Aster didn't have the heart to tell Cecil that there was no hope: Valentine's Day was Sylvia's favorite holiday, topping Easter and even Christmas. It was the sole day of the year, excepting Halloween, on which she was allowed to engorge herself on chocolates, the effects of which were now manifest.

“Love shall prevail!” Sylvia declared, aiming her bow around wildly.

“Sylvia, put that— give me—” Marion sputtered, trying desperately to take the weapon from her hands.

Aster watched on from the safety of the kitchen as the commotion unfurled and Sylvia made her mad escape. Most of those in attendance— namely Marion and his mother, Sylvia's parents, as well as Sylvia's extended family— had joined forces and trapped Sylvia in the corner of the living room, where her attempts to break free of their huddle presented all the ferocity of a cornered cub.

“Release me at once! Love cannot wait!” she demanded, swiping at those who wished to pinch her cheeks.

“I told Sísí over and over not to make her that costume,” Cecil complained, sulking in between the roast and yams.

“I think she looks good,” Aster quietly countered, fortifying herself by a tub of mashed potatoes. She glanced over the spread while Cecil began to prattle— on the table were laid all the traditional trappings of party fare: snacks, dips, pies, a variety of meats, and many desserts and chocolates of a Valentine's style. The red and pink hue of love had crawled up the walls, too, encasing the home in a warm, jovial sensation like that of being snug inside a tiny ornamental box of sweets. Cecil argued that Valentine's Day was not a holiday made for parties but Sylvia had gone to particular lengths to prove him wrong, and Aster, looking around the room, could only agree that she had. Her face was still searing with blush, however, as the incident that greeted her entrance to the party only several minutes earlier played over in her mind—

She had just descended the stairs when she caught sight of a suction-tipped arrow being loosed into the chest of Cecil. Sylvia, clad in toga, split from the scene with all the belief her paper-mâché wings worked, giggling all the way across the room as Cecil pried the arrow from his chest. Aster, unnoticed, remained in the stairwell and watched on.

“You're just going to keep doing that until somebody or something gets hurt, aren't you?!” Cecil yelled, throwing the arrow aside.

“Cupid's got a job to do!” she retorted, knocking her arrow once again.

“Now, Sylvia!” called her mother, voice filled with mirth. “Stop the trouble and let your Grandma Ruberth get a picture with you!”

“Never!” was Sylvia's answer and war cry. She backed away from the guests who were grouping into an offensive position, intent on stopping the little angel. Mounting a final defense, she brandished her bow, aiming it with evident decision across the gathered party.

“Eeny, meany, miny—” she sang with her tongue out and one eye closed, aiming. Suddenly, she turned toward the staircase. “Aster!”

With the release of her fingers, the string twanged and the arrow traveled the living room up the stairs where it hit Aster dead on the forehead. She staggered back up a few steps in shock, eyes traveling up to the arrow, while Willy screamed in admiration at his sister's marksmanship. A hot blush ran over Aster's face as the eyes of the party, having followed the shot, fell upon her and giggles followed.

“Sylvia!” cried her mother, restraining her laughter (the maternal instinct to protect Aster was evidently genetic). A bashful, sorry expression from Sylvia followed when she saw the embarrassment she had delivered upon her friend, and, eager to divert the party's attention from it, loaded up another arrow and ran off to the other side of the room where the eyes, as well as the yells, reprimands, and 'awws' of everyone inevitably followed, though they were loathe to tear their sights away from the bushy-browed and red creature at the stairs, promising to return.

“Let me get a picture with you, dear!” cried Grandma Ruberth as she shuffled after the cherub.

Aster yanked the arrow from her forehead and slunk down the stairs even less eager than she had been when she set off from her room.

“Where have you been?” Cecil asked suddenly, drawing her back to the present. “We could've stopped this if you had been here.”

Aster grew red. “I-I was working on a melody,” she stammered.

Cecil furrowed his brow. “Huh? You said you were cooling it on the songwriting til' the tour started.”

Aster scowled, practically blending into the cherry tomatoes beside her. There was a greater chance of Sylvia's paper-mâché wings securing her escape than Aster admitting that she was too awkward to even function around Sylvia's parents, let alone meet the rest of her family.

“Why are you hiding over here?” she instead shot back in a hiss.

“Hiding?!” he squawked, peering at Aster from behind the stalk of a giant flower that was the table's centerpiece.

“Yeah! You're standing behind the fucking yams!”

Cecil grew red.

