Leslie smacked her morning alarm in the face and tumbled out of bed, ready to jog in last night's clothes. She fell through her bedroom door, straight into… Alastor's office.

"Huh?" She noticed him fiddling with the record player. "Sorry," she said, "my bad." It was not her bad - she didn't control the portals - but still.

"Wait a minute, dear, wait a minute." Alastor walked towards her, and she was envious of his appearing bright and refreshed without sleeping. "No hard feelings from yesterday, I hope." They stood in the doorway, she in her room, Alastor in his.

"What?" Leslie yawned. "No, why would there be?"

"Well, we skipped our usual meeting," he said, and his eyes narrowed. "A shame you had to leave in the midst of a game, too. It was just getting interesting."

"Are you kidding? It made me feel like Miss Goody-Two-Shoes," she said, "the most boring person around. I never got arrested, never traded blows… not a recreational drug user, since you asked..."

"Small wonder you're Charlie's favorite," he responded. Alastor gestured to the record player, setting the needle over his record from a distance. A song from The Ink Spots played. "Since we're on the subject of your life…"

"Oh, here we go."

"You didn't happen to mislead me about being married, did you?"

"Er… no. I was."

"Hm. You see, I still don't know the reason you were sent to Hell. It makes me wonder if you've been bending the truth about your formerly-married state."

"Why would I lie about that?"

"To hide your promiscuous past?"

"Oh, shut up. If I had a problem with promiscuity, I'd be taking classes and working on it by now."

"Maybe to keep potential suitors at a distance, then. Claiming to still hold a candle for one's former partner is an elegant, and common, form of rejection down here. Perhaps you used that excuse on me."

Leslie frowned. "What? I… barely mention Karlton, let alone to repel suitors. When did I bring him up with you?"

"About a week after we met."

"Oh right. Yeah, because you presumed I was an innocent little flower, that's why!" It was so silly to argue like this, at the crack of dawn, over the sound of smooth 1940s jazz. Could anyone hear them? Her door was wide open. Yes, it led to his room, but for all she knew, it was an imperfect seal.

"Innocent flower… Well, now I know better," he said with a wink.

"Listen, you," she said, wide awake now. "I know you seduced me into this thing we have going on - with surprisingly little funny business, so I dunno if it even counts - but when I was alive? Actually pretty dedicated to my relationships. Karl was my real, actual husband."

"Can you prove it?"

"Yes, but I don't have to."

"What kind of proof do you have?" he asked, and he stepped into her room, a queer little smile on his face. "Photographs?"

Leslie sighed, turned around and yanked her phone free of its charging cable. "Really didn't want to do this," she said. "Yes, photos." She navigated to an album labelled 'Karl&Me3', opened the first image, and passed the phone to Alastor. "That's us," she said. "You swipe left to see the next ones."

Alastor took a seat on her bed, still unmade. He held the mobile awkwardly in both hands, clearly unaccustomed to such devices; but he gazed at the picture and tilted his head. "This was you?"

"Yep," she said, looking away. Even months after her death, she avoided old photos. The subjects had lost their relevance: the loved ones separated from her by time, space and coexisting realities; and the twenty-six-year-old body she used to occupy, reduced to worm food. Since around Day Five in Hell, she was tempted to delete the past-life selfies, and never could - too painful to look at or discard.

Alastor took a long time flipping through her memories. He stopped when he reached the photo-series of Karl and Leslie standing outdoors: him in a suit, her in a dress.

"There you have it," she said. "Mazel tov, am I right?"

"Why are you standing under a willow tree?"

"Long story," she said. "We were stressed trying to plan stuff - his family was kinda absent for various reasons, I thought he was getting cold feet… Then he drove me and his brother out to this public park one evening, pulled our clothes out of the trunk and said 'Hey, surprise, we're doing it now'." She sat beside him and flicked the side of her phone. "I got that dress for a niece's christening. Didn't think I'd get married in it."

"So, besides his brother - the officiant, I presume - you had zero attendees, and didn't even go to the church?" Alastor grinned wryly. "I wonder if God would be so petty…!"

"What, damn me to hell for eloping? That would be petty." Leslie swiped a few pictures along, to show the trio huddled with a fourth person, all mugging to the camera. "Turns out you need a witness in our state… but I guess he counts."

"Who was he?"

"Just some rando walking his dog. Stephen something. We kept in touch," Leslie said, then let go of the phone. "Shit, I wonder if he knows I died."

"Leslie, this is all very unorthodox."

"Maybe," she shrugged. "But I see what Karl was trying to do. It was still a good day. So, there you go. Proof."

"Given how little you talk about him - and how fond you are of me - am I to assume the marriage was rock-solid?"

She gave him the stink-eye. "Enough questions. C'mon, I've got to go jogging."

"I'll take that as a no." He held her phone out of reach, causing her to practically clamber over him. God damn it, she tried, but his arms were so unnaturally long compared to hers.

"Give it back, you bastard!"

"Ha ha…! Make me!"

Leslie tackled him, making them overbalance. Before she could process the fact of being atop him on her own mattress, he teleported away, and she fell a further few inches. The music in the other room stopped.

