New Story, and a long one. Take that, not updating for months! Um, I still don't know how to indent on here, if i can? So lots of space to make this readable. If anyone's reading who hasn't seen it already. Here it is:

Candida Rocket
in
“I Ain’t Your Nightingale, Florence”


She’ll carry on through it all
She’s a waterfall.
- The Stone Roses, 1989

And when Candida Rocket at last reached the nightclub home of the Gwinn of Darkness, she smiled up at him as he sat in his chair. That can’t be at all comfortable, she thought. Her best friend was turning nineteen tonight, and she really had to play at his party, but she smiled anyway. Maybe it would annoy the bastard.

“Look, Rocket,” said the Gwinn, “I know you don’t like me.”

“Damn right I don’t. Now how about you make this quick, huh? I’ve got somewhere else I’ve gotta be,” said Candida. The room was large and empty, the floor sticky with last night’s alcohol and the air heavy with the Gwinn’s talent for chain-smoking cigars. The Gwinn’s chair sat on a stage, trying to lend himself the authority his five-foot figure lacked. He paused now, lit a new cigar. Behind Candida, the tall man Bel Cadros, who’d escorted her to the nightclub, shifted uncomfortably. The Gwinn hadn’t even acknowledged him, and Candida knew he was bothered by that.

“Now you watch it, Rocket,” the Gwinn said. “I’m not trying to be the asshole here, but you owe me a favor, and you have for a while.”

“You think if I didn’t owe you I’d be here at all?”

“I know you wouldn’t. Like I said, I’m not trying to be the asshole.” The Gwinn shifted in his sweaty chair and pulled another cigar from a compartment in the armrest.

“You’re not doing that good of a job so far.” Candida began to feel more than a little annoyed with the small, sticky man. She absolutely had somewhere much more important to be that he was keeping her from being. “But you do know me, and you know I keep my promises if I can.”

“Good,” said the Gwinn, “That’s what I want to hear. I’m not going to fuck with you, Rocket. This is a good deal for you, too.”

“So just tell me what it is, why don’t you?” Candida said. “Tell me what it is made you have your henchman here drag me down from the streets.”

Behind her, the tall man, cleared his throat. “You know, girl, it’s not as if I liked doing it. Not my job, it’s not. I don’t like having you down here.”

Candida half turned her head towards him. “I don’t give a good goddamn what you think, man. I haven’t liked bouncers since sixth grade. You’re right, though – I don’t like being down here either. Gives me the willies.”

“That’s cos you don’t belong here, girl. You’re not a part of our subculture, and you probably never will be.”

Candida turned back to the Gwinn and looked straight into his eyes. “You know, I should fucking hope not,” she said. “Now why don’t you tell me what the story is, before I finally get completely pissed and leave?”

“I need a new house band, Rocket,” said the Gwinn. “My old one quit yesterday – which is okay with me, I was tired of them anyway –so I need a replacement.”

“And you want me? You must be crazy, man. I think I’m great, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who does,” said Candida.

“I just want someone who won’t bore me, that’s all,” said the Gwinn, lighting another cigar as he spoke, “And you’ve been many things in the time I’ve known you, but boring’s not one of them.”

“Well, I totally have somewhere else to be,” said Candida, “but I owe you pretty big, and if you’re calling in your favor then I don’t think I have much choice.”

“Hold on,” said the Gwinn, “I’m not just offering you this gig flat out.” He shifted again in his chair, reached behind himself to adjust his sweaty pants, and Candida had to struggle to keep from laughing at him.

“Stop being coy, then,” she said. “Just tell me exactly what the fuck’s going on, okay?”

“You see, Rocket,” said the Gwinn, “this is a gig that everyone wants to end up with. and so you’re going to have to compete against the other two who’ve applied for the job, in order to get it.”

“What if I lose?” said Candida.

“You lose, you can go home,” said the Gwinn. “You lose, you’ll be much more boring than I remember, and I won’t even want you here anymore.”

Candida smiled. It was only eight, she could still get to Brian’s party with plenty of time to play there, as long as she lost. And how hard could that be?

Gaslight Night Fight

“You can follow me to the back,” said the bouncer Bel Cadros. “You can wait there until the club fills up.”

