Everyone screamed, both the living and the dead. The friendly wyrms that had gathered to hear me play hovered out of the Hall of Echoes, past the boughs of protesting wyrm-trees.

People ran.

"What the fuck is happening?" Lark said.

I slithered out into the Garden Court and looked up. Friendly wyrms coiled mid-air, ready to strike.

"Listen…" someone said.

I did. It made me shiver.

Lark and Mr. Himichi staggered out behind me. "Genneth!?" But they soon stopped and stared.

The sky was singing—at least, that's what it felt like. The dawn sky thronged with silver-eyed wyrms, all of whom were singing in unison. It wasn't the first time this had happened, but it had never been as dramatic as this. Over the past weeks, the choirs of wyrmsong that had grown to fill the background sometimes sang in unison like this, but it was only now that I recognized at least part of the reason behind it: the fungus was manipulating them—or so I thought.

"Are they attacking?" Heggy asked.

"I… I don't think so," Ani replied.

The two physicians had walked up to the Hall of Echoes' ruined interest.

"Why are they doing this?" Mr. Himichi asked.

Every once in a while, the wyrmsong looped back and played over from the beginning.

"They've done it before," I said. "I can point out at least half a dozen different strains of 'song' that they've sung, though I don't know what any of it means."

Wait a minute.

I turned to Brand, Merritt and the others.

"Guys, guys," I asked, "what are they saying?"

Merritt wasn't the only wyrm who shook their head in the negative. Brand huffed out some spores and shaped them into a single, ragged-looking word: Gibberish.

"Wait, so it doesn't make any sense to you, either?" I asked.

All the wyrms nodded in unison.

"Doc," Lark said, turning to me, "play your clarinet." Lark's eyes were wide in alarm.

"What?"

"Just do it! Start from the beginning of your sonata."

My clarinet-playing magic was almost fully operational again when Lark said those words. I instantly froze.

I swear, the feeling of epiphany was so strong, I could feel it spark inside my skull.

"By the Angel…" I muttered.

"What is it, Genneth?" Mr. Himichi said, though he wasn't the only one to say some variation of that.

Lark sniffled and wept, wiping her tears on her sleeve. She looked at me with determination. "You hear it, too, don't you?" she said.

"Hear what?" Mr. Himichi asked.

I got my clarinet ready, and then waited for the wyrmsong to loop back to the beginning. Once it did, I played.

Gasps rippled around me.

"You've gotta be shittin' me," Heggy mumbled.

For some, likely terrifying reason, the wyrms were singing my sonata. It wasn't anything as simple as them singing the main melody. Rather, they were singing something almost like the underlying harmonic line. More often than not, the tones weren't quite right, with embellishments being added, either as overtones or chord extensions. But it followed along. Fudge, it even did the modulation to the second subject.

At that point, I stopped, too freaked out to continue. And, wouldn't you know it, that did something, too.

A blaring dissonance twice in a duple rhythm cut through the wyrmsong—aaa aaa—and then it all stopped.

The sudden silence was so thick, you could have reached out and touched it. An ominous wind blew through it.

"Genneth…" Ani said, coughing. Her hands trembled. "W-What's going on?"

"I don't know…" I said.

A tingle ran down my spine.

— — —

I doppelgangered myself, letting a Second Self talk with people out in the real world while Mr. Himichi, Lark, and myself retreated with Lark into the sanctum of my Main Menu.

Gosh, those unblemished skies were beautiful.

"What do you think it means?" I asked.

"Maybe it's Andalon trying to reach out to you?" Mr. Himichi suggested.

"But…"

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"It's like with Catamander Brave's ending," I said. "Though the wyrms have been singing this for over a week, this is the first time I've played any part of my Sonata since Andalon first appeared to me. Beast's teeth!" I shook my head, "could the other unison wyrmsong correspond to other parts of my Sonata?"

"Oh fudge…" I muttered.

"What is it?" Lark asked.

"I just did a mental check," I said. "They do match to it! They match like heck!"

I shook my arms in dismay and ran my fingers through my hair.

"What does this mean?" Lark asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I don't freaking know! Earlier today, when I showed her my clarinet and played a little for her—not my sonata, Gallstrom's G minor sonata—she displayed an unusual reaction. Could that be related to this?"

"It very well might be," Mr. Himichi said.

"But… I don't understand!" I said. "If this was Andalon's doing, how did she know about my Sonata all this time? And if it was the fungus' doing…?" I shuddered.

The thought was pure terror, and I hadn't the slightest clue as to what it meant.

"No no no no no no—"

"Genneth, stop." Mr. Himichi stepped forward and grabbed me by the arm.

I stood stiff.

He let go of me.

"Listen to me, Dr. Howle," he said. "You're going to work yourself into a frenzy over this. You can't control it; stop trying to. All you can do is wait for Andalon to return and hope she has the answers you seek."

"But what if those answers aren't the ones I want them to be?" I said.

"You'll have to make do, regardless, as do we all." Mr. Himichi took a deep breath and then stepped back. "Thank you for the music, Genneth. It was beautiful. I know you're worried, but, at least there, you did good, and no one can doubt it. Now, if you'll excuse me," he glanced at Lark, "I believe Lark wants to talk to you."

