Chapter Seven

One Month Later…

Alfie

I’m pacing in my living room when the thought of a glass of Glenfiddich arrows into my thoughts. Nah. No amount of scotch is going to reduce my worries.

The clip-clop of my hooves on the marble floors never registered before. That was until Steph began working for me. I can’t count the number of times she’s managed to sneak up on me when I’m at the dining room table checking my email.

It was only after a few days of this that I realized how irritatingly loud my hooves are. I’m going to have to research other flooring materials that would work better for a residence inhabited by a minotaur.

But it’s not the flooring that’s my concern, although it’s currently irritating the shit out of me. It’s the five emails sitting in the new folder I created called “Concert Offers.”

Until a few months ago, when my identity and species became public knowledge, I received few inquiries about concerts. I was a mid-level artist who received lackluster offers to perform. They were easy to delete.

But the five that have come through recently certainly bear some thought, although there are a thousand daunting working parts that make the proposition almost impossible. Four of the emails have been marinating in my inbox for a while, but the one that came through today made me sit up and take notice.

Dear Mr. Alphonse Foster,

It had been so politely over-the-top, that I thought it was one of those Nigerian Prince scams. Especially when I saw the official seal of the Prime Minister of the country of Ysaria. I mean, really, whoever sent it hadn’t had the energy to invent the name of a real country?

Except I couldn’t help but google the name. Sure enough, it’s not only a country, but is the third richest in the world. The official seal was either a damn good fake or was real. That’s when I paid special attention to the letter.

I’ve long been a fan of Labyrinth’s music, Ambique (the long version) being my favorite of your pieces, although I imagine if we were to have a conversation, you could convince me that Metronawl or Persinesk have their merits as well.

Although it was a persistent fantasy, it never occurred to me to reach out to invite you to play in my esteemed country. After all, although we are a wealthy nation, we are small.

It was only after the recent revelation of your species (a thousand pardons if I offend you, Mr. Foster) that a desire began to burn in my heart. I’ve repressed the urge to reach out to you but can no longer ignore my passion to not only have you play in my country, but to speak to you about your life as an Other.

I have the utmost respect, sir, and extend an offer for you to join me and a few close friends for a sumptuous repast at the palace. The next day, I invite you to play in our most elegant concert hall in our capital city. Let me assure you that the acoustics are reputed to be some of the best in the world.

This would be televised and broadcast free throughout the nation so all my subjects can appreciate your brilliant music.

For this honor, I offer you the sum of…

I open a new tab and convert the Ysarian talons to United States dollars. I shake my head in that way I’ve seen prizefighters do to gather their wits after a particularly powerful blow to the head.

“Dear Lord.”

Please take your time to consider my offer and feel free to reach out to my assistant with questions or to make arrangements.

Your Fan,

Illustrious Highness, Potentate Zephyros Velorian

“Holy shit.”

I google his Illustrious Highness, and see he’s thirty-five years old, has been the Potentate of Ysaria for three years, and after watching a few YouTube videos of his speeches, I fully believe he wrote that flowery missive himself.

The amount of money he offered me is enough for me and a family of ten to live in luxury for the rest of our lives.

“To hell with it.” I stride to the Glenfiddich and pour a highball glass full to the brim. My mind is blown.

It strikes me with the force of a thunderbolt that two months ago, I would have already called Theo and asked him and Zoey to drop everything, come to my house, and tell me what to do. But that’s not what I’m aching to do now.

I’m thinking of Stephanie.

She’s become indispensable to me over the last month. Although I hired her to work half-time here and half-time at home, she hasn’t really started the “from-home” portion of the job description. For some reason, I keep coming up with tasks that need to be performed from her office here in my home.

I’m not even sure why, but I feel better knowing she’s only a few feet away. She’s made herself invaluable. She has this knack of knowing how to fix every problem I bring to her. If she doesn’t have the answer right away, she knows where to look or who to call. Usually, within hours, she’s not only conducted all the research and done the footwork but has also come to me with one or more practical and economical solutions.

My mind is whirling with possible problems. From how to leave the country—hell, Theo and I are the only Others on Earth not confined to the Integration Zone—to how to find musicians capable playing minotaur instruments for a live concert.

Although my father was a senator, I never went to state functions with him. I’m not even sure I know which fork to use at a fancy dinner. A banquet with the Potentate of Ysaria and all his rich friends? How could I possibly handle that? Yet, a concert, performing live in front of an audience, that’s one of my fondest dreams.

Moaning, I sag onto the couch and press my head into my hands.

“This will never work.”

As soon as I finish this drink, I’ll walk over to my laptop and send all five concert requests to Steph with the request to tell them all no.

Except it strikes me that I don’t want to do that. I want to say yes. I’ve spent my entire life hiding, first from bullies in kindergarten, then from everyone as I was homeschooled, then while distance learning, then in my studio, and even now that I’ve been outed, the only time I’ve left my home is when I forced myself to go out of my comfort zone and accompany Steph to the furniture store.

Don’t I deserve a life? Shouldn’t I be able to pursue my dreams? Doesn’t every performing artist want, on some level, to perform in front of people?

Before I can second guess myself, I grab my phone and text Stephanie.

I know it’s Saturday night, but could I impose on you to come over?

Her immediate response: Is something wrong? Do I need to call an ambulance?

There’s no emergency. Well, only in my head. I’ll pay you double.

I’ll be on my way as soon as I feed my cat. At some point, we’re going to have a serious talk about paying me double. You don’t have to buy me, you know. I like working for you.

She does? I’d been hoping she wasn’t still mad at me about the Ashley/Amanda fiasco.

And I do not want to walk through that front door and find that you’ve forgotten to put pants on.

Glancing down, I see she’s right—I’m naked. I wouldn’t have remembered to get dressed if she hadn’t reminded me.

I’m pulling on my jeans even as we speak. Don’t worry.