Backstage was brightly lit with large Victorian lamps, a maze of interconnecting rooms and tiny hallways. The floor was covered in discarded cigarette butts and tiny tiles spelling out words Candida didn’t recognize: addoed, annwn, caddug, gaeth, ymwaca. She followed the tall man, left and right and left again and again, until she had no idea how to find her way back to the stage. Noticing her staring at the floor inscriptions, he commented lightly, “You’re better off not reading them, to tell the truth, which I rarely do.”

“Should I thank you for doing it now, then?” said Candida.

“You’re not doing a good job hiding your nervousness, girl,” he said. “Anyway, here’s your room, there’s everything you need here.”

Candida looked around. The dressing room looked exactly as Candida had always imagined one would: mirror surrounded by lightbulbs, counter with every possible kind of makeup, stool to sit on while looking in that mirror applying all that makeup. The far wall has a doorway to a bathroom – “That’s for stagefright, if you get it,” said Bel Cadros, and Candida glared at him. Against the far left corner leaned a Rickenbacker Capri 325. “You might want to make sure you tune that before you go on,” the tall man said. “I’m not sure when it was used last.”

“So I’m just supposed to use the guitar, then?” asked Candida. “And how do I get back to the stage?”

“There’ll be a drum kit and bass on stage when you get there. Looping pedal too, since we like to take care of our entertainers here,” said Bel Cadros. “You’ve got a while before you go on, I think.”

Candida turned to the guitar. “I’m supposed to play that?” she said. “I’m not sure I’m nearly cool enough.” When she turned back, Bel Cadros was gone.

“Fuck,” said Candida Rocket. She sat down on the stool and looked at the makeup in front of her. “Well, I guess I’d better start getting ready.” The sooner I get on stage, the sooner I can suck enough to get the hell out of here, she thought. I promised Brian, and I’ve gotta get there.

When Pierre Chan found her fifteen minutes later, Candida was sprawled over the countertop, asleep. “Hey,” he said, “You’re Candida Rocket, right?” When she didn’t respond, he poked her in the shoulder.

“Oh,” Candida said. “Um, sorry, who’re you?”

“I’m Pierre Chan,” he said. “I’m in Bullet Lightning, and, um, we’re one of the other bands playing tonight.”

Candida rubbed her eyes. “Oh yeah, that’s right.”

“How can you possibly be asleep now?” he asked. “I’m so wired right now I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

“That’s just how I handle stress, I go to sleep. It helps,” said Candida, still rubbing her eyes. “You’re sorta cute.”

“Thanks?” said Pierre. “Do you want to go check out the crowd with me?”

“You know how to get back to the stage?” said Candida. She stood up and walked over to grab the Rickenbacker. “Let’s go.”

Peeking out through the cracked door, Candida and Pierre watched the club fill up. The crowd shifted at random, avoiding the area in front of the stage in favor of the bar and the tables and chair which had been put down since Candida left the room. In the right corner, a group had gathered to watch a short blonde girl play Bel Cadros in a game of pool, while across the room three distinct card games had begun. The large room filled steadily, smoke hovering in the rafters far more thickly than the Gwinn alone could have managed.

“Holy shit,” said Candida, backing away from the door and leaning against the opposite wall to support herself.

“What’s wrong?” asked Pierre, letting the door close and stepping over to her.

“That’s so many people,” said Candida, feeling slightly foolish as she spoke.

“Why’s that a problem?” said Pierre, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Aren’t you used to this by now?”

“Dude, the biggest crowd I’ve ever played for was thirty-two people, and I got stage fright so bad I had to get drunk before I went on.”

“But you’re totally famous,” said Pierre.

Candida raised her eyebrow.

“I mean, um, everyone’s heard of you, haven’t they?” said Pierre.

“The things I’m famous for,” said Candida, “I don’t need to look at an audience while I do them.” She turned her head to the left, sensing someone approaching.

“That’s right,” said the newcomer, “The audience is just everyone who pays to download the films at home in private, isn’t it?”

Pierre took his hand off Candida’s shoulder. “Hi, Margaret,” he said.

“Go away, loser,” she said, melting him with a glance. Pierre backed away almost dutifully for about ten steps, then spun and walked as quickly as possible around the nearest corner.

Candida shook her head regretfully. “As if this night couldn’t suck any more, Margaret fucking DeNude has to be here.”

“I could say the same thing about you, bitch,” said Margaret. “As if I’d want to see you anywhere.”

