A gift of silence and ragtime.


In the moment of hushed silence, the raised hand snaps its fingers.

The lights flicker off and return, changed—sharper and redder and more sinister. Once his eyes adjust, every surface Husk can see is covered in red candles.

Bunches of them on the ornate candelabra that were not there before. A handful on each table. On the new baize Husk helped install last week. Melting, dripping, like they've been lit for hours. The Radio Demon's perennial grin glows faint in the half-light, and he offers Husk the red-edged silhouette of a dancer's bow. His mere presence is thinning out the air in the room.

Fucking great. The walking one-man show wants to be his piano guy.

"No one else?" Husk attempts one last time. "Are we sure? Not even Chopsticks?"

The grin widens into that something that always makes him think of anglerfish. Of secret places, unlit waters. Husk watches Alastor sink into his shadow, reappearing at the piano with an unsettling slither. The entire first row abandons their tables to move away from the stage.

At the second snap, a single fresnel light shines down on Husk's baffled face. He winces at the brightness, his stomach twisting unpleasantly.

When that piano starts playing… some shit is going down. Anything might happen. Husk has seen this before. Not this, exactly—but this kind of circumstance. Any moment now, something unsavory and loud—broadcast, carnage, impromptu musical number—all three, if they're lucky. He knows how these things go. If there's no show to steal, Alastor will snap one into existence.

Yeah, alright. No way in Hell he's getting paid tonight.

Just as Husk is considering how handy it would be to have actual magic, just this once, to disappear in a trapdoor and reappear facedown on his couch, the heckler from before speaks up. The only person who—a true paradigm of balls of steel and brains of oatmeal—did not move from his spot now loudly calls for the goddamn show to start already. Guy must be suicidal, it's the only explanation.

Already weary, Husk turns to Alastor to see what bullshit he's about to start, what witty one-liner will he spark off the chaos with.

And Alastor… says nothing at all. He merely grins a little wider, self-assured and menacing as ever. He emits no sound other than that anticipatory crackle of static, and slinks onto the piano stool.

Husk watches, frozen in confusion, his long coattails flare out and settle with a flutter down the back of the seat, as he carefully lifts the fallboard and finds his hands on the ivory keys. Despite the cold chills running down Husk's spine, his eyes find a moment to notice the lack of pinstripes, the cut of Alastor's dinner jacket, impeccably tailored and in the deep red of amarena cherries, sporting a single artsy stitch on the left lapel. He takes in the polished, well-loved dress shoe that settles on the pedal, glinting in the light. Something is different, in the way the air twists. He can't quite place it.

What the fuck is going on, Husk wants to yell. Why are you in a tux.

The first thing that happens when that piano starts playing, turns out, is utter confusion.

It looks the same, from this angle, but the sound that comes from it is not at all the sound a common upright piano should make. It's pitched higher, metallic, like a music box left open. Husk squints, perks his ears. He knows this. Really, a fucking Glockenspiel…? Were you all out of marimbas? But that's not right either. It's gentler than that, a way mellower timbre. Felt mallets on metal tines, a tickle of vibration against the sensitive hairs in his ears. A sound like raindrops.

Sweat beads on his palms. He feels it, heart-shaped pads growing slick. His feet, too, he's gonna start leaving wet footprints if he doesn't get a grip. Alright, so the piano is a damn Celesta now. Not the weirdest thing he's seen Alastor do, for sure. Keep it together. That's all there is, spooky candles and ill-named instruments. He can roll with it. When he tries to discreetly dry his hands, he distantly registers a change in texture. He glances down at himself.

Yep. Alright. He's wearing a completely different outfit. It fits like some bespoke fine shit—goddammit, he should be used to this by now. He shifts slightly, feeling the way it falls smooth against his fur.

It comes with fucking cufflinks.

What the hell, he mouths at Alastor, but he is busy arranging Thunder and Blazes, of all things—always with the clown jokes, this goddamn prankster… he's up there to ridicule him, isn't he?—and pays him no mind. The music starts pulling a few nervous chuckles from the terrified audience. A few demons sit back down, shaking visibly. Oh, he must be loving this, the smug bastard.

As if he sensed his thoughts, Alastor glances up and flashes him a wide grin. It's full off—something. Well, teeth. Mostly teeth. But something else, too, that Husk recognises as genuine mirth after a moment of soul-searching. Then, with a set of the shoulder that could arguably be interpreted as apologetic, Alastor switches up the tune to something harmlessly jazzy and introductory.

Huh. Well. Might as well perform then, fuck it. If he can manage, with his hands sweating like this.

As he clears his throat, now unsure on how these things ever started, he goes to dry his palms again and he notices it. He's not sweating anymore.

The music is whimsical, slightly dreamy, lulling the whole scene into surreality. In fact, he feels—entirely sober. The good kind of sober, no rain-questions and crises and curling up in a ball—he feels… sane. Clear-headed. A warmth tingle runs through his limbs, a fearless confidence infusing his apathy like a shot of vodka in cloudy lemonade.

