As we walked in, we could hear faint punk guitars crunching away in the other studio.

Freddie winced. "God, what is that rubbish?"

"Sex Pistols," the receptionist replied helpfully. "They're in there now."

"Say no more," Freddie sighed. "That's all we need."

"They signed on about the same time as you did," she explained, clearly in the Sex Pistols camp. Upon noticing me, she my old friend gave me an icy stare of welcome.

I smiled back with as much warmth as I could muster. "Good morning!" I tried to shout cheerily, but in my sandpaper voice I wound up screeching the words. I wanted to try again, and made a feeble attempt at clearing my throat, but whatever was holding my voice hostage back in there sent me instead into a coughing fit.

Freddie broke from Paul and asked, "Are you okay?"

I smiled between hacks. "Go on without me, save yourself, I'll only be in the way-"

"Good God. Evie, it's a cold you've got, and a very little one at that. You act like you've caught f---ing pneumonia."

"I'm all right," I croaked. "But seriously, Freddie, I can't do this."

"I'm certain we'd all be much happier if we let her go," Paul chimed in. I put my tongue between my teeth and bit.

Freddie held up his index finger at Paul, then replied, "Make up your mind, dear. Are you all right, or are you not? Because if you're all right, you can do this easy."

"Okay, I'm not all right."

"Wrong answer."

I pleaded, "Freddie, can't I just watch? I don't want to be recorded. I'm deathly afraid of tapes and people taping with tapes."

"Recorded?" Freddie frowned. "Darling, who said anything about recording?"

"But I-" I cut myself off. "But I thought that was the whole point!"

"Really, Eve. Did I ever say we would be recording you? I said we needed your voice. Doesn't necessarily mean we're going to lay down tracks with it."

"Oh!" I blinked, then slowly realized what Freddie was telling me. So the future wasn't about to be rewritten! Sure, "Melancholy Blues" still had the forbidden second verse now, but that too could be handled with finesse. My body relaxed. "Whew! I thought you meant me actually singing into the can for future use."

Freddie laughed. "You silly girl. I just never knew I could add vain to your list."

"Aw, man, now we have to listen to you say stuff like that. I'm sorry I jumped to conclusions, okay? Should have remembered what happens every single time you assume- though I dare say you're already an ass so it wouldn't make much difference for you."

"Ah! Now we're complete." With a little snicker, Freddie started counting off on his fingers. "Eve in a nutshell: a vain, beautiful, stubborn smart-aleck."

Projecting again, are we, Freddie?

"Someone mention me?" Roger piped as he entered the building.

"Don't know." He glanced at me. "Evie, did I say 'delinquent'?"

Roger gave Freddie the V-sign, the one that doesn't mean "peace." What a clever comeback, I remarked to myself.

Roger's eyes rested on me, and he at once changed his attitude. "Well, hello, Eve, fancy you coming round here!" His little mouth curved into its perfect smile while his eyes tried to sparkle.

"Hullo, Sneakers- uh, Roger, right?"

"Right as rain, baby," he cooed, taking my hands. "How long do we get to keep you?"

"All day," Freddie replied.

"Perfect," said Roger. "A bit too short, but we can work with that."

"She's here strictly on a business basis," Freddie explained hastily, when Paul poked his shoulder and all but goaded him into the control room, leaving Roger and myself virtually alone. Unless you count Jane Frost at the front, which made three. Every molecule that composed me ached to follow Freddie. I'd never been by myself with Roger before, and for some reason, it made me very nervous. Not in the exciting sort of manner that Freddie sparked in me (and the feelings he stirred were indeed exciting; it was nice to have reached the point where I could admit as much), but just good old-fashioned unease.

"Well? Shall we go in?" I suggested.

"I plan to," Roger grinned.

I did my best to look unimpressed. Good grief. Any more sleazy-cheesy and this guy could be Austin Powers. The kid keeps trying, I have to give him that.

Somehow I hadn't the heart to tell him I'd never been too turned on by pretty blond boys, and that I was much more taken with the dark-eyed Persian prince now not-so-subtlely watching the two of us as we walked in. Two sound engineers were hunched over the console. And John Deacon sat on the corner sofa with his bass guitar in his lap, a stack of neatly handwritten lyrics at his side. I waved hello, and he winked back.

Interested, I glanced at his lyrics. At the top were the words "Spread Your Wings," everything written in black pen except for three lines in the chorus, which John had scrawled in light gray pencil: "Pull yourself together/ Cos you know you should do better/ That's because you're a free man."

I had to smile.

"Business, eh?" Roger repeated, picking his teeth. "What sort of business?"

I pointed at Freddie. "Ask him. I don't know."

Roger looked his way, and Freddie shrugged, saying, "We'll see. If the need arises, then we'll find out."

"Oh. That kind of business," Roger nodded sagely. He turned to me. "Wanna see the studio?"

"I already have. I was here a few days ago."