Candida slowly turned to face her arch-nemesis. “So why are you here, then?”

“I’m here cos I want this gig really bad, obviously,” said Margaret. “I’m not sure why they let someone like you into this place, though, much less backstage.”

“Oh,” said Candida as casually as she could manage, “I’m going for the gig too, I suppose.”

“That’s rich!” said Margaret. She looked at Candida for a second. “Wait, you’re serious? You’re the third act Florence told me about? That’s marvelous, this will be an absolute joy. I take back what I said about not wanting you here; it’ll be totally worth it.”

Candida looked around. There was no one in sight, no way to get out of this with her pride intact. “Yeah, well, I’m loads better than I was the last time you saw me,” she said.

“Having a better guitar doesn’t make you a better musician,” said Margaret. “Hey, I get it now, I see what Florence is doing.”

“Get what? And who’s Florence?” asked Candida, realizing she was being baited a second too late.

“Florence?” said Margaret, feigning surprise, “The Gwinn, of course. You mean he doesn’t let you call him by his real name? How sad.” She pulled out a long cigarette, fit it into a longer cigarette holder, and lit it with a pink Zippo. “He’s got you going on last, you see, and I’ve just realized it must be because he feels sorry for you. You’ll need all the help you can get. It’s kind of him, really. But to be honest, I’m pretty sure everyone out there will want nothing more than to laugh at you – the world famous Candida Rocket, making a fool of herself. More than anything else, that’s what they’ll be expecting, and I presume you won’t disappoint them.”

“Yeah, well, whatever.”

“Oh Candida, you really haven’t changed,” said Margaret. “Still as quick-witted as ever.” She took another drag of her cigarette. “Now, I’m going to make sure to be out in the audience for your set. I want this gig more than you can know, and getting it’s going to be so much better when I see you booed offstage before I win it.”

“Shut up, Margaret,” said Candida. “What about that other band? They’re really good.”

“The one that loser you were flirting with is in?” said Margaret. “They suck, dear.” She turned to walk back the way she came, but paused after three steps. “Oh, and Paul would tell me to say hello, I’m sure, if he ever thought of you anymore.”

“I decided a long time ago that I never really wanted him anyway!” yelled Candida. Margaret didn’t respond – pretending to be out of earshot. “I don’t know why I dated him in the first place,” Candida finished lamely and leaned back against the hallway wall.

Fuck this, she thought. I can’t lose to her, not again. Brian might kill me, but he might understand, I hope. It was Margaret DeNude, after all. Candida wished she could find her way back to the dressing room, and curl up on the floor, but she knew she’d only get lost. Better to stay up here by the stage, she figured. I know I’ve got one song I can do great, she told herself, remembering chords with her fingers as she worked at rebuilding her ego.

Battle of the Bands!

Candida was brought out of her reverie by loud, metallic throat clearing noises. She walked over and peered out the door. The crowd had slowly migrated toward the stage, and was uniformly silent except for the couples near the pool table furiously and loudly groping each other. On the stage, the Gwinn loudly cleared his throat again. The couples detached themselves from one another slowly, resentfully, and looked toward the stage.

“Now, at long last, here’s the entertainment you all came for tonight,” said the Gwinn. “I expect you’ll give each of the three groups performing tonight exactly the sort of response they deserve.” The crowd laughed dutifully. “Without further talk, then, I present to you the first of tonight’s three contenders for my new house act, Bullet Lightning!”

As three grubby looking figures strode onstage, about half the crowd clapped loudly as the other half coldly lit assorted cigarettes and joints.

“Hi everybody,” said Pierre from the backup mic. “I’m Pierre, this is Dan on lead vocal and organ, and that’s Sara on backing keys. We’re a power organ trio, and we haven’t showered for five days in anticipation of this night.” He paused and checked his finger placement. “Um, one two three FOUR!”

The song was loud and feverish, jumping through five distinct sections in somewhere under three minutes, and Candida found herself becoming agitated. Wish I had something to drink right about now, she thought, but the sign above the bar said “Don’t even try it!” and she knew that here, of all places, she didn’t want to test the rules. As the first song finished with a three-part drone and Pierre called out, “This next one’s called ‘Skateboarding Apocalypse,’” Candida let the door swing shut. He had been cute, but she couldn’t date someone who could beat her in a contest.

