Aster welcomed 1966 in much the same way she did every year— with absolutely no joy whatsoever.

This particular morning found her within Mareby-Roquefort's tiny, cluttered office, deep in the recesses of Peppermint Plains Gazette headquarters, fuming.

She sat before Mareby-Roquefort's desk, her arms folded and a scowl across her face, as Floyd rose beside her.

“To a year of success!” he exclaimed, bringing his glass of bourbon to Mareby-Roquefort's with a clink. The two men, disheveled and half-drunk, had spent the entirety of New Year's eve following the show in the bars of Cherryaire, discussing at length the future plans that they had for the band.

This alone wouldn't have enraged Aster half as much if their discussions had amounted to anything, but when Floyd's first item of suggestion was a world tour by the end of next month, she nearly snapped.

“Why don't we start with actually recording a song first?” she snarled, before adding under her breath, “One that doesn't get stolen.”

Floyd, his face flushed a bright red and in an agreeable mood, looked as if her response was so natural a conclusion he couldn't believe he hadn't reached it himself.

“Why, of course!” he said with little conviction, pouring another drink for himself and Mareby-Roquefort.

“My, they sure are flying about out there,” Mareby-Roquefort commented, watching the shadows running past the frosted windows of his office. “You four sure know how to cause a ruckus,” he remarked, smiling sheepishly.

Aster folded her arms tighter, and her scowl deepened.

More irritating than the fact that they were still drunk at 10 A.M., was that upon reaching the office, Aster had been instructed to “sneak inside”— a task nearly impossible considering she was about as inconspicuous as an earthquake in a china shop, and that from upon the point of entering until reaching his office, she never counted less than five persons in any given hallway.

The stress of avoiding them and the fear of being caught and having to explain what she was doing snooping around had filled her with such unexpected terror that she had considered killing Mareby-Roquefort when next she saw him.

“I'm sorry, dear,” Mareby-Roquefort said, noticing her agitation. “I don't usually have my guests sneak in, I just can't afford to give the scoop up to anyone! You've understandably caused quite a stir in this little paper, so they'd mob you the second they noticed who you were. This town has been so dreadfully boring until your festival.”

Aster, not accepting his apology, sneered even more intensely.

“Is it always this busy around here?” Floyd interrupted, motioning with his glass to the silhouettes flying by. “Why, you'd think the ship was going down with the way they're clamoring!”

“They're all rushing to put the story together for the afternoon print,” answered Mareby-Roquefort, returning to his desk.

“Story?” inquired Floyd.

“Coverage of your show last night, of course! A near riot in Cherryaire isn't something you pass up, after all. Though, even considering last night's events, they do seem awfully animated... Well, anyways, take a look,” he said, and then demonstrably held open an advance press of the issue. On the front page were bold letters spelling out “Cherryaire Loves the Love You Forevers” above a large photograph of the band playing, the crowd's animation evident even within the grainy quality of the photo.

Aster, noticing herself in the picture, became self-conscious upon seeing her own impassioned expression, and turned away while blushing.

“My word! Aren't cameras high quality nowadays?” marveled Floyd, leaning in closer to the print and squinting. “I knew Sísí was the right person for the job!”

The two men began to animatedly discuss the photo and the merits of a front page placement, while Aster, upset at seeing last night's pandemonium once again so clearly, began to slip into her thoughts.

Her anger towards Mareby-Roquefort and his idiocy quickly faded, as her recollection of the Cherubs' embarrassing performance brought to mind the intense guilt she had felt at witnessing it.

This guilt in turn brought back the memory of the defeated March slipping out the venue and disappearing into The Cherubs' van.

She shuddered.

She could not help but view March as some grotesque mirror, reflecting back at her expressions which she had worn all too often in the past. Within him she could see the same miserable creative disillusionment which had tormented her entire adult life, and thus the very sight of him had come to terrify her.

His despair so closely resembled her own that she felt as though it was poisoning her to even be near it. It was failure undiluted, and overwhelmed her with an anxiety that blackened out even the elation she felt at their performance's success.

Upon having learned that March had abandoned the show early and taken the Cherubs with him, Aster became assuaged by a strange mixture of guilt, pity, relief, and most vexingly— joy.

She did not wish to revel in the defeat of a fellow artist, but the dual temptations of being freed of failure's noxious presence and the knowledge that for once in her life, she had been the victor, elevated the anxious girl to elated heights she had never known.

