“Well.” Oberon leaned gracefully back in the swan chair and pulled his feet up, curling his legs beneath him. “It’s about love and sex and fear and anger and joy. The same as your music.”

Ángel dropped his eyes to the tablet as his face heated, the weirdness of the situation feeling hollow in his chest.

“Also,” continued Oberon, “we have many pieces of music about trees. It seems strange to me how few tree songs you have.”

“Tree songs?”

“Yes, joy in a tree, grief when a tree dies. You don’t ever seem to sing about that.”

“No,” admitted Ángel. “I can’t think of any.”

That’s when his eye fell on the yellow dot next to “Hopelessly Devoted to You” by Olivia Newton-John. His vision blurred the dot into a smear of yellow.

He bit his lip and tapped the song.

Swoony opening chords. Then the love ballad from Grease filled the room. Ángel snickered. By the time the song reached its climactic conclusion he was doubled over laughing, the tablet having fallen from his nerveless fingers to the carpet.

Oberon sat in chilling silence. Ángel tried to get control of himself, but when he thought of the elves of the Otherworld listening to Sandy’s lament for Danny, the hysteria bubbled up again. “Oh God,” he said, giggling. “I’m sorry.”

“Why does that song make you laugh?” asked Oberon.

“It’s— I mean—”

“It expresses a universal sentiment,” said Oberon gravely. “The pain of rejection. Loss of love. And she has a very attractive voice.”

“No, she does.” Ángel laughed again. “She absolutely does. It’s— There’s cultural associations that I’m not sure I can explain.”

“Do you refer to the movie? I watched it. I didn’t really understand it.”

“Oh, no, no, don’t watch the movie,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Don’t send Grease to the Otherworld. They’ll obliterate us with death-magic.”

“They wouldn’t. We don’t obliterate people,” said Oberon, possibly not realizing that Ángel was joking. “I’ve already obtained her permission to send the song, though. We spoke on the phone.”

“You talked to Olivia Newton-John on the phone?”

“She seemed quite nice.”

Ángel made the mistake of staring at him. Oberon stared back. His eyes shone like citrines, the way a leopard in a tree watches an antelope.

Chapter 5

Ángel groped for a topic to help them move past the awkward moment. “You don’t seem to have any Cuban music.”

“I would like some,” said Oberon. “My collection of popular music is skewed toward American artists; it would be good to include more from other cultures. Will you make me a list? I’ll buy some.”

“You could just tell Evanston to give me my phone back,” suggested Ángel. “I have a lot.”

“You brought a phone?”