Damnit, she thought, if I could have just gone first this would all be over with. Should’ve tried to make that a condition when I talked to the Gwinn, probably. Too late now. And I really have to win, I really have to be at least better than Margaret’s band. The crowd outside had started dancing. They’re good, Candida thought, but I have to be better. This has to be the performance of my life, which shouldn’t be too hard since it’s been a pretty short one. She went over chords in her head and with her fingers. At least I had Melissa show me how to use a looping pedal, she thought, trying to tune the music out and pretty much succeeding.

“Well,” came the voice of the Gwinn into her thoughts, “That was Bullet Lightning, and if you’ll just keep them in mind so you can rate everyone at the end, we’d all really appreciate it. Next up, as soon as these keyboards are out of the way, is the band you’ve all been waiting for.” There was a brief pause, and then an only half-muffled whisper of “Hurry up!”

Was it even worth listening to this? Candida wondered. “Here they are everyone,” the Gwinn bellowed, “Emptyheaded Toilets, with special guest vocalist Margaret DeNude!”

This time, Candida could tell, the entire crowd cheered. Marvelous, she thought. I’ll probably seem even worse, now. Maybe I can go to sleep for this, if only I could count on someone realizing I’m here and not in my room and waking me up when it’s my turn.

“Hey all,” Margaret said into the lead mic, “Thanks for coming out to see us tonight, and we’ve got CDs and shirts in the back for you to buy afterwards. Ready, guys? Let’s go!”

But even as the music started, Candida could tell something was wrong. Halfway through the first song, Margaret stopped the band. “Hey, could I get some more lead vocal here right now?” she said. “Let’s try that again, guys. On my lead now, one two three one two three.”

But this time too, she stopped the song halfway through, right in the middle of a shriek. “Hey back there, you’ve got my mic hot as shit now, why don’t you try and fix that?” Candida walked to the door and looked out. The crowd seemed equal parts annoyed and amused, while Margaret seemed almost livid. She’s not used to having things go wrong for her, Candida thought. Too fucking bad.

Margaret stepped back up to the mic. “Right, now, this next one’s called “He’ll Never Ride a Rocket Again. Let’s go.” The band wailed, Margaret screeched, and they launched into their most epic song yet. Candida let the door swing shut, hoping no one had realized she was watching. From the hallway, she could hear Margaret’s guitar begin to spiral into feedback, as the band reached cacophony. Suddenly, only the drums and bass were audible: Margaret’s guitar had cut out. “Fuck this!” Candida heard her arch-nemesis yell, and smiled for the first time in what seemed like days. In a minute, she saw Margaret stomping toward her at the far end of the hallway and ducked out onto the club floor until she figured it was safe to go back inside.

“Well,” said the Gwinn from the stage. “That was something, wasn’t it? I guess we might as well bring out our final act now. Some of you may have heard the rumors, and I can assure you they’re true. I have quite a treat for you tonight, and I’m sure you’ll give her a warm welcome. Here she is, Candida Rocket!”

Candida had to run the last few yards to the stage, and found herself a little out of breath as she stepped to the mic. Barely anyone had clapped for her, but she knew how she was perceived by the Gwinn’s clientele. She was quite sure things couldn’t get any worse. “Um, hi, everyone,” she said. “I don’t have much prepared for you tonight, actually I just have one song, but I also have a looping pedal, so it should be okay, right?” She smiled. Not enough people smiled back. “Um,” she said and walked over to the drum kit. She laid down a track, then walked over to where the bass was standing, only almost tripping once on a cord. After laying the bass down, she walked to the mic and picked the Rickenbacker back up, gaining a bit of confidence from the knowledge that it was about thirty times better than the guitar she had at her apartment, and launched into a cover of The Clash’s “Train in Vain.”

Candida could tell she was getting a reaction from the crowd, but the lights on her made it hard to tell what sort. She felt herself sweating under the spotlights’ heat, was aware of the bright glare off her dark skin, willed herself not to hurry through the song, to stay with the beat. Suddenly it was over.

“Thanks, everyone,” Candida said, and was vaguely aware of cheering. Then the Gwinn was beside her guiding her off the stage as he spoke into the mic, “Okay, everyone, now’s the time. Text your choice for winner right now and we’ll have the results on that big screen on the back wall in just a minute.”