From outside the venue, the siren's call of “encore” could be heard, echoing rapturously into the street. The crowd outside, already fomenting in their havoc, became yet more animated at hearing this, and the time for action had come.

Voices on all sides were calling for the Love You Forevers to take the stage and sate the crowd. Aster turned to her bandmates and saw in them that same peculiar mix of guilt and elation.

Yet, Aster thought, why should she, having finally claimed victory, relegate herself the position of loser anyways by encumbering herself with this guilt?

She told herself that the most respectful thing to do was to not let March's ruin be in vain. She had resolved to see this through, and this was the price of fame.

Thus, the Love You Forevers played their encore, and the crowd exploded with ecstatic joy.

When all was said and done, the riot had been only narrowly avoided and the venue owner, although perturbed and exhausted by the ordeal, was mollified by the strongest turnout his venue had ever seen.

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"Anyways, your faith in me shall not be in vain, Floyd. " Mareby-Roquefort proclaimed giddily, interrupting her thoughts.

Aster, returning to the conversation, looked in confusion at the recent developments.

“What?” she asked.

Floyd, beaming in his intoxication, turned to her slowly.

“Were you not listening, Miss Aster? Mr. Mareby-Roquefort here is going to start a section in the Peppermint Plains Gazette solely devoted to covering your band!”

Aster did not believe she had heard him correctly, and looked at him as such.

“A whole section of the paper? For us?” she repeated.

“Yes! Isn't it wonderful?!” Floyd trilled.

Aster, the hypocritical paramour of fame that she was, balked at the idea of being stalked by paparazzi.

Of course it was a topic on which she dwelled long and hard in her many fantasies of fame— it was central to being a celebrity after all— but she had always assumed that by the time she was the subject of such intense scrutiny, she would be far more socially adjusted than she was now.

Aster could feel herself shrink under the magnifying glass of dancing for the papers, and shivered.

"Why not use the paper to cover something more serious, like the war?" she stuttered, conveniently remembering a promise she had made to Sylvia to try and catch Mareby-Roquefort's ear on the topic.

Mareby-Roquefort frowned.

"Nobody wants to be made sad when they open up their morning paper, Miss Aster. It is my job to find the most fun and entertaining side of Peppermint Plains that I can. Which happens to be you!"

Aster looked at him in disgust.

"Anyhow," Mareby-Roquefort chuckled nervously, folding the paper and setting it aside, “on to the reason we've all come here— the tour! As your new press agent, I feel it is paramount—”

“Press agent?” Aster interrupted, furling her eyebrows.

“Why, yes. I'm sorry I forgot to inform you,” Floyd said, turning in his chair to face her. “You see, Mr. Mareby-Roquefort last night enlightened me on the great many things he had done for the band in my absence— all of which have been nothing but the greatest boon to you all! It seemed like a very easy decision to me, especially when you consider the fact that he is employed at this fine newspaper, to offer him the role.”

Mareby-Roquefort sat at his desk, grinning cheekily.

“What about Sísí, though?” Aster asked, looking at him with alarm.

Floyd, as though not having thought this aspect through, froze. A look of horror suddenly took him, and he placed his drink which had been so tenderly fixed in his grasp onto the desk.

“Yes... I'll— I'll deal with Sísí, it's no worry. She still has her role as your stylist!”

Floyd attempted to inflect some confidence into his words, though his expression was better suited for a funeral.

Mareby-Roquefort, sobered by their reactions, downed his glass.

“Yes! As I was saying, it is paramount that we capitalize on this hype immediately! You must think of it as a small, glowing ember in a hearth, and we are the billows. It is up to us to nurture it and coddle its glow, until that little flame within takes over and takes on a life of its own.”

Floyd, slowly returning to himself, turned once again to Aster.

“Failing the plans for a world tour by next month, we have also come up with a plan for a much more modest regional tour for you to undertake. We estimate that it will take... two weeks? What do you think, Miss Aster?”

“Like I said before, shouldn't we have a song out before trying to get people to go to our concerts? You know, something to share when they tell their friends about us? We can only do so much with word of mouth.”

“That might not be entirely true,” chimed Mareby-Roquefort, gesturing to the clamor behind the windows.

Floyd rubbed his chin in thought, nodding along to Aster's suggestion.

“Yes, she is right. I admit that I am a little shy about the idea since the last incident. ” He whispered the last words shamefully. “But, I figure we should have no trouble booking a session at this point. However—” Floyd lilted his head, staring bashfully unsure of a problem which seemed to be before his eyes, “We do not have a record deal, so distribution is going to be difficult. Furthermore, I really don't believe in pursuing any other producer but Vincent Theodora, which will need to wait until we've more leverage—”

“Vincent Theodora?” Aster interrupted.

