Dylan Mercer counted six people in the Riffing Tavern, and two of them worked there. His band had one shot at the summer festival every band in the realm dreamed of headlining, and the booker sitting at the back booth had just checked her watch twice in one song. Dylan sang the chorus anyway. His voice landed flat against the neon guitars glowing on the wall. Behind him, Derek Ramone dragged the beat again. Hoot Hendrix stared at his own hand on the fretboard like it belonged to someone else. Luna Basswood retuned mid-verse, her fish-shaped bass buzzing on the low string. The song ended. Nobody clapped. The booker stood up before Dylan could speak into the mic. He caught her at the door. "One more. We've got a new one." "You don't," she said. "You've got four people playing four different songs. Come back when you sound like a band." She left. The door swung shut on the neon sign outside. Dylan walked back to the stage. Derek was already packing a snare. "That's it, right," Derek said. Not a question. "No," Dylan said. "We practice. Tonight. Here. Until we don't sound like that." Hoot lowered his guitar. "I've been coming to practice. You haven't." That landed. Dylan didn't answer it. He unwound the mic cable and plugged back in. Luna sat down on the stage edge, tail flicking, and tuned her bass one more time. They ran the first song. It fell apart on the bridge. They ran it again. Derek's kick drifted. Hoot stopped playing halfway through and shook out his fingers. "Three months I spent on F sharp minor," Hoot said. "I can play it. You can't hear it because he's rushing." "I'm not rushing," Derek said. "You are." Dylan stepped off the stage before it got worse. He sat in the empty booth the booker had left and put his head in his hands. Someone sat down across from him. A small figure in a feathered wrap, chalk marks on gray fur, a crescent stitched at the belt. Behind her, a fairy in torn dark cloth watched from the doorway, wings folded flat. "You have no beat," the rabbit said. Her voice was quiet and final. "Your drummer listens for the wrong thing. I can fix that." "Who are you?" "Tsuki." She set a small hide drum on the table. "He hits the skin. He should hit the ground under it. The ground answers." The fairy stepped closer. "I carry sound," she said. "I can hold a room quiet until your first note. After that it's yours." Dylan looked at the stage. Derek was tightening a lug. Hoot was retuning. Luna was already watching the booth. "Why help us," Dylan said. "You need to be heard," Tsuki said. "I need someone who hears. Same night, same problem." Dylan waved the band over. Practice started again at midnight, and this time the beat sat down where it belonged.

They made it through two clean runs before the landlord came out from behind the bar. He pointed at the clock above the neon guitars. It read a quarter past midnight. He told Dylan the tavern was closed, that the noise was rattling the glasses, and that if the band played one more song he would keep their gear until morning. Tsuki sat still at the booth. The fairy watched from the doorway. Dylan asked for ten more minutes. The landlord shook his head and started unplugging the stage lights. They packed fast. Derek Ramone shoved his snare into its bag and slung a cymbal under one arm. "Cool," he said. "We finally sound like a band and we get kicked out." Hoot Hendrix laid his red guitar flat in its case and clicked the latches shut without looking up. Luna Basswood balanced her fish-shaped bass across her back and stood by the door. Dylan carried the mic stand out onto the empty street. The neon sign clicked off behind him. "We need a room," Dylan said. "Tonight. Now. Or we lose it." Hoot said, "Everything's closed." Derek kicked a bottle cap into the gutter. "My place has neighbors," he said. "They already hate me." Luna said, "Same." Tsuki stepped down off the curb with her small hide drum under one arm. She said the fairy knew a loft two streets over. A practice space. The owner slept through anything after ten. They walked. The loft sat above a shuttered shop, wood-framed, its windows patched with panels of colored glass. A hand-painted sign hung dark over the door. The fairy touched the lock and it opened. Inside smelled like old carpet and sweat. Amps lined one wall. A drum riser sat in the middle under a single bulb. Derek dropped his bag and grinned. Hoot said, "This is real?" Tsuki said, "For tonight. He owes me a favor." They set up in eight minutes. Tsuki tapped her drum against the floor and Derek matched her. He locked in on the first bar. Hoot's F sharp minor rang clean through the room. Luna's low string sat right under it, no buzz. Dylan sang the chorus and heard his own voice come back at him from the walls, held together by the other three. They ran the song twice without a break. Nobody argued. At two in the morning Dylan stopped the song and looked at the band. Derek was still on the beat. Hoot was watching Luna's hand. Luna was watching Derek's foot. Tsuki set down her drum. "You have a sound now," she said. "You need somewhere to record it. The booker won't come back to a tavern." Dylan looked at the door. The fairy stood by it, wings still flat. "Where," he said. Tsuki said, "A studio. Tomorrow. It costs." Dylan had eleven coins in his pocket. He nodded anyway.