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Much to frustration, he was absolutely right.

Mr. Himichi flickered and vanished, disappearing into the afterlife inside of his soul crystal.

"Shit, man," Lark said, sniffling profusely, "is it always a roller coaster like this with you?"

I sighed. "Only recently." My eyes went misty. "I used to be so gosh darn boring," I said, "like you wouldn't believe."

Lark crossed her male body's arms, glaring at me with a wry, almost irascible smirk on her lips.

"You didn't tell me you were a fucking musical genius," she said.

Blushing, I immediately averted my gaze. "I'm glad you liked it." I swallowed hard and mustered enough courage to look Lark directly in the eyes. "I'm not a musical genius," I said. "It took me years to write that, and… even now, I'm worried it's not as good as what I dreamed it could be."

"Do you mind telling me why you're here?" I asked.

"Did you really never know your mother?"

I shook my head. "No. She killed herself when I was an infant. Postpartum depression."

A blank look graced Lark's clean-shaven face. "Fuck."

"You're not the only one with wounds here, Lark," I said.

At the risk of stating the obvious, successfully working thorough therapy with others was often quite therapeutic for the therapist in question. Certainly, it was here for me. As nervous as I was about the brand new musical revelation fate had dropped into my lap, I was still able to lose myself in the vibes of helping, specifically as they pertained to Lark's case.

"Confronting the past is horribly painful," I said. "That's something I know all too well. But," I sighed, "that hurt is never going to go away, unless we make ourselves forget, or something like that."

She pouted at me. "You think I don't know that?"

"No, I know that you know it. But… I think you still think you can conquer it, and that," I shook my head, "that just doesn't happen."

I clenched my fists.

Alright, I was hitting my stride.

Focus on the moment, I told myself.

The hour of Andalon's return had to be drawing near. I just needed to hold out until then, and then the truths behind all of the mysteries would finally be brought to light—I hoped.

"Lark," I said, "we talk about our sorrows as being demons because they seem to persecute us. They follow our every footstep, constantly threatening to attack us. But," and here, I smiled gently, "that's just not true. Our guilts, regrets, and sorrows aren't 'demons'. They're not hostile takeovers of our minds by nefarious forces. They're as much a part of ourselves as the rest of us. They contribute to who we are for better and for worse. And even more importantly, they contribute to who we can and do become." I nodded again. "If you don't want my help, I won't push this issue any more. As you can see, I have plenty of drama of my own to deal with. But, and I have to warn you, if I see your soul showing even the slightest sign of demonic taint or corruption, I will have to seal you away, if not purge you altogether, and, well… I'd rather not have to do that."

"Wait… what?" Lark's eyes went wide.

I nodded. "Yes, really."

Lark kicked at my Main Menu's water-slicked floor. "Fuck me, man…"

I rolled out my shoulders. "So… does that mean you'll…?"

The singer waved a hand and nodded. "Yeah yeah yeah, just do it already. I'm so tired, Doc. I'm so fucking tired of it all."

I sighed in relief. Nothing kept my misery at bay quite like helping other people with their own problems.

"Focus on your pain," I said. "Let the feelings trace their way back and back…"

And then the room was awash with light.

— — —

— — —

This time, Lark was not at my side as the memory took shape. Instead, The singer was enmeshed in the moment.

As was I.

We experienced it together.

It was a beautiful day in a horrible place.

The last mile or so of its length before the Chu River let out into the sea was brutally industrialized. The river's mouth was the hub for international shipping in Tchwang. The massive container ships were moving mountains; loading cranes and refineries crowded out the sky, sullied smokestacks constantly belching out steam, as if the river lands were where locomotives buried their dead.

Metal-roofed warehouses baked in the sun, packed to the brim with the treasures of the Occident, just waiting to be exported. Beside them, the river carried out Chu City's trash. Scum and sludge bobbed in the water, adding fuming accents of putrid biology to already a strong, acrid blend of oil and industrial byproducts awash in the air.

Most people said you just got used to the smell. Certainly, Zongman and his brother Shen hardly gave it any thought.

The two young men were out by the railing, looking over the river.

Lark's memories of the moment were hazy, on account of the fact that, at the time, she (rather, he) had been sky-high on… actually, even now, she didn't remember. Forms and figures blurred together, parting and merging like a lava lamp.

Lark was right: Shen was not an identical twin, not in the least. Lark might have gotten the good looks and the musical skills, but Shen had gotten everything else, including height. Older, though not by much, Lark's brother was thin-faced and bespectacled, which looked all the weirder on him, considering that, of the two brothers, Shen's body was, by far, the more robust. Shen was just naturally strong, and in every way. He could run circles around Lark, long after Zongman was winded; he kept helping Zongman with his homework, to the point where Zongman was hardly contributing anything at all.

But that's because he looked out for me, Lark thought.

"Zong, get down from there," Shen said. "It's not safe."

"I like it up here, tho," Zongman replied. "I'm high."

He laughed.

