“Then you’d better get back,” she said, turning to go. “We’re in a blind spot here,” she called over her shoulder, “but he’ll notice if we stay too long.”

He stood in the snow and watched her stride away.

He should have been relieved, or even delighted, to know he had an ally on the security team. What he felt was confused.

He’s not a python, he thought, stubbornly. He’s not a monster. Is he?

By the time he got back to the mansion his happy mood had dissipated, and he mostly felt wet and cold. He ate the breakfast Lily had made him—rice with bean sprouts and a soft egg, good with sriracha—then went up to his room and found the tablet. There was an email waiting for him.

Glad you like it, mi vida, it said. Feliz cumpleaños. Wish we could have gone out to celebrate.

In the real world, he and Marissa usually communicated via text, which was not allowed here in Oberonville. So their emails tended to be text-like—terse, to the point, full of shorthand and in-jokes.

He typed, Me too. I miss you. Hope the paps aren’t bothering you too much. Hitting Send, he ran downstairs to fetch the mandolin. Then he sat cross-legged on his bed, tuning the instrument.

The tablet pinged, and he set down the mandolin to read it. They’re assholes. They yell at you just to get a reaction. I still can’t wrap my head around you and the cultural envoy of the Otherworld doing something so hipster as a podcast.

Maybe he is a hipster, typed Ángel. No one would know. Hence the podcast.

I think it’s working, she wrote. The podcast is huge. People just call it O-Pod. There are podcasts about the podcast. There are blogs and social media networks and it’s like a social movement.

I stopped reading about it when they started talking about what a hot tamale I am, he admitted. So tell me about you? Have you run into Trina lately? Trina was Marissa’s ex-girlfriend; the last he’d heard, she’d been determined to woo her back.

The tablet pinged. Operation Trina is off, said the email. Met someone different.

Intriguing. All emails went through security; both Chandler and Oberon had access to this. Would Chandler get in trouble if the envoy knew she was talking to Marissa? Would Marissa get hurt? Did she know where Chandler’s loyalties lay? Because Ángel didn’t.

Carefully, he typed, I dreamed that love would never die, I dreamed that God would be forgiving. But there are dreams that cannot be and there are storms we cannot weather.

Send.

Five minutes later: I’ll keep that in mind. You take care, Angela.

You too, Mickey.