Morning came gray and cold. Dylan walked the band across town to Bluewire Studio with eleven coins in his pocket. The studio sat on a corner, its windows patched with colored glass, a small sign above the door. Derek carried his snare. Hoot had his red guitar on his back. Luna balanced her fish-shaped bass across her shoulders. Tsuki walked behind them with her drum under one arm. Dylan had not slept. The engineer stood inside behind a padded counter. He was tall, thin, chewing a pencil. He named the rate without looking up. Twenty coins for two hours, paid before the tape rolled. Dylan set his eleven on the counter and slid them across. The engineer counted them with one finger. He pushed nine back. "Come back when you have the rest," he said. "I have a session at noon." Derek said, "We drove across town." The engineer shrugged. Hoot said nothing. Luna looked at the floor. Dylan felt the room tilt. He thought about the booker, the loft, the sound they had finally found. He thought about losing it before anyone heard it. Tsuki stepped up to the counter. She reached into a pouch at her belt and set one coin down beside Dylan's eleven. The coin was bright gold, polished, a horseshoe and a clover pressed into its face. It looked heavier than the others. The engineer picked it up and turned it in the light. His pencil stopped moving. "Where did you get this," he said. Tsuki said, "It was given. It counts." The engineer weighed it in his palm. He looked at Tsuki, at the drum under her arm, at the marks on her face. He set the coin down separately from the rest. "This covers the room," he said. "Two hours. Not a minute more." Dylan started to speak. Tsuki said, "Set up. Now." They moved fast. Derek built his kit on the riser. Hoot plugged in and tuned. Luna leaned her bass against the amp and checked her low string. Dylan stood at the mic. The room swallowed sound the way the loft had not. Every note came back clean. They ran the song once for level. The engineer nodded through the glass. They ran it again for tape. When the two hours ended the engineer handed Dylan a small reel in a paper sleeve. "That's your master," he said. "One copy. Don't lose it." Dylan held it with both hands. Outside on the sidewalk the band stood around him. Derek said, "We have a record." Hoot said, "One copy." Luna said, "So we can't lose it." Dylan turned to thank Tsuki. She was gone. He looked down at his hand. The reel felt light. He had a recording and no way to get it to the booker before she left town at dusk.

Dylan stood on the sidewalk with the reel in his hand and the studio door shut behind him. The tape was small. It weighed almost nothing. He had a recording no one had heard, not even the band, because the engineer had rushed them out the moment the second hour ended. He needed to hear it clean before he handed it to the booker. He had until dusk. Derek shifted the snare under his arm. "We need a machine," he said. "We don't own one." Luna adjusted the strap of her fish-shaped bass. "The tavern has one," she said. "Behind the bar. I saw it when we played the back room." Hoot blinked once. "Rock and Roll," he said. "Two blocks." They walked fast. The tavern sat on the corner with neon guitars burning in the windows and barrels stacked along the porch. It was too early for the door crowd. A woman behind the bar was wiping glasses and did not look up when they came in. Dylan set the reel on the bar. "We recorded this morning," he said. "We need to hear it once. That's all." The woman looked at the reel. She looked at Derek's ears, Luna's tail, Hoot's feathers. "Machine's for staff," she said. "Not for kids off the street." Luna spoke without raising her voice. "We played your back room in spring. The night the pipes broke. We stayed and helped mop." The woman stopped wiping. She looked at Luna a long moment. Then she reached under the bar and lifted out a squat machine with two silver reels and a row of colored knobs. She set it on the counter and plugged it into the wall. "One play," she said. "Then out." Dylan threaded the tape himself. His hands shook once and then steadied. He pressed the switch. The reels turned. For a breath there was only hiss. Then Derek's count came in, and the bass, and Hoot's guitar, and Dylan's own voice riding on top of all of it. It was clean. Every part sat where it should. The room they had found in the loft was there in the tape. Derek's mouth opened a little. Luna closed her eyes. Hoot did not move at all. The song ended. The reel spun down. The woman behind the bar was watching them now, glass forgotten in her hand. "That's you?" she said. Dylan nodded. She said, "Play it for whoever you're playing it for. Go." Dylan lifted the tape off the machine and slid it back into its paper sleeve. The sun outside had climbed. He guessed four hours until dusk. He had a record he could hand to the booker and stand behind. Now he had to find her before she left town, and he did not know where she had gone.