"But we had to move everything to put people on the risers. Now it's all set up. I'd love to show you my equipment."

"I'd like that," I said politely.

"You'll be disappointed," Freddie mumbled. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Freddie's mouth twitch. I stifled a terribly immature grin. Damn you, Freddie. I've got it coming from both sides now. So much for what was left of my innocence.

To John, I said, keeping my face deadpan, "So did everything smooth out okay?"

"Smooth out?" John squinted.

"Smooth out whatever it was you called about last night."

"Oh." John's gaze dropped to his shoes. "That."

Freddie joined me. "Oh, yes. So? Did you get it working- I mean, worked out?"

"Not yet," John said quietly. "I'll tell you later."

Roger grabbed his sticks, announcing "I never know what you two are so on about lately," then strode into the recording room, mussing one of the sound guys' hair as he passed.

"Brian on his way?" Freddie asked the air.

The sound guy whose hair Roger had spared replied, "He called, said he was running a bit behind. He says to start without him."

"Oh, we don't need his permission for that," Freddie quipped. "How far behind is he anyway? Did he say?"

"Not long. A quarter to half hour."

"That's just enough time."

"For what?" Roger chirped over the intercom.

At that, Freddie stood up and clapped his hands. "Everyone, everyone, your attention if you please."

Roger set down his sticks on the snare drum and leaned back; John folded his hands, ready to listen; the sound guys turned their chairs around to face us.

In a finger's snap, Freddie slid his showman's mask across his features. "While Brian is taking his time in arriving," he said, holding down the intercom button so Roger could hear, "I thought we might make use of our own by putting that new album song in motion."

"Oh, Freddie, are you still pushing for that jazz shit?" Roger whined.

Freddie's eyes narrowed. "Why don't you wait and let me finish before you make a f---ing ass out of yourself in front of the lady?"

Too late, I thought to myself.

"Speaking of whom," he continued, taking my hand and bringing me to the center, "this is the elusive Eve Dubroc. She has, um, agreed to help me show you darlings what the finished piece will sound like once it's recorded."

"Freddie, I've already said, I don't want any part of that stupid song," Roger protested. "No way am I going to play some Sinatra-y, rat-a-tat-tat jazz thing. We're not the-"

Why don't you just give us a listen, hm?" Freddie smiled and drew me into the room where Roger sat fuming in his drummer's nest. John followed, a small smile creeping across his lips.

Freddie situated himself upon the piano bench and cracked his knuckles. "Got the words, dear?"

I darted back into the control room for my journal. Since I hadn't been alert enough to ransack the flat for loose pieces of paper, I had written down the final version of the song in my log. I flipped to the right page, tore out the page, and discovered to my dismay that I had written a section of my notes on the back side, which included an in-depth description of Freddie's untoward behavior that morning and a few choice NFOs- certainly nothing I wanted him to see. If Freddie found out I'd been analyzing his every move, recording it in the name of science...

"Found them yet?" Freddie called impatiently.

"Two seconds!" I'll just make sure he doesn't turn it over.

So I hurried back in and carefully placed the lyrics on the sheet music holder. "Good girl," he said.

I bent down to his ear and whispered one more time, "Again, I hope I don't have to tell you that I can't sing today-"

"Darling, what was the favor I asked for?" he said.

"No no's. Or at least as few as possible."

"Right." He leaned forward, and placed his arm around my neck so I couldn't go anywhere when the tips of our noses touched. "So," he closed his eyes and puckered his lips so that they just barely grazed mine as he finished, "shhh."

CRASH!

We turned around, pulling away. Roger sat there with a drum stick poised over the crash cymbal- a warning.

"Strictly business, remember, Fred?" Roger said.

"Yeah, Fred." I smiled. "Strictly business."

"Exactly," Freddie agreed. "So you, Rog, do away with the jackal smile, it looks like it hurts-" and turning back to me- "and you, my dear, believe. Just believe."

With a chuckle, Freddie looked pointedly at the sound guys, said "Now, Ratty," and started playing the piano as though nothing had happened. I cleared my throat, pretending his little tease had had no effect (although my heart was beating in double time). On reflex I looked through the control room window. The sound guys didn't seem to have noticed, but even from this distance I saw Paul's face contort, ever so slightly. His eyes narrowed as they focused in on me. Then Freddie began to sing, and I snapped out of it and awaited my cue.

At last it was time for my verse, and with a precautionary grimace I went for it. "The music has faded," I rasped, "And I'm feelin' so jad-ed..."

Freddie started ad-libbing underneath the words, which gave me a little more moxie. I sounded rougher than normal, but it wasn't anything we couldn't adjust. The third chorus harmonies we had worked out earlier, where I sang the higher part, we just sang in unison. Where before we definitely had a better blend, now our voices were different enough in quality where it still sounded good, like Michael Jackson and Mick Jagger.

