There was jazz, not Coltrane this time, but something else altogether, something he liked a whole lot less: a hyperactive horn, a big band, Stan Kenton? Or no: Maynard Ferguson. Word had it he was a friend of Tim’s, and why not? Ferguson had no doubt given him the album, one amigo to another, and what was he getting in return? The same thing they all were, a session, the chance to participate in an experiment with an agent that broke down the barriers and opened you up to yourself and the universe in a way that redefined consciousness. Fitz had no complaint with that, though if it was his choice he’d stick with a combo, absolutely.

Joanie crossed the room to set the wine on the sideboard and immediately a man he didn’t recognize took it up, applied a corkscrew to it and poured out two glasses, one for her, one for himself. Fitz was just standing there observing all this and trying to decide whether he should go to the bar for a drink or seek out Tim, who was all the way across the room in conversation with Brenda—or no, it was another blonde, not Brenda at all—when he felt a tug at his arm and turned round on Fanchon.

“Oh, good,” she said, her accent elongating the vowels, “good you are here. We missed you the last time. Or times, more than one, isn’t that right?” A wide smile. “Too busy studying?”

“I guess,” he said lamely. She smelled strongly of something, not perfume, something familiar, homey, and what was it? “I like the scent you’re using,” he said.

“Oh, this? It is just vanilla extract, that is all. Do you like it? Cheaper than Chanel—plus, in a pinch, you can drink it.”

“Maybe I should let Joanie know.”

“Good idea,” she said, taking a sip of her drink (a martini, from the pitcher on the bar that was only a pitcher and nothing more, at least not yet). “Always prudent to save on money, especially when you are a student and you have to live like a peasant, no? She’s looking nice tonight, by the way. I like how she did her hair. And her skirt, I love her skirt. Très chic.”

He didn’t know what to say to this, but he took it as a kindness: if Joanie looked good, so did he.

“But”—and here Fanchon dropped her gaze so the light caught her lashes and the black feathers of mascara at the corners of her eyes—“you had better watch out.”

“What do you mean?”

“For her.”

She lifted her eyes to his and he gave her a puzzled look. “I’m watching,” he said.

“You know who is this man pouring the wine?”