"Lemme guess," she said, storming into his office, "you think marriage is for fools? Or maybe just romance in general." He was changing the record, handling the vinyl twice as delicately as he'd ever handled her, and never bothered to answer. "Good," she continued. "If it means you'll never love me… because I don't see myself loving you. The thought of it makes me a bit sick, actually. Now please gimme my phone."

Alastor gave her a funny look, but returned the mobile at last. "So, you only want me for one thing," he teased. "How shallow of you."

Leslie knew what he was doing. Last time, he'd framed forgiveness for biting her as the 'divine' path. In order to be redeemable, she ought to overlook his wrong-doing. So she'd done it, taken the high-ground, and let him get away with biting. This time, according to his logic, it was better to love someone than lust after them. She supposed he had a point; Charlie certainly might have agreed with him. But was it so much better, to love someone who was downright evil? The so-called philosophical victory was a trap.

"Can't win, can I?" she said. "Whatever. I'll take shallow over foolish."

He grinned anew. "That's my girl."

o - o - o - o - o

Alastor spent the next few days renovating the hotel at random. By all accounts, he did it to be disruptive and keep the patrons on their toes. It was hard not to be jumpy, Leslie discovered, when the structural integrity of the building was in question. It didn't matter the time of day, nor how a room was being used: he could be there at a moment's notice to telekinetically throw the furniture into disarray or tear off the wallpaper. Husk once came into the lobby complaining that his sleeping quarters now contained five or so bookcases, and was told that Alastor 'hadn't found a place for them yet', and to please bear with.

Vaggie was not happy.

"I have fucking classes to teach!" she yelled, throwing a book in Alastor's direction. "Give it a rest, dickneck!" What followed was a stream of furious Spanish and a curse on Alastor's mother's grave, which might have put a tiny dent in his imperishable grin; Leslie wasn't close enough to know for sure. Anyway, it didn't stop his antics; he flitted to the kitchen to hurl some crockery out the window.

Leslie was fairly busy herself. On top of her usual shifts, she spent much of her time devising routines for Moxxie and Millie's classes. She saw them twice a week, still in the studio. Choreographing for two was a challenge, since she had to think it through from both sides. It was helpful to film herself moving through one person's steps, watch it back, and reverse-configure the steps for the other person.

During lessons, they'd start with warmups (which Moxxie always performed with gusto), and then approach the steps to music, from one of her many playlists arranged by beats per minute. Both imps had a terrific sense of rhythm.

"He's a musician," Millie cooed.

"Ah, well, that explains it!"

Leslie often had to come into closed position with one of them, to demonstrate certain things. Since both her students had claws, this meant being accidentally spiked on the hands or waist. Leslie learned to grin and bear it.

"OK," she said, stepping between the two, "that was great, but, Moxxie, I think you had your step pattern mixed up."

"Oh."

"No, no, it's tricky, don't worry about it! Let's go through it again."

As Moxx unclasped his wife's hands, Leslie got into position next to him, and they ran through it at half-speed. It was nice to take things at their own pace, she reflected, unrushed, undisturbed - until Alastor flashed into view, holding his cane. Both Moxxie and Millie stopped what they were doing.

"I'm teaching," she said, "go away, please."

"Still squaring yourself away in here," he remarked, and cast a critical eye at his surroundings. "There's a perfectly good stage you could be using, just a few doors down."

Leslie took a short, shallow breath. "We're fine here. Better for privacy."

"If you insist."

He rested his cane carefully against the entrance wall; then, with a snap of his fingers, he conjured a chunk of mirrored wall, clearly ripped from another building. It landed with a thud. A single fracture line splintered the glass.

"FUCK!" Leslie and her students fell in shock, and Alastor left without another word. Somewhere upstairs, the patrons loudly complained, just as they had when Baxter blew up the hotel. Leslie helped Moxxie and Millie to their feet.

"Sorry," she said. "He's a nuisance. You get used to it."

She approached the broken mirror - seven years' bad luck - wondering where on earth he'd got it, and caught the reflection of Moxxie creeping the opposite way. Alastor had left his cane behind. The eye of the microphone flicked open, faintly glowing.

"Can, er… can he see through that thing?" Millie asked.

"I don't know," Leslie said. "Hopefully not. I wouldn't touch it if I were you-!"

Too late. Moxxie reached out, perhaps to claim the staff's power for himself, and he was struck by red lightning which catapulted him across the room.

"Moxx! Sweetie, are you OK?"

"Golly Gee Willickers, that must have been ten feet!" the microphone said. It had its own voice, not Alastor's (though its sadistic glee was familiar), and with it, the three heard thunderous clapping, as though a new sporting record had been set.

"I am so sorry," Leslie said, picking Moxxie up again.

He brushed some ash from his clothes. "Lesson learned. No touchie."

They wrapped the lesson up, so he and Millie could rest after his unexpected and jarring experience. Leslie felt confident enough to ask them to bring some friends next time: after all, dancing with different partners now and then would make them better dancers overall. They nodded and left the room, phoning for a cab back to the Wrath Ring, whatever that was.

Leslie walked to the mirror one last time. Funny, the way Alastor had done it: like it was purely to satisfy his aesthetic standards for the hotel, and nothing to do with her. She hoped that was the reason; otherwise she owed the Radio Demon a favor. In any case, having the mirror here would make her job easier, and for that she was grateful.