Oberon said, “I am sure there is a music store in Atlanta. Why don’t we ask them to bring some guitars here? Victor will give them coffee.”

“There’s protests,” Victor reminded them.

“Oh, man, are you kidding me?” piped up Marissa, pulling her phone out of her purse. “Atlanta music store employees would fight through actual war to bring Ángel Cruz a new guitar. Can you even imagine better publicity?”

She was right. Two salespeople, Shawn and Caitlyn, arrived from Maple Street Guitars, pushing a wheeled cart stacked with black cases. They were smiling when they arrived, but as soon as they saw the fae, they both visibly flinched. Ángel thought the woman was going to run away.

“It’s okay,” he said. “They’re totally harmless. Come in. They’re busy tuning that piano, so we’ll go into the dining room. You don’t have to worry about them.”

They stacked the cases on the dining room table, clearly nervous but gamely sticking to their sales pitches while ignoring the sound of piano tuning from the other room. Marissa and Ángel opened them and lifted the guitars from their velvet-lined shells. He immediately rejected a fancy Ovation that had hardwood inlays in the top.

“That one’s pretty,” said Victor.

“Don’t like a fancy soundboard,” said Ángel, closing the case and putting the Ovation aside. He played all the others, one by one, chatting with the salespeople about the features of each guitar.

He kept returning to a cutaway Taylor whose strings seemed to spring like live things under his fingertips. Medullary rays fanned across the spruce top, shining like silver under the lacquer. Its tone was warm, golden, surprisingly loud for a smaller instrument.

“That one keeps calling your name, doesn’t it?” asked Caitlyn with a smile.

“Yeah.” He smiled back at her and played a few licks of “Guantanamera.” The notes rang out, filling the apartment effortlessly. Shawn grabbed another guitar and played along. Marissa found wooden spoons and tapped out the rhythm on the back of a chair.

From the other room, the piano responded with the old Cuban song’s simple rhythmic counterpoint. Ángel grinned, closed his eyes, and played. Invisibly, from the parlor, Oberon accompanied them.

“This is so cool,” whispered Caitlyn. “It’s just like O-Pod.”

After “Guantanamera,” Oberon began playing something exquisite and soft on the now perfectly tuned piano.

“That’s— Is that Mozart?” said Shawn.

“Would you like to meet Oberon and Mendel? They’re nice. You’ll see.”

“It’s true,” said Marissa. “I met them today, and look, I’m still alive.”

So the guitar store employees met Oberon and Mendel, and they gave Ángel a deep discount on the Taylor, and then they stayed and drank wine and played a few songs on the guitars together. Mendel, who knew none of the words, la-la-la-ed along unselfconsciously, his lovely alto voice forging harmonies on the fly.