“I am starving to death anyway.” There was resignation and sorrow in Oberon’s voice now. “No one expected me to last this long.”

Ángel opened his eyes. “What?”

Oberon waved a hand. “Nothing. Sometimes I feel melancholy. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Ángel, and then, “No. That isn’t what you meant at all. Don’t lie.”

“Ah, Ángel,” said Oberon, his face expressionless but his voice smiling, “I am very new to lying, you know. I need the practice.”

Since Oberon refused to elaborate on that disturbing comment, they passed the rest of the time talking about the one thing they had in common—music. Ángel was a professional player and performer; he was a competent singer and a good guitarist, he was reliable, and he knew the magic that sometimes stirred to life between fellow musicians, between musicians and audience. But as Oberon talked about his favorite—Mahler—it became clear that the fae’s knowledge of music history and theory far outstripped his.

Oberon seemed to have no conception of what was cool or uncool, high- or lowbrow, popular or elite. He knew that musical styles went in and out of fashion, but he either found this difficult to understand, or he just didn’t care. He gave the same grave attention to the latest K-pop single as to a Wagner aria.

Eventually Chandler let them out of the wine cellar. Ángel was longing for caffeine and went straight to the kitchen to make coffee. “Do you want some?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at Oberon.

“No, thank you. I should try to get some work done today,” said Oberon.

“What are you working on?”

Oberon, evidently in no hurry to retreat behind his office door, leaned on the kitchen counter and watched Ángel putter with coffee beans and water. “I decided to send an ABBA song home.”

“Really?” Ángel turned to stare at him.

“They’ve obviously achieved a high level of cultural significance. I called the DOR and talked to several people, and every one of them knows ABBA and has an opinion. And I like ‘Waterloo.’”

“Well, good,” said Ángel, grinning as he filled the moka pot with water. “That will make a nice change from Mahler.”

“I have listened to both, and I find I prefer ABBA to MelodEye. I hope that does not bother you.”

“You and everyone else,” Ángel assured him. “We MelodEye stans are a rare breed.”

“But translating ‘Waterloo’ has become a problem. I had to look up the battle, and then the Napoleonic Wars, and then the French Revolution. I think it might require too much annotation to be a good choice.”

Ángel put the pot on a burner and opening a cabinet for the sugar. “I love that song, but the lyrics are a little, um. I guess it was a pretty horrible battle. I wouldn’t want to try to explain how that spells ‘romance.’”