“Sorry that I'm not eager to be a part of that,” he countered with a frown and a gesture into the living room, where the sight of Sylvia being tossed back and forth between relatives could be seen. Aster was startled and felt inclined to rush to her friend's aid, but her worry quickly subsided upon hearing Sylvia's requests to be thrown higher.

He chose this over Vernon? Aster thought as she watched Sylvia fly to nearly the ceiling, and caught the image of Cecil sulking in her peripheral. He had chosen the band, chosen to support her, and Sísí had told her to forget about it, but it wasn't that simple— guilt is not so easily washed away, and the fact that it was his decision did not lessen Aster's remorse in seeing him have such a bad time.

Cecil, catching her side-long glance, cleared his throat, and asked, “Is it really more peaceful here than at the shop?”

Aster flinched. “N-no,” she stammered, attempting to catch her embarrassment at having been caught. “She's dressed like Cupid all the time.” Her frown then softened. “Yeah, it's a lot nicer.” And with that, drew her arms close. “I'm not totally alone when everyone goes home, and I don't have to worry about people breaking into the shop—”

“And you don't have stacks of Floyd's face around your bed anymore,” Cecil added, half his attention on watching with horror how high Sylvia was flying.

“Yeah, I don't,” she mumbled, squinting at him. To her surprise, that remark brought about a twinge of sadness. Her mind was cast back to that first exploration of the shop's attic, where, nervous and alone in a strange new world, she had been greeted by the peculiar mildew-covered records that towered up into the rafters. So strange and comical a sight were they that her second thought after laughing was to move them out of sight immediately, but somehow they remained. And though they were but one small detail of that enigmatic shop, and not in the least the most important, they were the first memory; they were the symbol that, when called upon in her mind, conjured up the image and feeling of home. And now it was gone.

The experience of moving in and of itself was an alien sensation to Aster. She had lived within the Elysian Tower all of her life and had thus never experienced the strange pain that came with switching homes, like a tree regrowing a limb that has snapped off. It was a frightening thing to face for one who has never had to before, and the episode came upon her with a pointed sadness she did not at all expect.

All the emotions tied to her arrival in Peppermint Plains— the terror, the wonder, the excitement— were all contained within that building, after all; in the shop's rafters, shelves, and registers— within every particle of that structure breathed the great hopes Aster had carried into it; and now she, removed, felt as though she were falling aimlessly through the sky. The clouds rushed past her in a blur as she lamented the fact that life must change and that change must be so terrifying, and wondered how on Earth— how on Peppermint Plains— she'd be able to do it if she weren't hurtling to the ground hand in hand with Sylvia. If Sylvia's parents, as awkward as Aster felt around them, weren't as supportive as they were; if they weren't able to look that sniveling, stuttering, awkward mess in the face and say 'it's okay'. She was able to live, because nobody dies free-falling from heaven.

“Looks like there's no Floyd in this house at all, actually,” Cecil grumbled, crossing his arms.

At once the furor outside the kitchen silenced itself.

Aster looked up.

"You— you think he's been arrested again?!" Sylvia suddenly cried, bursting into the room. And like the crest of a wave carrying the water behind it, the rest of the party followed, a dozen or so people funneling into a tiny kitchen around which their bodies jostled the table heaped with food and ping-ponged the two who had escaped to it for refuge.

"He was— how do I say this? Blindsided by fate," a playful voice added above the din.

A groan came from Cecil as he tried to avoid the bodies. “Where did you come from?!” he yelled over the din, sighting the curls of Sísí's red hair over the top of the gathering. She cackled. From his peripheral, he could see Aster floundering among the much taller crowd, her face pale with terror as she tried to escape.

“And where do you think you're going?!” reprimanded Sylvia's mother, fetching Aster by her cheek.

"Aster, do you think he's okay?!" Sylvia cried, shaking her.

“Oh, Ruberth! Go get the camera!” Sylvia's mother cried. “Her face is cherry-red again!”

Like a deer watching one of its herd drop and reeling in the echo of the gunshot, Cecil immediately quickened in terror through the mass of Sylvia's elder relatives, nearly reaching the safety of the living room before running straight into a tall man, who, seeing Cecil, shot his strong arm outward.

“It's been too long, Cecil!” the man, Sylvia's father, cried out jovially, forcing him into a handshake. “I'm sorry I couldn't have said hello earlier; my daughter is far too rambunctious!”

“Cecil?!” repeated Sylvia's mother, releasing Aster. “I haven't had a chance to see him at all!”