Candida slumped against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, drained. She felt someone approaching and looked over to see Pierre beside her. “Hey,” he said, “you were phenomenal, but you’ve gotta get up and go back out there now, he’s calling your name.”

“Candida Rocket, our winner and my new house act!” the Gwinn was yelling through a cigar into the mic, “Let’s get her out here, right now!”

Candida stood and walked up the stairs as if she belonged in a Romero film. As she stepped onto the stage she felt a jolt. What the hell have I done? she thought. I’ll never make it to Brian’s party now. Why did I let Margaret get to me, when I didn’t need to prove anything to her? Miserably, she let the Gwinn raise her arm like a prizefighter for the cheering outstretched crowd and she tried to smile.

Not Looking a Gift Horse in the Mouth

It was through the doors of the club into the middle of this roar of triumph that three men in full medieval armor walked, carrying a large wooden case between them. Abruptly the uproar died, as if swallowed by a black hole. Everyone recognized the emblems on the armor as belonging to the Taxicab Knights, a gang that had a longstanding and terribly bloody feud with the Gwinn that had begun when his son ran off with the daughter of “Devil Alfred” Williamson, head of the Taxicab Knights. The Taxicab Knights were the reason the Gwinn locked his doors so securely at night. There was no way he was going to let this invasion go unchallenged, Candida figured, and she was right.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He bellowed into the mic, causing a screech of feedback, “You’d better have a damn good reason, or else we’ll be sending you back to your boss in a number of small, leaking cardboard boxes.”

“We must most humbly beg your pardon, honorable sir,” said the front knight, “But we have nothing but the most peaceful of intentions in arriving here on this sacred eve. Tonight, as you must well know, marks the seventh anniversary of the start of our quarrel with you, and we have been ordered by our lord to come unarmed into your presence and pay homage and treat of peace with your noble personage.”

The Gwinn, for the first time since Candida had met him, was unable to mutter even a single profanity. The crowd seemed equally astonished.

“Wha, what’s that box you have there?” asked the Gwinn finally.

“This, great sir, is a peace offering for you, in recognition of our intention,” said the knight. “Knowing your love for music, our noble lord has crafted it especially for your enjoyment. If you would wish a demonstration, we will gladly bring it on to your stage and allow it to perform for you.”

The crowd began to murmur at this, ripples of conversation coursing through it. The Taxicab Knights had their own code, albeit a bizarrely outdated one, but it was well know they considered suicide the greatest form of dishonor. What could be in the box?

“Okay, fine, bring it on up,” said the Gwinn. The knights put the box on the ground, bowed, struggled to their feet again beneath the weight of their armor, picked up the box and walked onto the stage. Candida was awed in spite of herself. She’d never been this close to a Taxicab Knight before without having to fight for her life, and she had to admit that they could be impressive looking when they weren’t being assholes. The knights opened the box, revealing a mechanical construction about six feet tall that looked rather like a jukebox.

“Not too fucking impressive,” said the Gwinn. “Is this the best Devil Al can do to impress me?”

“Nay, sir, what all possible respect we would wish that you but wait until the device has been activated to pass judgment on it,” said another knight.

“Verily,” said the first, “We need but a choice of song, since the mechanism will play nearly any chanson known to mankind.”

A voice from that audience that Candida could have sworn was Margaret’s called out, “Train in Vain!” and the knight looked up.

“Hark, we have the necessary request,” said the knight. He pushed three buttons in quick succession and the machine erupted. Seven speakers popped off the main unit and attached themselves to the walls around the room as lasers, bubbles, artificial fog and music poured from the machine in a torrent, as a radical reworking of the Clash song played in ultra-surround sound. Candida stood in awe. Something seemed strange here, but she was mainly concerned with being upstaged by a machine. Selfish? Maybe so, but she was not slow to realize her chance. Candida began to edge to the stairs on the side of the stage, ignoring the spectacle which entranced the crowd. The Gwinn seemed to be in rapture, dumbfounded by the glorious device in front of him; he had even forgotten his cigar, which he held smoldering at his side.

At last the song ended, and the Gwinn found his voice. “I think, ladies and gentlemen, that not only have we found ourselves at peace with a longtime enemy, I have found myself a new house act!” he yelled into the mic joyously. It was a statement without sarcasm, without irony: it was the happiest anyone in the crowd had ever seen the Gwinn. No one cared; they were equally joyous. And even as he spoke this hyperbolic pronouncement, Candida Rocket slipped through the door of the club into freedom.

