Over canned soup for lunch, he and Oberon decorously discussed hip-hop. They listened to Nas, Tupac, Rakim, and the Hamilton cast recording. They talked about how in the early days of the genre, people with no money, no instruments, and no musical education had still responded to the call to create music. The conversation ranged over topics. It never touched upon the personal, though.

Ángel was starting to feel a little uncertain. Had last night been a one-time thing? Were they done?

Hamilton prompted questions from Oberon about American history, and the etiquette of interpreting historical events using anachronistic musical styles.

“I’m probably the wrong person to talk to about that,” Ángel said. “I don’t actually care, so long as the songs are good.”

“Artists can use whatever they want?”

“Well, pretty much. If they pay for it. Maybe even if they don’t.”

“Really, Ángel. And you are a professional musician.”

“Like you. Hey, do you pay for the songs that you send back to the Otherworld?”

“Of course I offer to,” said Oberon. “That is, the DOR has intellectual property lawyers who handle it. I tell them which songs I want, and they secure the rights. Sometimes I talk to the artists. No one has outright refused me so far. Most artists allow me to send their songs to the Otherworld for free.”

“Do you make artists pay for sampling yours?”

“A pittance. I don’t need the money, but I’m interested in the impact of fae culture on Earth music. It’s impossible to quantify, but the permissions help me keep track of direct influences.”

“How much money do you have?” wondered Ángel, thinking of the ten million dollars that Oberon had paid to his father’s victims.

“More than enough.”

After lunch, Ángel left Oberon in the arms of Kendrick Lamar and went for a walk around the estate. He half expected Chandler to come out to talk to him, but to his relief she didn’t. Plowing through the thigh-deep drifts of snow added a level of aerobic difficulty, and he was wet, sore, and tired when he made it back. He changed into dry clothes and settled in the swan chair with his guitar.

He felt a little unsettled. Anxious. He checked the tablet to see if Marissa had anything else to say. She didn’t.

He began playing the repetitive, rolling guitar lead from “Jane Says” by Jane’s Addiction: G, A; G, A; G, A. Again and again. It was easy to play and he liked the sound—it never changed. It soothed his nerves.

After a while, Oberon came out of his office. As he seated himself in the turquoise chair, he made a small gesture with one hand as if to say keep going, so Ángel continued to play. G, A, G, A, round and round. Oberon picked up the Yamaha guitar and held it across his lap, not playing, twiddling the pick between his fingers.