And then it ended. Luce stood onstage again, a human-sized person above them, staring out as if she couldn’t quite see them but she knew they were there. Strings dangled from her guitar in all directions. One of the strings must have sliced her when it snapped: a thin line of blood trickled down her forehead, which she wiped away as if it were sweat.
Rosemary had told people to leave during “Blood and Diamonds” or right after, before SHL could figure out what to do about them. She knew she should be helping clear the room, but she couldn’t resist stopping to listen to “Blood and Diamonds.” No matter how many times she saw Luce in the future, she knew she’d never hear her play that song again.
It sounded different with this trio, different with the years on Luce’s voice. Not in a bad way, but in the way of something welcome and familiar and changed. She wasn’t a kid in a hospital anymore, either; she could hold on to the memory of the song’s reassurance without being called back there. She clapped and cheered as hard as she could to make up for the dwindling crowd.
The lights came on, leaving Luce and her band looking mystified. Her bassist whispered in her ear, and she handed him her guitar and climbed down to chat with the contest winners, who looked equally confused, but satisfied.
Rosemary took a moment to pop back into hoodspace to see whether people were talking about the show. When she ventured into the discussion forums, they were full of people trying to figure out what to do to answer Luce’s call. A law student offering to start a group to take on congregation laws, someone else saying they wanted to host a show in their basement, someone else talking about running for office on a pro-congregation platform. Good.
Luce was chatting with a contest winner. An artist liaison should probably check if the artist needed anything, but Rosemary was suddenly afraid to approach; afraid she hadn’t done enough, or that she’d gone over the top, that she still might not be forgiven. Then Luce spotted her, and she smiled, and Rosemary knew that her terrible past actions might not entirely be past, but she’d been given another chance.
Rosemary tried to make herself unobtrusive, hoping the SHL employees who had seen the crowd wouldn’t associate it with her. They all seemed to be pretending it hadn’t happened, since they couldn’t explain it. A few contest winners stood chatting with each other, still energized, buzzing with excitement. They hadn’t left yet even though the concert had been over long enough for the equipment to all be packed away. Canned music played over the loudspeakers, and two women danced by the exit.
“Thank you.” Luce appeared beside Rosemary, holding out her arms. Her back was soaked with sweat, her forehead smeared with blood, but it didn’t matter. When they hugged, it felt familiar. “Do you want to take a walk? I wouldn’t mind a walk.”
Rosemary recognized Luce’s mood, the way she’d always surrounded herself with people after a show. She nodded. They exited through the front doors, still unlocked. Across the street, past the parked cars, there was an overgrown path down into a small park, broken-branched trees lining either side. The path led them to a tiny footbridge, where they leaned on their elbows and looked down at a stream, shallow but fast moving.
“I thought that went really well,” Rosemary said.
“Great, really. Sound could’ve been better, but we couldn’t have asked for a more perfect evening.” Her eyes shone, the same postshow glow Rosemary remembered. She’d seen it in other performers, too, but few fed on live music the way Luce did.
“You were amazing.”
“Thanks. Uh, was I hallucinating, or were there a few more people in there for part of the show? Or is that part of the StageHolo experience? I could’ve sworn…”
“I might’ve invited a few people. I’d heard you wanted an audience.”
“Nice, kid. Was that company-approved?”
Rosemary shook her head, trying to underplay her pride. “Not approved. We’ll see whether I get in trouble, or if they’re still happy with me for bringing you in.”
“So you’re going to keep working for them?”
“I don’t know what to do anymore. You’re right that I’m perpetuating the system, not changing it, but I keep feeling like if I stayed long enough, maybe I could get them to see these are stupid policies.”
“Maybe,” Luce said. “I guess there’s something in helping them see there’s room for us to exist.”
They both grew quiet, watching the stream run beneath the bridge. There was movement in the trees, and an owl darted out of the darkness to skim the water. It came away with a small silver fish writhing in its talons, then disappeared back into the woods.
“Huh.” The look on Luce’s face was pure amazement.
Rosemary was surprised, too. “I’ve seen hawks attack package drones. And mice in the fields. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an owl hunt before.”
“I grew up in Brooklyn. Pigeons and parrots.”
Rosemary had never seen a single interview where Luce mentioned Brooklyn or her childhood. She decided not to call attention to it. “Hey, Luce, do you know if Joni is playing somewhere else now? I got her to talk to me once, but then she wouldn’t respond after that.”
“I think she’s involved with a warehouse series. Outsider art and music and theater, all interwoven. Don’t send your goons, please.”
“I wouldn’t! I’m trying to stop them from doing that, I really am. It’s just going to take time.” If she stayed, people she liked would always be saying that. That was her choice: stay and try to change things from the inside, or find another path. She was surer that other paths existed now than she had been.
Luce shrugged. “I should probably get back. We’re driving tonight.”
“You’re still my favorite performer.” Rosemary hadn’t meant to say that out loud; it hung in the air.
“You need to get out more.”
“Ha. Well, have a safe drive. See you down the road.”
“Coming soon to a town near you. Look, if you ever want another option, maybe we could use you as a tour manager for a little while. Or booking agent. Or both. It would be way easier to arrange shows if we had someone more… plugged in… on our team. The money would be crap, and you’d have to get used to sleeping in very tight quarters, but it’s an alternative.”
“For real?”
“For real. Find me when you’re ready.” Luce turned to walk away.
“So you’re just going to keep doing those little shows?” Rosemary called after her.
Luce stopped and looked back. “It’s a decent way to spend forever.”
Rosemary recognized the lyric from “These Turning Hands,” but she didn’t doubt that was exactly what would happen if Luce wanted it. She had a way of making things turn out. She was a small figure walking back toward the Peach now, shoulders uneven, gait hitched like someone balancing on a boat deck. She rounded a curve in the path and vanished from sight.
There were other things Rosemary would have liked to say to her. How she had learned to stand her ground in a crowd, as Luce had taught her; how the idea of a crowd had gradually become less terrifying. How the job she had invented for herself, her secret subversion, had brought SHL inches closer to what she had originally believed it to be. How she thought she might build a career trying to right her biggest wrong, and she still wasn’t sure it would be enough.
Luce had once told Rosemary how you grabbed on to a single note and, if it sounded good, you played it until you were ready to pick a new one. And the thing she hadn’t said, but Rosemary had learned from her, later: that in any given moment, there’s no such thing as a wrong note. Any note can be played over any chord, and any chord can be played over any single note. That it’s possible to be a note nestled into a chord, off but right, in the moment before the song moves on around you.