“See what?”

“That someone is going to get hurt. Certainly Alex, and maybe you. Not me,” she added airily. “I don’t get hurt. I just have to pick up the pieces.”

“Noble you.”

“Noble me.” Internally she debated whether to threaten me. She could fire me, and could probably arrange that the major recording labels wouldn’t let me into their studios; but backing me into a corner held too many risks. Especially when she believed I could steal Alex with one nudge of my nipples. So keep it cool, keep it sophisticated, woman to woman, one tuck-and-tumble doesn’t have to mean anything.

“If I were you,” she said, “I’d tell him this was just a brief... weakness on your part. You could say you were under the influence of some fiendish psychological weapon still at work on the battlefield. A lust gun. Makes you rut like a mink in heat no matter how ridiculous you look. No matter how damaging it might be for your career. Lust grenades. Lust lasers. Alex would believe that.”

“You don’t give Alex enough credit.”

“I give Alex all the credit,” she replied. “I do the work, he gets the credit. If you want to start a tug-of-war, Lyra, you may pull Alex away from me. But without me, he’s no star. He’s just a not-too-bright guy with a so-so voice. Not a great catch, believe me.”

“What about the Singer?” I asked.

Her thoughts shriveled. Fear. Cold fear so sharp and similar to mine I jerked my hand away from the parrot. “You can have the Singer,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “If you can catch the Singer, he’s yours.”

She turned abruptly away and started walking toward the edge of the hill. Without turning, she called back, “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing, Lyra. The smart thing.”

I watched till she was gone. At the last second, I brushed my finger across the parrot. On the surface, Helena fretted about me watching her walk away — she was sure I was laughing at her, at her hips and ass thickening with middle age. But deeper down ran a current of terror: wordless, imageless fear of the Singer.