Drink to Me, Babe, Then

“So that’s about how it happened, near as I can remember,” said Candida.

“Jesus, Margaret DeNude?” said Brian, taking a break from quietly basking in his newfound nineteen-ness. “I thought we’d heard the last of that bitch a long time ago.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry you had to see her, Candida,” said Marisa. “I passed her on the street like a week ago, and we both ignored each other, but I guess she never really hated me like she hated you.”

“She’s totally like the textbook definition of a bitch,” said Brian.

“Yeah,” said Candida, “But whatever, hopefully that’s the last of it and I can get back to saving the world in peace.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Alex, Marisa’s roommate and Brian’s boyfriend, “People like her always turn up again when you least expect it.”

“We’ll have a real showdown someday,” said Candida, “But I’m not figuring on it being any time soon. Until then, fuck her and fuck Paul too, I’m not going to think about them.”

They were sitting around a table at their favorite bar, The Last Shot, drinking margaritas and waiting for midnight, when Candida went on. She’d taken the Rickenbacker with her, and it leaned comfortably against the wall behind her. The place was mostly empty, as usual; every five minutes or so, a regular would walk by and say hello. Just the way they liked it. The Last Shot was what they considered a classy joint, because middle-aged, tobacco-stained waitresses came around every fifteen minutes to refill their drinks.

“So what’s the Gwinn like up close and personal?” everyone wanted to know.

“Sorta sad, I guess,” said Candida. “A lot less intimidating than he wants to be, for sure. And he chain smokes cigars.”

“I hate cigar smokers,” said Alex. He hand rolled his cigarettes, but wasn’t yet very good at doing it.

“They’re all like Satan incarnate,” said Brian, basking again.

“He’s really named Florence?” said Alex. “That’s awesome.”

“Well, I hope Florence enjoys his new toy as much as his gross cigars,” said Marisa.

“He’d better, cos I’m totally not going back there ever again,” said Candida.

“It is about time for you to go onstage, though,” said Marisa.

“Yeah, play me my birthday presents,” said Brian.

I’d Really Like to See You Again, I Really Wanna See You Again

The Gwinn slept soundly in his sweaty chair just then, lulled along with the crowd by the melodies and lights of the machine. As he slept, a small door in the device swung silently open. Inside, a nude, near-skeletal figure untwined itself from the machinery it had been impossibly contorted around. Slipping between the snores of the Gwinn’s guests, the man slunk to the chained doors of the club. Beside them, the tall man Bel Cadros snored resonantly. As the nude man reached for the chain, however, Bel Cadros snorted and half-woke.

Producing a dagger as if from thin air, the man slit the bouncer’s throat in one unassuming whisper of a motion. He then reached for the keys on the bouncer’s belt, and unlocked the chains with extreme care, making sure the music from the device masked any noises he made.

Before anyone could have realized it, the Taxicab Knights were inside the club.


Candida, playing her second song for Brian, realized that things were going much better than she’d expected. Maybe the show at the Gwinn’s club had given her some confidence, maybe she just hadn’t needed a magic feather after all; whatever the reason, she knew she was at least playing competently. She’d even felt secure enough to play one of her own songs, though she and her friends all knew the lyric was a bit dodgy. “Throw some yeah yeah yeahs into it, and you’ve got all you really need,” Marisa had told her, though they both knew she needed something more. But people she didn’t even know were dancing a bit, and that was enough. It’d been a good day for her musically, she figured.


The Gwinn awoke with a sword point at his chest as the sounds of clanking metal and stabbing swords filled the club. “What the fuck are you pointing that goddamn thing at me for?” he asked.

“You didn’t think I’d really forgive and forget, did you?” Devil Alfred asked. “I never forget, Florence.”

“Fuck you,” said the Gwinn, even as he felt Devil Alfred’s sword gut him.


Candida smiled at her friends, who were dancing to the music as if she really did know what she was doing. These were the best parts of any day, she thought. “I’m going to do a slow one to finish up,” she said. “So you can stop pretending my playing’s danceable.” Somewhere out there, Margaret DeNude was waiting, somewhere out there she’d have to worry about stupid shit again, sometime soon she might have do something crazy like save the world from no-zone aliens, but at this moment, she could relax. She had absolutely nothing to worry about.