Marion's eyes flitted about the room like a trapped fly. The group, now including Marcy who himself appeared from the woodwork, had retreated to a quiet, back corner of the library under a torrent of invective from the librarian.

“Come on, just give it to me straight,” he croaked as they reached the table. “You brought Floyd, didn't you?” and glanced around wildly, as if in fear that the books themselves would jump out and attack him. “I know a sheriff's posse when I see one.”

“Brought Mr. Floyd?” peeped Sylvia. “We're trying to escape from him!”

Marion looked as though he had misheard. “He's got you writing letters too?!”

Aster and Sylvia looked at him in confusion.

“That bastard! That two-time, conniving prick!” he continued, dropping his head into his hands.

“Writing letters?” repeated Sylvia.

“Yeah, for the fan club!”

“Fan club?!” cried the girls in unison.

“So Mr. Floyd didn't have you dangling over crocodiles!” exclaimed Sylvia.

“I told you,” whispered Aster.

“Crocodiles?”

“Me and the boss have been answering fan mail,” interjected Marcy.

“Thirty-thousand letters!” followed Marion, holding up ten digits as if that counted for anything. “At first it was 'punishment' for the mob thing, but then Maury said 'a big fan club could lead to movie studios being interested.'”

“Don't be so down on yourself, boss. The logic is sound,” added Marcy with a pitying pat on Marion's back.

“Thirty-thousand?” Aster stammered, her eyes wide. Both she and Sylvia shared a look of total astonishment.

Marion looked at them.

“Huh? He hasn't told you yet? Yeah, Mareby set it up right after the conference— subscriptions are coming in so fast they can't even confirm them all!”

“You better not be writing weird stuff in my letters!” Sylvia yelled, shaking her fist.

Marion sneered and scrunched his face up into a mocking little pug-faced expression. “I made sure to tell them all about how much you like sleeping next to my stinky socks—”

“I'm kicking your butt!” she shrieked, rising from her chair.

“Sylvia,” Aster yelped, trying to pull the firecracker back down.

“Hey, hey, cool it twerp!” followed Marion, eyeing ahead of them. “You're gonna get us kicked out of here!”

The group turned their eyes down the aisle, where the fuchsia-faced librarian bore into them with a scorching gaze. Marcy responded with a little wave.

“Listen,” Sylvia continued in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning into the table. “I'm telling you this not because you're not an idiot, but because we're both secret agents—”

“What?”

“And you didn't hear this from me, but— Floyd's turned evil!”

Marion received the news genuinely.

“I knew it, man!” he exploded and looked back at Marcy. “What did I say?! I knew there was something up with that eye patch!”

“No, that's not—” sputtered Aster.

“He's always been evil if you think about it!”

“He's wearing the patch because he swung his cane at the bees in the garden,” Marcy corrected.

“Are you kidding me?” mumbled Aster.

“Remember, boss?” Marcy asked of Marion. “He got angry because one was buzzing around him and then started screaming about how 'he was a manager' while pelting the flowers.”

“Like I can remember half the shit Floyd does, Marcy.”

“He was angry because Mareby disappeared on him.”

Marion looked as though he'd just broken through some cloud of forgetfulness. "That's right!" he said, pounding his fist in his hand. “That's how we managed to escape— while the bees attacked him we just booked it!”

“To a... library?” asked Aster.

Marion grinned and tapped a finger to his temple. “I had to do a little clever thinking. I asked myself, where would be the last place I'd look for Marion?” and waved his arm out at the dark litany of rows. “We could stay here for years if we needed to!”

“But we have a tour,” she mumbled.

“And it wasn't easy,” put in Marcy. “I went up to that lady up there—” He looked toward the librarian. “And I said to her: 'I'm sorry, ma'am. We're only here in hopes of getting off the street with a good book.' And she let us pass.”

“Like a true agent,” Sylvia whispered in awe.

“You know you don't need a reason to be in a library,” remarked Aster under her breath.

“And it's worked fine for the past couple of hours,” continued Marcy. “We figured we'd stay in here and skip the meeting and then sneak out after dark for some grub. We don't know what we'll do tomorrow though.”

Stolen story; please report.

Marion dropped his head into his hands. “I don't want to keep writing, man, the words are blurring together! The 'Hellos!', 'You're my favorite band', 'Can you play at my school?'. It's endless, man. You never realize how many people are out there til' you have to look at their letters,” he moaned, lifting his head to look nervously around at the shelves. “I don't know how they do it, authors; what kinda fuckin' sicko would choose to do this for a living?” and he bent his fingers back as if to show that they just couldn't go on.

An 'awh' escaped Sylvia's lips and for the first time in recorded history she couldn't help but have a little pity for Marion, seeing the fear in his eyes as he clutched at his aching hands.

“These puppies should be signing autographs, or twirlin' sticks, man— not this! I just want to be an actor— is that so wrong?”

“It's not boss,” Marcy added with another back pat.

“Well, you don't have to worry anymore,” Sylvia chirped, smiling. “Cecil is saving the day!”

Marion, who had let some potential for relief into his expression at the phrase “don't worry”, sighed deeply.

“That mop-head, saving anything?” he groaned, drooping his head.

“I know! Isn't it crazy?!” she concurred, but quickly got control of herself and proceeded to fill the two in on all that had happened— Cecil's plan, his sacrifice, their escape from the hotel, and retreat to the library, where they were presently being besieged by paparazzi.

Marion turned and looked out towards the windows. A brown and black smattering of derby hats and fedoras could be seen darting about the street outside like specks blown in a wind of dirt.

“Absolute bullshit,” he sneered. “You're in a fuckin' rock band, how can they tell you not to go see rock music?!”

