Ángel scrolled, chewing the inside of his lip. It seemed unlikely that the Otherworld would send one guy in eight years, just to have him listen to and annotate songs. But he only said, “This is a cool idea. How do you decide which to include?”

“I try to pick pieces that are significant. Historically interesting. Illustrative of some factor of human character. Although truly, much of it is personal taste.”

“I’ve never even heard of some of this stuff. I see you’re sending lots of Mahler.”

“Yes. I admire Mahler.” Oberon’s voice had gone warm. “Do you like Mahler?”

“I haven’t listened to much classical music. I guess I’ll have time to do that now. Ay, so many show tunes.”

“I’m still working my way through those. Chandler recommended them.”

“Chandler Evanston? Really?” Ángel smiled at the thought of the cool chief of security listening to Les Misérables. “I wouldn’t have spotted her for a typical show-tune fan.”

“What is a typical show-tune fan like?”

“Oh. A queer like me, I suppose. But that just goes to show you can’t make generalizations. I think Les Mis is terrible. But probably, if you wanted to understand show tunes, you’d need to see the shows live. So you’d get the context.”

“I’d like that.”

“Hmm, who recommended all this Pink Floyd?”

“I think he was on a list of great rock and roll,” said Oberon. “You can see I have not listened to him yet, either.”

“They. It’s a band. I had a big Floyd phase when I was a teenager, but it’s been ages since I listened to them.” Ángel selected “Run Like Hell,” hit Play, and David Gilmour’s guitar chattered menacingly through the room.

They sat and listened to the song together—driving power chords, ominous lyrics, weird laughter echoing over thumping rhythm guitar. When it was over, Oberon asked, “Do you like that?”

“I love it.” Ángel looked up at the envoy for the first time. “Do you?”

“I’m not sure.”

Ángel smiled. “No? But you really would have to listen to the whole album. It’s a story about a man who is slowly losing his mind; that song is, like, a paranoid fantasy he’s having. Their guitarist es volao.”

“Volao?” repeated Oberon, eyes on Ángel’s face.

“Crazy good. Listen to this one, I think it’s like their most famous song.”

Ángel played “Comfortably Numb.” When Gilmour launched into the closing guitar solo, Ángel closed his eyes, letting the sound swell and soar through his chest. As the music faded into silence, he opened his eyes, and found that Oberon was still watching him.

He swallowed, looked away. Come on, Ángel, get it together. He could manage a polite conversation about music. “What do you make music about in the Otherworld?”

“Haven’t you heard any?”

“Yes, but I didn’t understand it very much.”