A raconteur! He liked that, he liked it very much indeed. But there was very little not to like on nights like these - the sweet city coming to life around them and the anticipation of seeing Cepheus tomorrow. People didn't appreciate anticipation anymore. It was such a wonderful feeling, the not-knowing.

            "...do you have a key or something?"

"Hm?" In his cloud of gillyweed-induced contemplation, Virgil had followed Nemo without really thinking. "You want the personalised tour?" he laughed as he hopped ahead and held his arms out like they were playing an imaginary game of hopscotch. "The Peter Pan tour! That was the last time I gave one. It was a dream."

If she wanted to see the innards of a star, he was happy to play along. He loved to show-off the theatre. It was a part of him.

"They're still open, we can just slip in straight to the seats," Virgil explained with a nod at the doors that were still open at the end of the alley - a sliver of golden light gleaming against dark stone. "My home, my church, my glory!" he exclaimed with flourish before stepping aside with a bow, to let Nemo through first.

Nemo was misty and delighted that Virgil so eagerly agreed to give a tour, and she giggled as he skipped by. Raconteur was one word for him; 'theatre kid' was very clearly another. He was usually subdued, but now she saw a glimpse of what probably made him an effective Peter Pan. She followed him into the theatre in a similarly merry manner, like a mortal all too willingly lured by some fey.

The inside of the Stardust nothing less than exactly what Nemo had always imagined Wizards of Britain lived like. Lush, twinkling, ominous - just, magical. It really did feel as perfect at Virgil always said it was. She was a little jealous that it was his, a little jealous of his family's deep magical roots. But those weren't welcome thoughts anymore. There was life to be lived in spite of everything.

The show was over, and cast and crew and house staff mingled in fellowship and the tasks of a show's-end. Nemo moved easily among them, giving off not a shred of being a visitor. Posters from previous productions posed in their lit frames.  She saw the one from Peter Pan, waved at the depiction of Virgil, but kept on into the actual theatre proper. The stage was still set.

Boldly, as ever, she went down the aisle and gazed down into the orchestra pit.

Sometimes he wondered what in Merlin's name he was doing, on level nine, when he had all this.

But if Stardust was his home (more than his actual home) then Virgil owed it to himself to leave the winsome aerie and discover new lands. As he slipped back through the doors and into the dispersing crowd, it became clear to him that the theatre was probably Nemo's version of new lands - like everyone else their age she was probably leaving something behind in search of something different.

He let her wander as he waved and allowed himself to be hugged by various crew members who'd missed him earlier. By the time they made it to indoor ampitheatre, the place was mostly empty.

"Is maestro still there?" Virgil joined Nemo, peering down into the pit where a dark-skinned man with lilac curls was shuffling a sheaf of manuscripts. "Going home already, Theo? The violins were a bit off tonight. This is Nemo, by the way."

Theophilus Shaffer carefully folded his papers and put them away before looking up to wave at his visitors. "How nice to meet you, Miss Nemo," he replied in a tone that forbade prolonging the incident. "We had a replacement violinist, Virgil, now that you mention it."

Virgil's sleepy mouth relaxed into a smug little smile. He glanced at Nemo, waving a hand at the raised platform past the pit. "We have to save the stage for last. Tradition. What do you want to see next? Costumes? Dressing room? Instruments?"

Nemo was stricken awesomely by the wizard Virgil called Theo, intrigued by his nonchalance and his easy dialog with Virgil. Virgil introduced her and she waved her little white fingers over the railing. He was the maestro. Nemo caught Virgil's little grin and lifted her eyebrows when he turned to her.

"Instruments," she said, confirming the obvious. In the community theatre back home, a humbly converted Morton prefab out on the highway, the orchestra pit was accessible by back staircase.  Virgil would have to lead the way. When she thought they were out of earshot of the maestro, she asked about him.

"Who was that guy? He in charge of the band? Cool hair." Answers were probably easy to guess, but she was fishing.

