"I don't know," I said, wondering how obvious it would be if I just picked up my parrot from the dressing table and put it into my pocket, "Seeing me might only upset him."

"He's asking for you," Alex replied. "He says it's important. Roland, he's…Women affect him strongly, you know? That's why he writes such good songs. Women affect him. Sometimes they make him mad and sometimes he just burns himself up wanting them. Most guys…this is hard to say, Lyra, but for most guys, being with a woman is nice and all, but it's not everything. Not to live and die for. But with Roland, it is. And whatever happened between you and him before he got all keyed up…I don't know. It's just, the only thing that calms him down when he's upset is attention from a woman. Talk, I just mean talk. But you have to go see him."

Sighing, I stood and reached toward the dressing table.

"Don't take the parrot," he said. "That will only complicate things."

He took me gently by the arm and guided me away from the parrot on the table, toward the door. I tried not to wince—he'd taken the arm that Roland punched and it throbbed with pain when Alex touched me.

Alex immediately switched his grip to my other arm. I thought, Oh, shit, but he said, "Shhh, shhh."

As we crossed the compound I tried not to think of anything. In my head I sang that Trash and Thrash song, "Damn it, slam it, break it; I don't want your repercussions." I sang it over and over again, hoping it would fill my thoughts, drown out everything.

At the door to Roland's hut, Alex whispered, "Songs make flimsy shields, milady. I live in songs." He closed the door between us. I was left alone in the hut with Roland, and I was trembling in cold, cold terror.

Roland groaned, "Lyra?" I didn't answer. I desperately hoped I would faint, shut down my mind…but I wasn't the fainting type. Had it been Alex? Or was it the Singer? His shirt was buttoned. And back in my hut he'd talked like Alex, fumbling for words, shying away from unpleasantness. But he'd told me not to take the parrot, and he'd known about my sore arm, about singing that song in my head.

"Lyra!" Roland's voice was louder. The medi-bot whirred briefly but did nothing. "Lyra!"

"What?" My voice was hoarse.

"Lyra?"

"Yes. What do you want?"

"Come here."

I stirred myself and approached the bed. Roland's face was pale but with flushes of pink on both cheeks. "I look worse than usual, don't I?" he said with a weak smile. "I know what you're thinking."

"I thought your parrot died."

"Oh, yeah. It died."

"Looked like a traumatic experience for both of you."

He gave a small snort of a laugh. "You know that phrase 'My life flashed before my eyes'? Not a completely accurate description, but it will do. I think my entire subconscious uploaded into my consciousness for a second."

"Instant self-knowledge," I said. "If word gets out, Caproche will be crawling with mystics."

"I think not," he replied, closing his eyes with a shudder. "It's not an entertaining experience. I'll probably kill myself soon."

The medi-bot whirred through a long silence.

"You think I'm bluffing," Roland said after a while, his eyes still closed. "Pleading for attention from a beautiful woman. No. Suicide is definitely an attractive proposition."

"Because of instant self-knowledge?"

"Because I have the parrot's blood on my hands."

"Come on, Roland," I said, "it's a shame you killed the poor little thing, but it was only one small animal. It's not worth—"

"Lyra," he interrupted me. "I have the parrot's blood on my hands."

He held up his palm for me to see, the hand he'd punched me with, the hand that had crushed the parrot. It was streaked with rusty brown stains reaching down as far as his wrist. He turned the hand slowly and stared at his palm. I could see more stains on the back of his hand, where blood had squirted between his fingers.

"It's in their blood," he said calmly. "Whatever it is. The telepathy. And now it's in me. The bot tried to wash the blood off, but my hand won't come clean. I wish I could remember that passage from Macbeth."

Out, out, damned spot, I thought.

"Yes, that's the one," he agreed as if I'd spoken aloud. "I'll wait a few days to see if it wears off. But I'm not optimistic." He lifted his head and looked straight into my eyes. "Instant self-knowledge conveys a certain amount of wisdom, Lyra. Wisdom says I can't handle knowing what other people think. Let alone myself. You saw it—two minutes talking to you while I was holding the parrot, and I went berserk. Ugly. Very ugly.

"No," he said loudly, interrupting what I was going to say. "Don't, please. You were about to forgive me for hitting you. I'm in bad shape, and you feel guilty. Don't. Just don't. It's stupid. If you want to do something, stop using the parrot. That's why I asked you here. To warn you. Just stop."

"Okay, I'll stop."

He shook his head sadly. "You don't mean that. Deep down, you think I'm an unstable asshole. You think I can't handle telepathy, but you can. Well, you're half right. I can't handle it. It's too bleak. A while ago, when Alex and Helena were hovering over me, wondering if I'd had a heart attack or something…they're supposedly my two best friends in the world, and you know what they were thinking? Helena was going over names of other songwriters, trying to choose a replacement for me if I died. And Alex, he was scarcely there. I don't know where his mind was, but I couldn't pick it up. Stupid me, I expected some kind of sympathy…"

"You can't tell me Alex didn't care," I said. "I saw him, Roland. He was crying…he was truly worried."

"That's not what the parrot was broadcasting."

"Then maybe parrots don't broadcast everything. I saw Alex right there beside you while you were unconscious, and he was crying, holding your hands…"

I stopped suddenly.

"He was holding my hands?" Roland asked. "While they were still bloody?"

I remembered the brown stain I'd seen on Alex's hand when he'd come to get me in my hut.

"God, no," Roland murmured. "Not Alex." I shivered. "No. It's not Alex."

Outside, hurrying across the compound, I asked myself, So what? Alex or the Singer, he was just a person who recorded songs. He might come across like a lunatic, but so did half the other acts in the music industry. And even if he was dangerous, I was no delicate flower. Back when I was getting started, I'd sung in bars filled with street scum and run by organized crime. If the going got rough, I could handle myself.

So why was I terrified?

No time for terror—I had to tell Helena what was going on. How she dealt with the Singer I didn't know, but she'd kept him on a leash for years. If anyone could control the situation, she could.

Before I knocked on the door of her hut, I took a deep breath. It wouldn't be fun to confess I'd eavesdropped on her thoughts back earlier.

"Hello," I called. "Helena?"

"Come in…" Her voice sounded soft and uncertain. I opened the door slowly.

She was alone, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at her hands. They dripped with brown blood.

"Alex was just in here," she said quietly. "He had one of those little animals, you know, the parrots? Only it was dead. Crushed. Someone had stepped on it; I could see boot treads on its body. The poor thing was all broken bones and blood, and Alex…he smeared it on my hands. Just wiped it all over…"

Her voice trailed off.

I shuddered.

She looked up at me sharply. "Did you say something?"

"Clean the blood off," I said quickly, grabbing her by the elbow and moving her toward the sink. Our camp was supposed to ration water, but I turned the hot tap on full and pushed her hands into the flow, keeping myself clear of the splash. Stringy bits of parrot meat washed down the drain, and the basin turned brown, with the blood rinsing off her fingers. Even so, her palms stayed discolored with dark stains. I poured soap onto her hands and said, "Scrub. Scrub."