Dylan carried the tape back into the tavern where he'd started. The neon guitars still burned in the windows. The booker had left town, but the bartender had known her once. Dylan set the reel on the bar and asked where she'd gone. The bartender wiped a glass and shook his head. "She's staying two days out past the ridge," he said. "But she won't take a tape from a stranger. No introduction, no ears. She's turned away better bands than yours for less." Dylan's stomach dropped. He had the record. He had no way in. "Then who gives introductions?" he asked. The bartender jerked his chin toward the corner. "Him. If he likes you." In the corner sat a big man with a gray beard and a brown jacket worn soft at the elbows. He turned a small tape over in his hands, listening to something no one else could hear. Dylan had seen him at the back of two shows, always alone, always leaving before the last song. Sunny Downs collected old melodies from every kingdom. Bookers trusted his ears. Dylan walked over and stated his case fast. Sunny didn't look up. "Everybody's got a tape," he said. "Most sound like the last guy's tape. Why should I put my name on yours?" "Because we found our own sound," Dylan said. "Play it. If it's the last guy's tape, throw it out." Sunny studied him a moment. Then he pointed at the machine behind the bar. "One play." Dylan threaded the tape himself. His hands were steady now. Derek's count came in, then the bass, then the guitar, then his own voice over the top. Sunny sat still. Halfway through the song his eyes narrowed. He leaned toward the reels. When Dylan's voice climbed into the bridge, Sunny lifted one hand, not to stop it, but to hold the moment. The song ended. Sunny sat with his hands flat on the bar. "You did that live in one room," he said. It wasn't a question. "Loft. One take." Sunny nodded slow. "There's a real thing in there. Most people never find it once." He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a stub of pencil and a torn scrap. He wrote three lines and folded it. "Take this to her. Tell her Sunny sent you. She'll listen." Dylan took the note. His chest went tight with relief. Then Sunny caught his wrist. "She's leaving at first light tomorrow. It's a long way out past the ridge, and you've got no wheels." He let go. "That's your problem, not mine." Dylan stepped out onto the porch with the note in one hand and the tape in the other. The sun was going down. He had his introduction. Now he had to reach a booker two days' walk away by dawn, and he had nothing to carry him there.

Dylan stood on the tavern porch with the note in one hand and the tape in the other. Two days of road stretched past the ridge. The booker left at first light. On foot he'd arrive to find her gone. He had a way in and no way there. Then he heard an engine wake in the lot below, low and heavy, the sound rolling off the walls. A black muscle car idled by the steps. The window rolled down. Dewey Mallard leaned out, white feathers ruffled, one wing draped over the wheel. Dylan knew him. Stillwater Drift. The slacker swan who fronted the band everyone said had a relic backstage. Rivals, more or less. Dylan's stomach tightened. "You lost?" Dewey said. "You've been standing there talking to yourself for a minute." "I need to reach a booker past the ridge by dawn," Dylan said. "I've got the tape. I've got the introduction. I've got no wheels." Dewey looked at the note, then at the tape. "Two days of road," he said. "This thing does it in one night if nobody sleeps." He tapped the wheel. "Honestly, I'm headed that way. But I don't drive rivals for free." Before Dylan could answer, the passenger door opened. Jay Bird climbed out, red hair catching the neon, a small notebook shut in his fist. Dylan had heard the name. The man who tracked lost songs and wrote down every crack in them. Jay Bird didn't look at Dylan. He looked at the tape. "Play a bar of it," Jay Bird said. Dylan hesitated, then hummed the bridge. Four notes. Jay Bird's eyes stayed flat. He opened the notebook, wrote one line, and closed it. "Clean," he said. "No stolen turns. It's yours." He turned to Dewey. "Drive him. He earned the ride." Dewey shrugged. "Jay says drive, I drive." He jerked his head at the back seat. "Get in before I change my mind." Dylan opened the door. "Why help me? We're not exactly friends." "You're not competition tonight," Dewey said. "Tonight you're a guy with a real song and no car. I know that guy." He put the car in gear. Jay Bird slid into the front and faced the road, silent. The engine roared. Dylan gripped the seat as the lot fell behind them. The ridge rose black against the last light. Wind tore through the window. Dylan held the note and the tape flat against his chest so neither could blow away. They drove all night. No sleep, no stopping. Dewey talked in short bursts and let the silence fill the rest. Jay Bird never spoke again. When the sky went gray at the edge, the car crested the ridge and dropped toward a low inn where a wagon stood loaded, ready to leave. Dewey braked hard in the yard. "First light," he said. "You made it." Dylan stepped out onto the dawn-cold ground. The booker was here. His ride was leaving. Now he had to make her listen before that wagon rolled.