"What happened to the violinist?" She ran a finger across her throat. "Was he sharp?"

They left Theo to his manuscripts and notes, heading towards the back of the seats where a hidden door would give them access to the backstage corridors.

"That was Theophilius Shaffer, he's our head conductor." Virgil explained before reaching for his wand and brandishing it at the smooth surface of a back wall. "A real sucker for passionfruit pavlova." The door slid open to reveal a narrow and dimly lit passageway. Letting Nemo through first, he slid it close behind him once they were safely on the other side.

It hadn't been that long ago when he last took someone back here. Ari and Ceph had seen in the insides of Stardust too, although they'd gone for costumes first.

Virgil indicated ahead, taking the pair of them down the corridor and a set of low stairs which led to the lower level sections of the theatre. They passed by colourfully painted doors and a few crew wixes still tidying up.

"Probably came down with a flu," he shrugged. "You have to take sick days off immediately if you think you've caught something, or -" he made an explosive gesture with both hands, "- poof! The entire orchestra is sneezing and sniffling. Dreadful. Here we are. This is where we store our instruments."

Not all of instruments were utilised for each performance - the more esoteric ones were saved for different shows. Virgil stopped in front of the navy blue door, casting a wordless charm at the knob. It unlocked with a click and he pushed through. You could smell the wood before you saw the musical instruments.

The air in the square room was rich with polish and wood oils, the slightest hint of beeswax. Unlike the costumes hall, there was a sense of sacred immaculacy here.

Cherrywood shelves covered the walls from floor to high ceiling, separated into compartments that contained various objects on display stands. Violins, guitars, trumpets, saxophones, clarinets, cellos. Two stand-up pianos were wedged into a corner and a true grand piano stood in the centre of the room. It was a glossy, hot pink.

"This Angela the second." Virgil told Nemo, approaching it to gently lift the lid. "My mum is Angela the first, of course," he winked at her.

"Theophilius," Nemo echoed to herself trying on the interesting name.

Through a secret door, down a darkened corridor went Nemo. The theatre felt like a rabbit's warren. They chanced upon a couple of witches pulling on ropes, making machinations in the heavens. Cool. This place wasn't for her, but it felt like it somehow, like, this was the kind of place she was meant to be.

"Oh joy, a plague," she snickered at Virgil's pantomime of an entire string section dissolving in mucus. Gross.

Another magically locked door to which Virgil held the key. No matter how at east Nemo felt, everything here belonged to him. A prince. She wondered if there was a catch.

They entered the instrument room and Nemo breathed it in. It was filled to brimming with all manner of musical contraptions. She took off her hat and set it down, almost an act of reverence. In the deft manner that many teenage girls are possessed, she slid an elastic off her wrist into her thick blonde hair and tied it up and away. She approached the insane pink piano.

"The snozzberries taste like snozzberries," she breathed, laying her head on the smooth stained wood. "Who even are you Virgil?"

She ceased in harassing Angela and walked along the shelves and stands. Kid in a candy store. With a little gasp of interest, she slipped a long wooden bough from its hooks. It was as thick as her arm and its polished wood gleamed golden. She probably should have asked, but she put her lips to one end.

The small room was filled with a low, heart-shifting buzz. She could only sustain the note for a moment, before she sputtered and could only make a puffy air noise. "Oh my god." She wiped off the end with her sleeve and shook her head slowly at Virgil as if to repeat, 'who even are you?'

She liked it! Of course, who wouldn't, but he felt something dangerously close to pride right now.

            "Who even are you Virgil?"

That was a rather existential question. As Nemo moved on from caressing Angel, he slipped on to the stool and let his fingers move soundlessly across ivory keys. When he had been a young boy, he wasn't allowed in here without Edgar or the old maestro. It was only when he turned fourteen that they let him have free reign - after he had become proficient at more than one instrument, and was old enough to appreciate the value of the room.