“Yes, did I never mention his name? I'm forgetting everything it seems. He's the fellow whose house I camped outside— which I frequented. The man who saw you all perform at the Savoy Ball.”

“He's a producer of funny records— comedy skits,” interjected Mareby-Roquefort, “as well as some dazzling film scores.”

“There is not a comedic genius out there whom he has not produced!” Floyd exclaimed, starstruck. “In fact, he is the one who produced my first foray into recording! Though evidently, he did not remember me.”

Aster, recalling the rotting stack of said records inhabiting her bedroom, had not the heart to admit she hardly remembered they were even there.

As Floyd, returning to his tipsy state, launched into an impassioned speech about the ups and downs of his comedic career, a succinct rap of knuckles was heard at the door.

Mareby-Roquefort looked up.

Receiving no reply, the knuckles rapped again. The silhouettes outside had ceased moving and were gathered around the door.

“Who is it?” Mareby-Roquefort asked in a tiny, breaking voice.

The door then opened with little urgency, revealing the visitor as Mareby-Roquefort and Floyd went pale.

In the door frame, surrounded by frantic newspapermen pouring into the office beside her on all sides stood Sísí. Her blue eyes were twinkling, cradled upon her rosy cheeks lifted up by the faintest smile.

“Dear God please, I didn't mean to encroach—” Mareby-Roquefort pleaded.

“There's urgent news, Floyd,” she began softly.

Aster looked around at the men clamoring into the room and felt the throes of a panic attack descending upon her as they gathered around her, pushing their pads of paper into her face.

They hurled questions at her, and aside from a few phrases such as “single”, or “Willie Cooper”, she could not make out a single word. Her heart was thrashing so intensely within her chest she would not have even heard a bomb go off.

She pulled herself up into the chair, drawing her knees into her chest. She felt deep embarrassment at the awful, awkward face she knew she was casting at the frantic, inquiring eyes.

They were all on top of her, like a screen of scrutiny.

She looked through the group of men, watching Floyd. He drew back in apprehension.

“Yes?! Out with it Sísí!”

“Cecil and Sylvia would like me to inform you that the shop is currently being overrun by a mob. I do not know how long they will hold out, but as I left, the front door was being cleared from its hinge.”

“Its hinge?!” screamed Floyd, leaping from his seat.

Aster's eyes went wide and the men broke their huddle from around her.

“Have you not heard the news? You have a radio in here,” she said, gesturing to the one on Mareby-Roquefort's desk. “It seems the news has broken that the Love You Forevers are the true authors of Johnny Vallerie's single.”

—

The events that transpired on their journey to the shop had no definite border, nor even seemed like individual thoughts, though Aster's mind was racing a million miles a second. Rather, as an object propelled by great speed reaches the threshold where its very image seems to morph into a singular blur, so too did all of Aster's thoughts refuse to be defined.

She gazed out the window of the taxi which Floyd had violently hailed and drank in the scenery around her. The sights which had welcomed her on her first visit to this world— the porches teeming with people in friendly conversation, the smog of traffic, and the music drawing them to the square— were once again on full display.

However, this scenery was now more vivid than it ever had been, because Aster, rather than looking upon it as alien, was now appreciating these scenes as stitches within the beautiful fabric of the first place she could ever truly call home.

The most infectious, utterly divine feeling suddenly nestled within her veins. This feeling— this sweet ambrosia which Aster had always desperately craved— was the innate knowledge that from this moment on, their fame had begun.

As they reached the shop, Floyd exited the taxi without waiting for it to stop and hurriedly ran off to save all that he owned.

Sísí had been correct.

A ferocious mob, far larger than any Aster had ever seen, had descended upon the shop, consuming it and all of the neighboring businesses.

On the cobblestone street lay the remnants of the door and its jingling bell, sheared straight from the hinges.

Mareby-Roquefort followed in hot pursuit after Floyd, while Sísí walked on, smiling.

As Aster finally exited the vehicle herself, she noticed Marion within the mob, blushing.

Though it was hard to discern anything over the mob's voices which choked the square, she could hear him yelling something about being a 'bad boy'.

As she gazed upon all this, watching the throng overrun Floyd's shop, she couldn't help but smile.

She worried that if she let her joy show, it would consume the entire world.