And much later, they would come home, celebrate with family, refreshments, tangerine juice, and tea.

Finally, Shizuka would play her violin. Katrina would think it a celebration. She need not know it was farewell.

And then it would be midnight.

Katrina would be fine. With this win, she need never worry about money or career again. Shirley was with her, and Astrid, and the music she played, the music Shizuka had so cherished, would now be hers.

And Lan?

She didn’t want to think about leaving Lan. But Lan would be okay. She was a starship captain with a donut shop. And in 246 years, a level-five gamma ray burst would illuminate this solar system like the music of the spheres. Lan had told her that day, as they tossed donuts into the lake.

Lan said it would be the most beautiful spectacle ever.

Yet surely it would be even more beautiful reflected within Donut Lady’s eyes.

“No one has ever matched you,” Astrid had told her.

At the time, all she had said was that it was Katrina’s turn to shine.

And yes, it was.

But what about her? Had she really spent enough breakfasts with Astrid? Had she really spent enough lessons with Katrina?

Had she really spent enough nights with Lan?

Yes, it was time for her student to live, but …

Oh, Satomi … how sad, how selfish, to feel that your song is ending just as you are remembering how to sing. Shizuka glanced around her room.

It really was empty, wasn’t it?

The Queen of Hell reached for her violin.

And then she released the light.

It was the night before the Golden Friendship Violin Competition.

Katrina tossed and turned. The house was on fire. Miss Satomi was being dragged away. Her skin was burning, her hair … An old man watched and laughed.

She sat up in bed and looked around. A nightmare? Pre-performance jitters?

She took a deep breath. Calm down. Calm down.

She tried to go back to sleep, but the entire house seemed too warm. She put on her slippers and quietly walked into the night.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star…” whispered a voice behind her.

Katrina swung around.

“W-who are you?”

“I am so sorry to scare you,” the old man said. “My name is Tremon Philippe.”

“What do you want?” Katrina glanced nervously for a stick with some nails, or a bottle she could break. But she wasn’t on the streets of Oakland. She was in a placid backyard garden overlooking Monterey Park.

Shit. In her goth days, she’d at least have had a crucifix.

Tremon held his hands open. They were terrifyingly gentle.

“I mean no harm.” The demon spoke like Katrina imagined a grandfather might. “I would simply like to wish you luck for tomorrow. And perhaps, help level your playing field.”

“And you’re visiting all the contestants this way?” Katrina said defiantly.