Even through Aster's tears of embarrassment she could see his grimace. From beside her Sylvia cried out, “Sísí, is he okay?!” She was jostled by Sylvia, jumping to try and spy the girl cackling from the next room. Her flimsy wings bounced with each hop, giving the illusion that she was controlling them and instilling in Aster the hope that she might just possibly take flight and free the both of them from this nightmare.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

A loud crack drew Aster's attention towards the table. Her heart was thrashing.

“Rudolph! You know Sylvia told us to wait until that Floyd got here!” yelled Grandma Ruberth angrily towards a wrinkled man nursing his red hand.

“Well then, when's he getting here?!” the man shrieked, spit flying from his dilapidated mouth. “Or are you hoping there's more left for you if I die before then?!”

I have to get out of here.

“Mr. Floyd?!” Sylvia howled, turning from the glimpse of Sísí's head towards her grandmother with tears.

“I never did like that Floyd!” accentuated Sylvia's father with venom, still shaking Cecil's hand. (And perhaps with all the more subconscious force with Floyd's mention.)

"Huh?!” retorted Sylvia's mother. “You were the one who bought her a guitar and fawned over how cute she looked playing it, Jules!" she exclaimed, hitting him upside the head with a newspaper procured from thin air. "You were the one who signed her up for his talent agency!" Sylvia's father released his handshake, and Cecil sank through the crowd into the living room like water.

“And where did that go?!”

Sylvia's father looked around in confusion. “Huh? Cecil?”

“Aster, Aster!” then called a peepish-voice. A hand tugged at her dress and stopped her escape. It was Willy. “When are you gonna teach me to play guitar?!”

“Uh— well—”

“Oh, and there's you, too, Marion,” added Sylvia's mother dryly. He and his mother were politely waiting beside the frantic mass, drinking coffee.

“Why, isn't Sylvia the sweetest? Don't you think so, honey?” asked Marion's mother of her son.

Marion wrinkled his eyes in confusion.

“Why, if she's anything like Marion, her baby pictures must be enough to kill the room!” she added with a laugh.

Sylvia's mother's face lit up.

“Come on everyone!” she suddenly cried, leading the group on out of the kitchen with a wave of her arm.

The group passed around Aster, leaving her alone in the kitchen with Sylvia, who was stuck in a loop of mumbling about Floyd and drooling at the table spread, apparently not concerned in the least about the public embarrassment that was about to befall her.

—

Aster was not sure if she could look on; like human eyes befalling the Ark of the Covenant she was terrified lest her eyes evaporate from their sockets and her brain turn to jelly.

A squeal erupted from the group as Sylvia's mother opened the book, revealing a picture of plump baby Sylvia, peppermint pacifier in mouth, the red stripes of which matched the rosy sheen of her round cheeks. Aster was gobsmacked and felt the room spinning for what must have been a dozen or more seconds before she had the power to peel her eyes away and turn them towards her friend. She looked at Sylvia in her Cupid garb, and then at the photo, then back again at Sylvia, before concluding that her costume was wholly unnecessary and that Sylvia had been a cherub all along.

“And here's one of Sylvia and Cecil together!” cooed Sylvia's mother as Sísí brought Cecil into the proceedings. She pointed to a black-and-white photo of the record shop's exterior, before which stood a smiling and proud Floyd, his hands on the shoulders of a much smaller Sylvia and Cecil.

“You had such a smart haircut,” remarked Sylvia's father, looking at the bowl cut in the photo and then at Cecil, who had now gone red enough to compete with Aster in her worst embarrassment.

Aster herself couldn't help but let a laugh escape at this and quickly hid her face. Cecil scowled.

“He looks like Mareby!” exploded Marion, shaking with laughter.

“And you look like a fucking goon!” he yelled back, tossing his hat at him.

“Mr. Floyd!” howled Sylvia upon seeing his photo, and she grabbed onto Sísí's dress. “At least tell me, did he fight?”

“You should've seen them back then,” Sylvia's mother remarked to Aster, who had drawn nearer in curiosity. “They were the talk of the town!” A warm smile came over her face as she continued to leaf through the album, and along the way pointed out various pictures, at all of which the group collectively cooed, while relaying the story behind each. “This was their first recital, and this is when they sold out the Strawberry Set.”

“They sold out the Strawberry Set?” Aster asked in surprise.

“You bet your pappy they did!” Sylvia's mother answered proudly. “They had quite the following— Floyd almost had a record made up for them! Can you imagine that? They would've been superstars if that happened!”

