“Maybe you have fresh perspective on Rachmaninov that we never thought of,” said Ángel. “I mean, obviously. How could you not? And how will people know, unless they listen to what you have to say?”

“I suppose.”

“But the music, the music wouldn’t really be the point. People would listen because it’s you.”

Oberon was watching him intently. “You are enthusiastic about this idea.”

“It could work. What could go wrong? If it doesn’t, we’ll stop doing it.” Ángel smiled at him, bouncing on his toes. “Want to try?”

Slowly, Oberon said, “You think if people learned who I am, they would be less afraid of me? Not more?”

“No, of course not more. Absolutely. They’d get to know you. They’d get to know you, not the elf-lord, not the monster from another world, not the scary face. Then they’d learn that you’re just a—a person. Who loves music. Not a threat. And then maybe you could go places and not be stuck here all the time.”

“That would be welcome.” Oberon’s voice had gone soft. “I’ll talk to the DOR. What we’re doing now isn’t working.”

Ángel grinned and headed for the door.

“Will you come back?”

“I’m just gonna go to the kitchen. I left the tablet there.”

“Yes. When you’re done, come back?”

Ángel hesitated. The fae must be really craving company. “Okay,” he said. “Let me go get it.”

So he fetched the tablet and came back to the office and curled up on the couch. First he went to the library’s website and reserved some books on podcasting. Then he began surfing how-to blogs.

Oberon started the Rachmaninov again. This time maybe a different performance, with a different orchestra and pianist, though Ángel wasn’t sure.

When the concerto finished, Oberon broke the silence. “What sorts of books does Lily bring you?”

“Um, novels,” said Ángel. “Stories.”

“Like what?”

“I’m reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez.” He sensed the expectation in the air, and went on, “It’s about a family. How generation after generation they keep making the same kinds of mistakes. It’s good, but it’s also super-sad.” He looked up at Oberon. “Do you like to read? You could send books back to the Otherworld too.”

“I am, but without the annotations. I find reading English rather tiring.”

“Really?”

“I can read,” clarified Oberon. “But your alphabet starts to blur after a while. I prefer to listen.”

“I know a guy who can barely read at all, although he’s very smart. He has dyslexia. His brain has a hard time interpreting written language. He can read music, though, which seems weird. Does our musical notation blur for you too?”

“Not at all. But I find it quite incomplete. There are qualities of sound it cannot capture.”