“The privacy being violated is yours.” Oberon regarded Ángel gravely. “You have avoided celebrity until now. Is it too much for you? Do you want to stop doing the podcast?”

“Hell no.” Ángel glared at the tablet, the headlines laden with coded homophobia and racism. “Screw these people. Let’s record more today. What do you think about John Lennon?”

Chapter 14

A message from the Otherworld arrived that week.

The rose bush in Oberon’s office began to softly glow at around nine in the morning. By evening it was brilliant, radiating golden light and an intoxicating floral scent, so powerful and heady that it filled the house and made Ángel dizzy. When the moon rose, the plant produced a small, oval wooden box filled with what looked like seeds. Oberon told Lily that he wasn’t to be interrupted, and locked himself in his office. Ángel brought him lunch on a tray but didn’t stay to eat with him, not wanting to interrupt his rapt concentration.

At dinnertime, he brought him another tray. Oberon ignored him. His lunch hadn’t been touched.

The next morning, Lily said that she hadn’t seen Oberon; he must have skipped his usual exercise routine and gone straight to his office.

He didn’t come out for lunch. He didn’t come out for dinner. Ángel’s anxiety grew.

Something was wrong. He was sure of it.

Eventually, chewing his thumbnail, he went to the kitchen bank of monitors and queued up the feed for Oberon’s office.

He was in there, at his desk. His head was down on his folded arms, his thick pale hair falling forward to conceal his face. The posture of his shoulders, his bowed head, spoke of dejection and defeat.

“Lily, you can call John, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “I can call John. I can’t call out, though.”

“Will you ask John to check the video feed of Oberon’s office? I want to know if Oberon has come out of there at all since the message arrived.”

She called and spoke to her husband while Ángel stood and watched the monitor. After a few minutes, Lily hung up and said, “John says he’s been there all night. He hasn’t moved in hours.”

“This is bad,” said Ángel. “He could be sick or dead or something.”

“Yes.”

“Someone should go see.”

Lily nodded. She looked pale. She had known Oberon for years, but she was clearly afraid to go into that office. “Should I—should I ask Chandler to come?”

“No. I’ll go. I’ll do it.”

He went through the foyer into the music room, and then stood uncertainly outside the door of the office. His heart was beating fearfully. Why? Oberon needed help. Ángel was, bizarrely, Oberon’s closest friend, the only person who would do this for him.

He pushed open the door.