"Oh, and later, could you sign some posters? For the raffle? People aresoexcited you're here. Mrs. Moore from the bakery brought extra cupcakes just because she heard you'd be performing tonight."
Raven paused, bunting in hand. "She did?"
"Oh yes! Everyone's been talking about it all week. You're properly famous, you know."
"I'm aware."
"Oh, I mean, I know you were famous before, like rockstar famous," Daisy continued, oblivious to Raven's discomfort. "I meant that now you’re village famous. You'reRaven who helps with the schoolandRaven who teaches Jamie guitar. That’s what I meant. One of us, you know?"
One of us.
Raven secured the last bit of bunting and climbed down from the chair, unsure how to respond to that.
She'd spent the last decade being famous. Being recognized everywhere she went, never quite belonging anywhere because everyone either wanted something from her or wanted to be her. She'd learned to keep people at arm's length, to treat every interaction as a transaction.
But here in Bankton, it was different.
Blossom knew her coffee order and always had a table ready in the quiet corner. The woman at the grocer’s asked how her songwriting was going. The kids at school waved when they saw her walking past. And yesterday, when she'd gone to grab milk from the village shop, three different people had stopped to chat. Not about her music, not about Alissa, just normal village gossip about whose garden was looking nice and whether the weather would hold for the fundraiser.
It was unsettling. And oddly… nice.
"Raven!" Annabelle appeared at her elbow, slightly out of breath. "Oh good, you're here. Could you possibly help Arty with the microphones? He's getting frustrated with the feedback and I think he might throw something expensive."
"On it." Raven handed the remaining bunting to Daisy and headed toward the stage.
Arty looked up as she approached, his expression caught somewhere between relief and murder.
"This bloody system," he muttered. "I've checked every connection twice and it's still…"
"Let me see." Raven climbed up beside him and examined the setup. "You've got the gain too high on channel three. And this cable's dodgy." She swapped it out for a spare, adjusted the levels, and flicked the switch. The feedback disappeared.
"Christ." Arty stared at her. "How did you…?"
"Years of touring with shit equipment in shit venues," Raven said. "You learn fast or you go deaf."
He laughed. "Fair enough. Thanks."
They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, testing each microphone and speaker in turn. Finally, satisfied that everything was working, Arty sat back on his heels and looked at her.
"You doing alright?" he asked.
Raven glanced at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because you've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're thinking too hard about something." He adjusted a cable unnecessarily, not quite meeting her eyes. "Nervous about tonight?"
"No." She paused. "Well, not about performing."
"About Annabelle, then."
It wasn't a question.
Raven sighed and sat down properly, letting her legs dangle off the edge of the stage. "Yeah."
"Want to talk about it?"
