, and the family was settling in. Windee and Edwin would start school in the fall. Shirley and Katrina had even devised a way to stuff both projector and reactor into a backpack, and now the two of them could go shopping, or wherever else those two would go.

Lanny had delivered them to safety. But why, for her, had there been so very little peace? And now what must she be feeling when the woman she loved was beyond her power to save?

More and more often, Floresta would catch her niece staring in the direction of their Empire. And from behind her locked door, Floresta would hear her niece listening to music, thin and faint, as if Lan Tran herself were wasting away.

However, this morning, for the first time since November, Lan had summoned Shirley for a status update.

“Aunty, I hope Shirley can help Mom,” Edwin said.

“I hope so, too.”

Floresta tried to be optimistic. It was a good sign that Lanny had called for her daughter. After all, some things, a parent can only confide in her grown child.

Maybe she could talk to Shirley, really talk to her, tell her everything she was feeling about losing Shizuka. But who was Floresta kidding? It was far more likely they had created protocols to hire more staff.

Aunty Floresta’s best guess was that after Shizuka … after Shizuka Satomi died, Lan would bring the stargate to full power, then take the runabout and return Markus to the Empire herself.

That sounded like something Lan would do.

But after that? There would still be the Endplague. And Lan would be alone. Before she could ponder this any further, Shirley’s voice spoke over the intercom.

“Hello, everyone. Mother would like the crew to assemble in the control room.”

It was the night before the Golden Friendship Violin Competition.

Friendship? Competition? Shizuka Satomi thought of every contest she had won, every rival she had targeted and broken. Even now, she could feel her bones remembering … her fingers curling, her neck tilting, her back gracefully arching to meet the lights …

She thought of every student whom she’d taught to do the same.

How did other people perceive time? Where were their largos, andantes, vivaces? Where were their accelerandos, their rubatos, rallentandos?

She recalled every endless hour of practice, every Thanksgiving put off, Christmas missed, birthday forgotten.

And now it was February, once again.

Once again there was a competition, and tomorrow Katrina would play magnificently. Yes, it was Bartók, and many would find it strange. And, of course, many would find her strange.

But she was Katrina Nguyen, the final, finest student of the Queen of Hell.

Afterward, there would be flowers, applause, celebrations, mingling, all sorts of praise and promises made.