“What did happen?” Aster followed, now waiting in suspense.

“Well, from what I was told Floyd's father was not at all happy with him opening up a record shop, and even less so at him finding success with a children's group, and so he sued for the group's rights to 'pay a debt'— at least, I think?”

She looked at Aster, who was now looking back at her in horror.

“Well— why didn't they just change their name, then?” Aster stammered.

“He became too discouraged, I believe. It was years before we heard from him again. Jules sent her out to go get a job when she turned eighteen and she came back screaming about 'Mr. Floyd' this and 'Mr. Floyd' that—”

“Mr. Floyd!” cried Sylvia as Sísí continued to smile and tease Sylvia with vague nothings.

“Anyways, it was just a lucky coincidence that Cecil happened to work there too, and now look at them— playing together in a band again! Because of you!” she said, pinching Aster's cheeks.

Aster looked on, as she tore her cheeks away from Mrs. Sylvia's clutches, at the sight of the house she now called home, half filled with strangers but undeniably full of life, and realized just how little she still knew about this world and about everything. The world of Peppermint Plains just did not stop proclaiming, “I am a universe unto myself.”

“Just in time,” she then heard Sísí whisper, who exited the house.

—

Mareby-Roquefort waltzed through the doors like the foremost dignitary of God, as behind him Sísí pushed a large cart with an even larger cake atop it. The confection, decorated with a rosy filigree the rival of any of the Sistine Chapel's etchings towered over Sylvia, who rushed to inspect it with drooling mouth.

Happy First Album! it spelled out in snaking, sugary lines; one word for three of the cake's four tiers, where atop laid a copy of their LP, snug amongst confectioner's grass and the glassy sparkle of sugar. Aster's heart near ripped out of her chest at the sight.

An open-mouthed, bewildered stare was all the party could meet the sugary Trojan with, before noticing the record on its crown at which a chorus of excitement rang out from everyone who at once pushed forward trying to get a better look.

“A record, Mom, a real record!” Marion screamed, abandoning his arm wrestling contest with Sylvia's father, who also rose to see the commotion. However, nobody could best Marion's mother in the race; the gentle lady was the first to reach the cake, clawing past everyone. “My son's a star!” she proclaimed. “A regular Johnny Vallerie!”

Sylvia's Grandpa Rudolph stared at the record in bewilderment. “Who's putting this on perfectly good cake?!” he shouted, looking around.

“Look, Mom, on the cover— there's Sylvia!” Willy shrieked.

And if the smiles and expressions of laughter that came over the faces of the gathered would've been enough alone to light an entire night sky, then that look of rapture that parted Aster's lips could've been a supernova; nobody had a deeper and truer smile, nor had a surer stream of tears pour forth as did Aster kneeling before the sight like a pilgrim in God's house. The room quieted, and smiles were had in happiness at the quiet girl's joy as she took the record into her trembling hands.

Amazingly, with its receipt into her arms, Aster found that there were no thoughts to be had: it was like a climber summiting Everest, who prepares a monologue fit for heroes, and will envision that coming moment of ascension again and again until they can practically see the grain of the film stock, but who on finally reaching the peak, find that such Earthly ambitions as selfish bloviating are rendered infinitely trivial by the magnitude of their achievement— they find nothing to do but express oneself primally, completely, and transparently.

And so Aster wept profusely, her tears raining down upon the plastic sleeve. Sylvia and her mother reached out and held on to her, holding tight as her sobbing grew more profuse and her display of emotion spilled out and infected the whole room, causing a roar of celebration to ripple through the gathered.

Her head was swimming in delight as she clutched the record like a newborn; all around smiles and congratulations met her and her bandmates, and Mareby-Roquefort produced a second copy which was quickly thrown onto a record player. A needle scratch gave way to the thump of a bass, a kick-drum, a shimmering piano chord, and finally the glittering finger-picked guitar which all coalesced to introduce the first song on the record, and thus the Love You Forevers, to the world. Aster's heart shuddered as if recoiling against some unbearable bliss. She looked around— the party's attendees, the first of the public to ever hear their debut record, were smiling; they were dancing, singing along. Her eyes watered as she watched her work, her soul's ore, float throughout the room and transform the very air itself.

The mood of the room could not help but brighten, and soon the family members found themselves buzzing with praise over how cute everyone looked on the cover, and somehow the record ended up out of Aster's hands and beside Sylvia's cherubic, happy face as they tried to compare with the picture.