Since he considers himself a hobbyist, he doesn't have a defined stage persona. However, turns out that Sweetheart O'mine, played on a Celesta by this particular demon, ends up something with the mood of a Mystery House intro for a Sugar Plum Fairy on acid. That sure gives a guy something to work with, doesn't it? He reaches for his pocket, grinning, with no way to know if any of his props are still in place.

His pack of cards finds its way into his hand, faithful companion of ignored ridicule, and it turns out Alastor can play all the Jelly Roll Morton anyone fucking about on a stage could ever desire. Fuck it, Husk thinks again. Maybe it can work.

Deep breath. Cards in hand. The start is tricky, he remembers now: it needs to be strong, but not too complex. Something that eases into it, magician and audience taking the plunge together. Come, look at my hands. Hold your breath. It's easy.

He starts with Soldier's Prayer Book. It's a crowd-pleaser, and tickles his taste for irony too much to let go of. Another deep breath, panicky excitement making his tail swish about to the beat. Come on, it's time. Toss up some card flourishes, ease into the routine. Deep breath. Hold it. Take the plunge.

"Now, all right, seems we're finally all set! Hang on to your long johns, folks," he starts, letting his nimble claws cut and shuffle the pack with practised ease. "We're gonna see how my man Dick Middelton, fellow soldier, found himself in front of the Mayor—" He pauses for effect, and yes, his volunteer piano man flourishes it with a dramatic little arpeggio. "—and put on fucking trial, all for pulling out his pack of cards in church…"

Trick goes like this: you've got fifty-two cards, and a story built on numbers. The cards come in a sequence, and it's important that people see you shuffle. It's important that they don't see that it's a false shuffle, that's the whole trick. (Told you it was simple.) It must look like the cards aligned themselves in the right order… like magic or something. You also need to prattle your way through the thing, the faster the better. The illusion is a little wonder of structure, like the flavors of a complex dish. It's built in layers.

(He knows nothing of cooking.)

The other important bit is that numbers and story must meet and align, their accord unseen. It's all in the hands of the magician. Your skill against two dozen prying eyes, and your hands must say, Look, it's easy. It just happens. Guard that secrecy with your life.

"So, Dick pulls out his cards, right? Looking to explain himself. He looks up at the Mayor and starts, When I see the Ace—" The Ace of Diamonds, worn and familiar beneath his thumb, pops out. First out of the way, the rest of the sequence tumbles easy after it, "It reminds me that there is but one God. When I see the Deuce, it reminds me of the Father and Son. When I see the Trey, it reminds me of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. When I see the Four, it reminds me of the four Evangelists that preached the Gospel: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John."

There's the simple, irony-tinged delight of telling a long-winded joke about church in Hell. It already makes it worth it. The part with the Knave usually brings out the anarchic spirit of Hell's denizens, and even now, in these dregs of terror, it draws out a chuckle. In the gauzy-soft light of a happy childhood memory in a hard life, he remembers how magicians would sometimes pick on audience members that make themselves a nuisance. That used to be his other favorite part. He flicks the card off, sending it to land perfectly in front of the heckler from before. It gets some louder reactions.

He glances to the side, to see if Alastor has caught it. He is accompanying the number with a cheery hymn-like march that fits the cadence of Husk's patter. Eyes closed, he leans slightly into the keys, tilted forward, like a cattail to water. He's seen nothing.

"And so," Husk continues, "our man Dick Middelton tells the Mayor, who by now is feelin' kinda fond, When I count how many cards there are in a pack, I find there are fifty-two; there are so many weeks in a year." Time to finish, and pretend he's sure he counted everything right. "When I count how many tricks there are in a pack of cards, I find there are twelve, and there are so many months in a year." Only a couple cards left now, to wrap up. "You see, sir, that this pack of cards is a Bible, Almanac, and Prayer Book, to me. And that's all we got! Dick, what a mad bastard."

Done, first trick is out of the way, no mishaps. Husk gets some applause and some walk-outs. Door opens again, it seems. He pays it no mind. It's a profession impervious to ridicule, that's the thing. Otherwise, he wouldn't be up here in a top hat, trying to make people in Hell appreciate the simple ingenuity of a parlor trick. It's just logic.

(Heartfelt logic.)

The story might have been blasphemous in its time, and it's now the tamest shit ever. It's how it goes with blasphemous things, when times change and outrage changes shape and measure. The shape is a circle, the measure is how far you can cast the first stone. Blasphemy and outrage play a game of cycles, both decks unshuffled, people reinventing the wheel over and over and getting offended by it. Don't bet on this one, shit's rigged.

Through all of it, a separate part of him is listening only to the Celesta, dreamy through the chaos and energy. Alastor and his raindrop music, his heaven-named instrument. Husk finds himself wondering, how would We Gotta Get out of This Place sound on that thing?

He turns to the girls at the closest table, same ones that got Jérôme drunk. With things turning out as they are, he almost feels like thanking them.

"Pick a card, any card," he says instead. Time for some classics.

A young demon covered in leopard spots grins and plucks a card from his fan. Shuffle, sleight of hand, everyone knows how this one goes. A smile and a flourish and his voice pitched low, "Is this your card, kitten?"

