Jerith turned quickly away from me. His hand went reflexively to his beard. I told myself I must have been staring and I felt like shit.

“There’s nothing wrong with Alex,” Roland said quietly as he went back to cleaning his artifact. “I admit, the problem was mine. I envied him like hell. Especially back when we were starting our band. Eighteen years old, both of us, playing school dances and grotty little booze bins. Me playing keyboards, writing all the songs, doing the work!” He dug the brush into the gap between two metal tubes and twisted it hard. “Alex sang my songs, my songs, every word mine, not his... but who did the women steam for? Pissed me off, pissed me right...” He stopped and calmed himself. After a moment he said, “These days I can handle it. I’m not writing to impress people, I’m not writing to get laid.”  He gave me a pointed look. “I’m writing to say something and the message is what counts. If the only way to be heard is putting my words in the Singer’s mouth, so be it.”

There was a lengthy silence, a painful one. I felt guilty without knowing why, like I’d been accused of some crime... as if I were a slut waiting to fall at Alex’s feet just to spite Roland. I wished Jerith would say something, anything to ease the tension.

And he did.

“You still haven’t talked about Alex and the Singer,” Jerith said, sounding like the words came awkwardly to him, but clearly doing his best to break the silence.

“Oh, that,” said Roland. “Do you believe in possession?”

“No,” I answered, though the question was directed at Jerith.

Roland laughed without humor. “I don’t believe in it either. But I’ll tell you, when Alex and I first started performing, we stank. I have no idea why — he had a decent voice, and I knew the songs were brilliant...” He laughed again.