“Actually, she's closer to yé-yé or chanson than anything—”

“I've had enough of it!” he barked. “We signed up to be rock stars, not servants! It's one thing that I chose to fill out those letters for Floyd, but to let some fuckin' suit we don't even know boss around a lady like that? I just ain't having it!”

“What you wanna do boss?” asked Marcy, growing excited.

“We're gonna give these clowns something to report. I bet they're working with Mareby, anyways.”

“You'll be caught!” squeaked Sylvia as the two men rose.

“We're a band, goddammit,” Marion said, not looking back. “And besides, how can I let mop-head of all people outshine me?” and he cast a cheeky grin back at them, as though he could feel the closing shot of a Western focusing in on his face. “Don't worry about us.”

Aster wondered how long he'd been waiting to say that.

And with that the two men marched triumphantly up the aisles, Marcy returning a book on the way, before bursting through the doors, scattering onto the street like they'd robbed a bank. The paparazzi, filtering throughout the street clueless like a haze of flies, coalesced into a pursuant mob upon seeing them.

Sylvia wasted no time, snatching Aster's hand and pulling her out of the library into the street. They were met with absolute pandemonium; cries and shouts could be heard from all directions, and the stampeding of dress shoes sounded like a battalion of horses baring down on them all.

“Friends of Mareby's, huh?!” Aster heard Marion yell as she and Sylvia attempted to dissolve into the confusion. She caught one final glimpse of him and Marcy approaching a group of men and their notepads, their fists wound up.

“Watch out for your eyes!” Sylvia cried as she looked back to see the mob engulf them. A hail of camera flash lit the noon street up as if it were the deepest midnight sky, and before Aster could realize it the entire street was ablaze in chaos, as reporter after reporter tried to edge the other out for a spot in the solidifying crowd.

But there was no time for lamentations, or to burn incense in their memory; once again Aster and Sylvia's sneakers were bouncing against the pavement in large strides. They rounded one corner, then another, then followed an alleyway before being content that the hollers had diminished enough to stop. But now they were faced with featureless gray brick buildings on all sides and knew not where to go. Sylvia opened the map to get their bearings. A chime caught Aster's ear, and she looked over to a clock in a nearby store. Her heart plummeted— fifteen minutes until doors.

We're not gonna make it! her mind screamed in anguish, and she could not bear to think about everything that had occurred in the past half hour— everybody's sacrifices— being for naught. But again Aster made the grave mistake of doubting her friend. Sylvia was of the 20th century and was no stranger to life in the city; she had the answer!

“Get on the bus, silly!” she suddenly exclaimed, and out of nowhere, Aster felt herself being yanked towards a leviathan of steel and tire. With a hiss the brakes released, the contraption lurched forward, and the bus soon began to race through the city. One street passed and another followed. A look of glee, of ecstatic victory, painted itself across the girls' faces as they watched blur past them the city blocks which at first provided such an insurmountable divide, but now became confection for the victors, melting away into the past like cotton candy on the tongue.

Aster threw her gaze towards the back door of the bus; there was no way they could be pursued at this speed! There was no Earthly, no Peppermint Plainsly, way that Kyrietone could have them now!

You fucking idiots! Exclaimed inner Aster. You fucking rubes! How dare you try to stop me? Like art is yours to control; like you are anything to me but a stepping stone!

And like a cork's ejection allowing champagne to gush forth Aster's monumental dread gave way to the mind-numbing elation that lay in the thought of not only the concert she was about to see but also what Marion had just revealed.

“A fan club!” she cried, looking excitedly into Sylvia's eyes. “We have a fan club!” And Sylvia, who had been whistling Emerson Pennyworth's spy theme the entire ride lit up and grabbed her friend's hands, sharing in the belated glee that not one hundred, not one thousand, but thirty thousand individual souls had joined the Love You Forevers' fan-club.

Is this what it feels like to fall in love? Aster thought as she felt her heart swoon. It may not be romance but I'm in love with the way I feel. Drunk on the mission's success she took in everything around her. Every single thing, no matter how mundane, appeared an encrusted jewel to her in that moment; the worn bus seats, the rust that crawled up the pole she held onto; how were even the most ugly things so radiant in the glory of their just being? How did Peppermint Plains always have something new to show her?

“Don't pull that, Aster!” Sylvia giggled, taking her hand away from the cord above their heads. “That's what you pull when you need to make a stop!” But there was no need to worry, for the venue was already fast approaching.

This is what the Romans must have felt seeing the Coliseum come into view, Aster thought, and imagined herself on horseback, trotting through the dusty beds of Rome as she joined a hundred thousand others in funneling into the greatest show happening at that point in time on Earth. This was identical; when Godiva began, she knew, all cares and worries of the world fell away; you could find no one moment on the planet more electrifying than that.

With a glorious, jubilant heave Aster and Sylvia yanked the strap down together, causing the behemoth to slow to a halt before the venue.

It's here! It's fucking here! Aster cried out within her mind, and at once tears welled up in her eyes. Godiva's name was all over the venue; it was on signs, t-shirts, gliding across the electronic ticker above the marquee; indelible signs that she existed! She wasn't just a myth; other people enjoyed her as much as Aster did. She was validated.

Sylvia embraced her friend in a deep hug.

“Aster!” she cried.

Aster returned the hug, squeezing her as tightly as she could. How, beyond all odds, had it worked? What had she done to deserve to be placed here, at such great cost? With an attitude like hers, how did she have such great bandmates?

“Aster!”

Aster looked up. She caught sight of an older man out of the corner of her eye. It looks like everyone is amazed by her, she thought.

“Aster!”

The man squinted, and his oddly terrified face at once became instantly recognizable. The world fell away. “What are you two doing here?” asked Mareby-Roquefort.