Zongman sat atop the double railing, clad in a dark, smelly hoodie and dirty slacks, straddling the metal beam in the crook of his crotch. His high was making him feel really… high. Though it was only a couple of feet from the bottom of his ratty sneakers to the concrete pavement below, Zongman felt like he was at the top of the world, with one foot over land, the other over the turbid, sun-speckled waters.

Shen's dark hoodie matched his brother's. Like Zongman, Shen's sweatpants had a small hole in them, though not in the same place. Both brothers wore ostentatious sneakers, a mix of red, black, and yellow on a white background, though the colors—not to mention everything else—had been scuffed up beyond belief.

The shoes had been cheap; they'd been recalled on account of the way their soles damaged marble surfaces.

Shen looked up at his brother and grimaced, both at the smell and at Zongman's buffoonery.

"I can't believe you're out here, again," he said. "You could be practicing piano, or singing."

"What's the point?" Zongman asked.

"You've basically given up on school. At least if you got some money doing street performances, Dad might not tear you a new one every other week."

"Doesn't matter," Zongman said. "I feel like shit. Like… all the time."

Shen crossed his arms. "Well, you never talk to me about it…"

"That's because I've got nothing worth saying. It's all misery. I'm… I'm like a fish in the desert." Zongman opened and closed his mouth in exaggerated pops, mimicking a fish.

"What?" Shen asked.

Zongman made a fart-noise with his lips. "Mom and Dad are right. I'm not good for anything. You got all the goodness, bro. I'm not wanted. I've got nowhere to be and nothing to live for."

"Please, Zongman, you're scaring me," Shen said. "Just get down from the railing already."

Shen started to approach, but Zongman pushed off the railing's middle ring of the railing with his feet, raising himself into a squat.

"I'll jump!" he said, spreading his arms for balance. "I'll fucking do it!"

He wobbled in place.

"You'd just throw your life away?" Shen asked.

"You never know, maybe someone will give me a better one."

Then the earth shook, and Zongman's world went for a whirl, and he fell backward, but not before the bottom of one of his shoes slipped on the railing, causing his right leg to get caught between the upper and lower rails.

He screamed.

Pain bit into his leg like a line of fire as his shin bashed into the upper railing. He felt something crack.

He screamed some more.

And then he tumbled.

Lark remembered the warm, putrid water. There was no way she'd ever forget the smell of shit up her nose.

Zongman tried to kick and swim as he hit the current. Instead, agony burned through the lower of his leg, pulsing like a suffocating drumbeat. He screamed again, letting the awful water flooded inside. He flailed his arms, desperate to surface; he needed air to breathe, not water and shit! But his wet, sloppy hoodie weighed him down. He had to fight, and that hurt like fuck. Finally, his head broke through to the surface. He spat out the muck in his mouth and gasped for breath.

His frantic heartbeat was like the thrum of a distant rave.

Shen yelled, but Zongman couldn't make out the words. The water churned with the stuff of nightmares. Swirls of trash and dislodged silt passed over him like sea-dragons. He felt his heartbeat grow louder in his body as drifted through the current, until it became an all-consuming rhythm, punctuated by the splashes and airward thrusts of his struggle to reach the sky and break free from the water's pull.

An arm wrapped around his chest. Force grabbed him and pulled upward and to the left. He breached the surface again, spitting and sputtering. Through the filthy, tossing water, he saw Shen's back and head right beside him.

Shen was pulling him ashore.

A concrete wall pressed against Zongman's chest. He looked up; it rose before him like a cliff. He could see the metal railings high on top.

Shen yelled and pulled.

And then he was out. Zongman laid on a concrete landing at the base of a staircase served into the wall. Water swept onto the landing, tussling his clothes.

He put his arm on Shen's back, and looked down to see his injured leg, twisted at an impossible angle. Seeing that, Zongman finally remembered how much his leg fucking hurt, and promptly passed out from the pain—and there, the memory ended.

Neither Lark nor I had physical form. We drifted in a storm of memory and fate. Images cycloned around us. Lark was a flaring light in the middle of the tempest, while I was everywhere, and everything else.

"That was incredibly stupid of you," I said.

Lark's spirit recoiled. "You think I don't know that?"

"From the way your brother was reacting, I get the feeling that this wasn't an isolated incident?"

"Yeah," Lark said. "I was a real shit. I made everyone around me worried and miserable, me included."

"Didn't that bother you?" I asked. "If you want to get allies, being a jerk to others is not how you go about doing it."

"I felt wrong," Lark said. "I belonged nowhere."

"What about music?" I said. "You obviously wanted to pursue that."

"Music doesn't make the pain go away, Dr. Howle, it just makes it easier to bear." Lark's soul pulled away from me. "And I would need it for what happened next," she said.

"Why are you showing this to me?"

"You wanted to know why I feel the way I feel, to make good on your promise to Dr. Derric, right?" Lark asked.

"Yes."

"Then shut up already. I'm giving you your fucking answers."

The temporal cyclone blurred into a blender-swirl. Lark plummeted toward the boundary, crashing us into the next leg of her tale.

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