The didgeridoo buzzed without warning, startling him slightly, and he giggled.

"I am...." he trailed off thoughtfully, turning back to the keys and playing them one-by-one from left to right. "I am a dark alleyway in the middle of the night, with a single streetlamp at the very end."

In other words, very high. Virgil glanced up at the shelves while he continued to pick his way over the piano keys. "What do you play, besides the accordion?" he smiled at Nemo. "And were you taught or did you just pick it up?"

Nemo rolled her eyes at Virgil's melodically constructed self-epithet, but she was happy about it. She wondered if he wrote poetry. A question for later if conversation needed a Rennervate.

"I taught myself," she said proudly. "I mean, I was in band when I was a freshman but it was inane."

She'd lasted exactly three weeks of marching band season. The dorky wandering around in lines on withering summer days wearing clownish pseudo-military uniforms with stupid hats. Yes, that's how she wanted to spend her time. And for some reason all they played was Sousa and Phantom of the Opera. Sorry, but who wants to hearMusic of the Night in a parade?

She might have given her left leg to have grown up at the Stardust. Nemo wandered around to a trio of covered tympani. "I play piano, guitar, bass, violin. Clarinet."

Clarinet. That's what she'd played in band. But she didn't like it as much as the others since she couldn't sing at the same time. She hoped a little that he'd be impressed. Violin especially. It was lucky they'd lived out in the country and that her mom worked seventy hours a week, or someone might have been inspired by the pained shrieking from their house to murder her. Music, it can really move the soul, can't it?

"Other stuff, too, but, you know, not as much. You just have to practice. A lot. And listen. A lot. And not worry about pissing anyone off."

She rumbled her fingers on the massive drum. The cover muted the coyly thunderous sound.

"You play?" He was pretending to, at least.

Ah, freshman. Whatever that meant. Americans always talked like their Americanisms made sense abroad but he didn't especially mind it tonight. Besides, her accomplishments were impressive. Most people had perhaps learned one or two instruments over the course of their lives if they weren't in the art or business of making music.

"The aphorism isn't wrong, practice does make perfect..." Virgil nodded as his fingers ended their linear walk across the keys, "or close to perfect."

Perfection did not exist. Some things came close to divine but the idea of perfection, to him, was toxic to the process of creation. He glanced up, blinking sleepily and tipsily at Nemo. Did he play? What a novel question, asked by someone who clearly never had to deal with him strangling a violin at two in the morning.

"Almost all of the string instruments in here," he shrugged before rattling off a quick tune on the piano, a simplified melody from Ride of the Valkyries. "The trumpet, flute," a glance at the drum she'd fiddled with, "drums. I know a bit of everything. A Virgil of all trades."

But at least a master of one, he hoped. Virgil closed the piano lid gently and with a sense of sacred respect. It was so wonderfully comfortable here.

"Edgar likes the piano best but I love the violin," he glanced at a single violin displayed high above the other instruments, weathered but still gleaming. It was his father's. "I write sea ditties and love songs on it. What do you like to write about? Besides golden fields?"

Nemo smiled and nodded to herself. The chilly quiet thrill of playing on the street had elided into the journey below and now in this little nest of music, sleepiness was finding her (despite her claims that staying up until the next morning was her norm).  Virgil described his own musical deftness, everything he could play and his song-writing and Nemo felt a mix of jealousy and aspiration. She wondered how good she'd be if she had what he had.  A room full of instruments? A maestro? She couldn't tell if she was envious of him, or if she wanted to be him.

She noticed she was kind of staring at him, her mind miles away.  She'd barely registered his question. What did she write about?

"I didn't write that," she reminded him. "I write about ... people, and stories, and magical things. There's a lot of moonlight and ashes and rivers, I guess."

Virgil's mood had also seemed to subdue more and more. He was home in his bed, after all. She hoped it didn't come off as too sudden, but she said, "I think I'm gonna go. Rain check on the costumes, okay?"