This is the stage persona the music has given him. Husk really doesn't do this very often, not anymore. It's kind of a relief when the girl chuckles, a little pink under her spots. Alastor makes a funny noise, like the twang of a snapped violin string, makes the crowd laugh. He arpeggios his way over a skipped note with the grace of a politician covering up an indiscretion.

And it is, indeed, her card.

The tension in the room has dissipated a little more by then. When the comforting sound of clinking glasses resumes, Husk's tail stops swishing, settling for an idle, interested sway. He does tricks for the rest of the table, then the next, and the one after. As someone asks if he can do Sam the Bellhop too, some of the front row deserters creep back into their seats.

It's working, he thinks, incredulous.

Alastor is pulling his routine from thin fucking air. The music always fits: at times it guides Husk's gestures, giving his acting a little boost. At times it follows, letting him set the pace. As it goes, it starts giving Husk the uneasy feeling of being circled, like a cat playing with his food. (He is not the cat.)

He ignores it. Now properly warmed up, Husk dives into his sleeve-full of classics. Some coin tricks, swapping them for trinkets and poker chips. More with the cards—there is so much you can do with cards—some glasses and bottles swapping places and so on. There was a display of actual magic at the start, so he makes a point to keep everything dead simple, known and reassuring. That's right, no powers here, folks. Just a nimble old cat. Look closely, look at my hands. See? It's simple. You can shuffle it yourself if you like. His top hat—now sporting an impeccably shiny red silk band and lining—becomes a portal to all sorts of little objects: lit candles, handkerchiefs, wallets.

There are some knives and plates and shoes to dodge for that last one, but it's worth it. Even for a hobbyist, occupational hazards are half the fun. He looks over just in time to see Alastor smoothly avoid a boot with an unnatural extension of the neck, not a note missed. Husk feels something bubble up inside him, like a suppressed burp. He thumps his chest. What rumbles out instead is a scratchy bark of laughter.

That's… new. Hadn't heard one of those in a while. And even more disconcerting is the smile on the Radio Demon's face. Not even a menacing smile, a real smile. Almost sincere.

The music has changed, something slow Husk struggles to recognise. It must be the music, he decides. Has to be. It's that dreamy, fairy-fingered music that tinges the atmosphere this way, and makes him feel sane and certain, makes him feel like things make sense. Or maybe—maybe the day of reckoning has come for him too, and that's why Alastor is being so unlike himself. Better make it good, then, what the hell.

Husk pulls a Ten of Clubs out of thin air, and smacks it between his palms. Instead of the expected set of cheap fake flowers, what appears in his hands is a large bouquet of fresh red lilies. He blinks down at them, bunch of sharp things with long lower petals, curved up like creepy little chandeliers. His audience actually gives a faint ohh at the sight. The trimmed stems are sharp as chisels.

The bastard is lost in his raindrop music, eyes closed, and cannot meet the baffled look Husk throws his way. The smell of the lilies is cloying to his feline nose, honey-soft and damp, like fresh mud. It makes him think of cemeteries, of floods. Makes him light-headed, too.

Guided by the tingly suspense of the music, moving between tables in the low light, Husk walks back to the used-to-be-piano. He's made the lilies vanish along the way. They now bathe those scalpel-stems in the backwash of a few glasses.

All but a single one. He sets it carefully on the open lid of the Celesta, and watches Alastor's skilled hands improvising their way through Debussy's Reverie—ah, that's what it was—drenched in the red candle-light that sharpens and softens every contour at once.

In perhaps in the most daring trick of the whole evening, Husk opens his wings wide, flapping once. In a snap of practiced fingers, the lily reappears neatly tucked into the Radio Demon's lapel, right next to the bright red stitching.

The candles flicker without going out. The crowd gasps in terror, and in a split second of silence Husk feels certain that he just doomed the entire pub to final death. But the music doesn't stop, and Alastor meets his eye, one fine eyebrow quirking up. Husk vaguely wonders how much is he going to owe him for all this.

(Everything he has.)

Time's up. He never decides it in advance, but Husk always knows when a show is over. You can feel it, the shift in the energy, when disbelief isn't willing to be suspended anymore. A little high on fearlessness, he bows to his audience. There is clapping, surprisingly, and only moderate booing.

When he turns to share the measly applause with Alastor, he finds the piano stool empty.

Husk looks around. It feels wrong to receive the unexpected praise all by himself. They should at least… bow together, or something. This is Hell: the applause won't last for more than a few seconds. Alastor will miss it, and—there, it's over. He's missed it.

Defying expectations, the pub does not return to its dingy glory in a blink. The strange little piano, the red candles, all the rest—it all stays behind, except the red creature that made a show for him and let him have it.

Husk looks back at the used-to-be-piano, still a well-used and banged up thing. Did it already exist, or was it created new for this, already well-loved to fit the aesthetic? His head, still in the fishbowl, is stuck in the future, in the little when that the music created.

His eye falls on the stool, and the single red lily left on it.

(Everything he is.)