But eventually the call of the catering, still laid out untouched, and now aided in temptation by the pillar of cake, grew to be too much.

“It's about time we ate!” Marion growled, approaching the dessert.

“J-just hold on— Wait, not a knife!” pleaded Mareby-Roquefort, trying his best to hold Marion's arm back as the latter attempted to stab wildly at it.

“We can't eat until Mr. Floyd is here!” Sylvia shrieked at the top of her lungs and began at once firing arrows all about the room. They flew every which way, miraculously missing all but hitting a vase which crashed to the floor and shattered.

“What did I tell you?!” yelled Cecil. “This is just like him, always— Sísí, where is he?!”

“Here, let me help you with that!” Sísí exclaimed with delirious laughter, attempting to guide Marion's stabs into the cake.

“I knew that Floyd was no good—”

Suddenly the top of the cake trembled, then rose, then exploded as a figure emerged forth from the layers of frosting, the cake breaking apart and tumbling down their sticky mass like the crumbling of a Candy Land hillside.

“Give me the knife, Marion!” Sylvia shirked as she ran towards him.

“Mareby, you absolute idiot!” screamed the figure. Cake and spit flew from its mouth onto Mareby-Roquefort's pristine suit.

Cecil looked on in bewilderment. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Did you expect me to be able to hear the cue, to be able to breathe in there?! I think I blacked out!”

Sylvia jumped up, wrapping her arms around the cake-covered man. “Mr. Floyd!” she cried, her arms slipping around the frosting. “How did you get in the cake?!”

“Sísí, did you plan this?!” Cecil called on in confusion as Sísí went red with laughter. The floors, the walls, and even the ceiling of the living room were covered in the residue of exploded cake, as the gathered family, sans Willy, who was helping himself to scraps on the floor, watched on in stunned silence.

Floyd finally took notice of the baffled onlookers, releasing Mareby-Roquefort's shirt collar as he attempted to put himself together. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a fistful of cake which he tossed aside, then reached back in and retrieved a frosting-covered piece of paper, which he unfolded.

“I would like to have the honor,” he began proudly and with deliberation. Willy was still attempting to eat scraps of cake from the floor as Sylvia pulled him back. “Of announcing that the Love You Forevers have been nominated for the category of best single and best new band at the Cherryaire Music Awards!”

The room, save for the galloping hearts of the band and Sísí's snickers, went absolutely dead silent. All those there were still stunned by the sudden emergence of the cake man, and looked about themselves as if in a dream. Aster, more than anyone there, could not believe her ears. This was only their debut album, after all, and now they were being invited to the Cherryaire Music Awards, the biggest music industry ceremony in the world? They, the delinquent band, were being invited to Peppermint Plains' version of the Grammy's?

The silence was cesareaned by an ear-splitting cry from the entire room which nearly shook the windows. What felt like a thousand hands shook Aster in turn as her mind raced through a whirlwind of terror and joy.

The Cherry-fucking-aire Music Awards?! The pinnacle?! Recognition, increased recording budgets, fame, celebrities, paparazzi, public speeches, schmoozing, small talk—

“Televised”, she heard Mareby-Roquefort add.

LOOKING AWKWARD ON CAMERA!

“We've scheduled it to cap off your tour,” he continued, adjusting his collar.

“We'll be traveling through the country before returning to Cherryaire for your homecoming and final show of the tour. It should be the perfect photo finish!” added Floyd.

Their words, along with the cries and shouts of everyone around rang through Aster's giddy mind like the glorious whistle of wind on a beautiful spring day. She was lost in rhapsody and drank in the sight of excitement on her bandmates' faces, which gave her a joy somehow even greater than that which she already felt, as from a waterfall cascading down from the edge of Heaven. Even Cecil couldn't hide the look of eagerness that played over his weary eyes, as he and Aster were thrown together by Sylvia's father, who took them and Floyd in an embrace.

“I knew you would make my girl famous!” he shouted, dancing.

“Tuxedos, man! Can you imagine how good I'll look?” Marion couldn't help but put in.

—

And so the party went. The group— Sylvia not least of all— ate their fill within the dreamy haze of successes granted and promises of those to come. The terrors and tribulations that awaited Aster within such monumental tasks as press conferences, fan meets, and award ceremonies were still well on the horizon and obscured by her delirious shroud of ecstasy; she was in the upward arc of life's perpetually manic cycles, and though the valley below lingered dark and precipitous, in this moment, nothing could touch her.