One we finished, Roger's arms were still folded, but his expression was much less obstinate. John was nodding, convinced. Something was happening outside the control room, however; one of the sound guys got up to see what was the matter.

"Now, you boys know what to do," Freddie began to say, when a very unsavory-looking character with spiky hair stumbled into the control room. He was scrawny but troublesome, shoving back the sound guys when they tried to kick him out. Frightened, I put my hands on Freddie's shoulders. But for some reason not one member of Queen looked too concerned. Roger rolled his eyes and decided to light up a smoke. John moved toward the window to get a closer look.

Freddie remarked, "You know, with all that money he's made, you would think he could afford clothes without holes in them."

Through the intercom we could hear the kid (and he was a kid, he couldn't have been much older than me at all) demanding to know what had happened to his f---ing mates and who were these ugly c---s in here taking up his studio.

"Who's that?" I whispered.

"A f--ing nuisance, that's who," Freddie muttered. "Stay here, please. I'll handle him."

Kissing the fingers of my left hand, he got up and strolled unafraid toward the vagabond intruder. Roger hesitated, then scrambled out of his nest after him. John and I traded a glance.

"So who is that?" I asked again.

"There are those," John said, "who call him Sid."

My eyes bugged out of my face. "Oh my gosh, oh no! It's this! I REMEMBER THIS!" With an excited scream, I flew into the control room with John in tow. No way was I missing any bit of this exchange.

Sid Vicious was still blathering in colorful language when I froze in the doorway, all ears. Just looking at him made me want to go take a shower. Freddie's back was straight, his hands planted on his hips. Go get him, Fred!

"What're you lookin' at, y' f---in' pansy?" Sid accosted him in sloppy English.

It stunned me, how calmly Freddie took that. I couldn't see his face, but even his voice bore no anger as he almost laughingly replied, "Darling, you don't want me to answer that. I might be honest."

"Aren't you that Freddie Mercury guy?"

"I am he."

"What y' doing round here?" he snarled, advancing menacingly. "Why aren't you out bringing ballet to the masses like you said?"

"Wait a minute," Freddie said, "aren't you Simon Ferocious or something?" As he spoke, he took Sid by the shoulder and pushed him towards the exit. "Believe me, dear, we're doing our best."

"Get your f---ing hands off-"

"Take it easy, Stanley. Your boys can be found next door." With that, Freddie more or less threw the scamp out and closed the door behind him.

Without thinking, I broke out in applause, inside reaching a high almost as euphoric as the "We Will Rock You" reaction. Freddie turned and immediately took a deep bow, saying "Thank you, thank you," his face shining with pride. It really was that short of a back and forth, but the most memorable moments are often the most fleeting ones.

Roger clapped him on the back. "Nice going, Fred," he said. Paul sat there brooding, throughout this whole time having not moved, his eyes still flaring coldly at me.

John tapped me on the shoulder. Toning down my grin, I whirled and bounced up and down on the balls of my feet. "Yes?"

He leaned forward and whispered, "What did you mean, when you said, 'I remember this'?"

I frowned. "What?"

"Just now. You acted like you were expecting all that. Like you'd been through all this before."

Oops.

In my dizzy happiness I struggled to form a thoughtful lie. "Uh, um... Just a slip of the tongue."

"Yeah. Like knowing that I'd built my own amp?"

"Freddie told me."

"What kind of-" He stopped and pulled me back into the studio so we could talk in a little more privacy. But still John whispered, "Why would he tell you that?"

"I don't know, it just came up one day. What does this have to do with now?"

"Because I think there's more to you than, uh, than you've let on. Intentionally, anyway."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because of that weird little-"

"Weird little what?"

"Uh- weird little, um, way you have of just not being surprised at anything. You get excited, true, but it's a sort of anticipating excitement."

My heart fluttered. Was John on to me? But how?

"You just seem to know things are going to happen before they do," John said. "How do you do it? I mean, maybe that's just your way, but it borders on frightful sometimes."

"How?" I repeated. The truth melted sourly on my tongue, and I grimaced swallowing it back. I could not say those terrible words: "I'm from the future, I know next to everything about Queen, and Freddie's days are eons shorter than yours."

I didn't want to tell John, not if I couldn't tell Freddie. I looked back through the window at him, smiling at the way he slouched against Ratty's chair as he listened to some song playing back. He's so slim, I thought to myself. I love that nose. I love that heavy brow. God, if only I could tell him.

John put two fingers under my chin and drew me back around facing him. "How do you do it, Eve?"

"Well," I sighed, with a surrendering shrug, "I'm a psych- a psychic."

At this John burst out laughing, showing the space between his teeth.

"No, really!" I said, marking this as number twenty-six on my list of Whoppers.

John stopped. "Really? A psychic?"

"No, not really, but it's as close as I can come to the actual truth without being considered a loony."

"Oh, who knows, maybe you are and you don't realize it. Go on, let's hear a prediction. Foretell the future!"

I closed my eyes a moment, smiling. "I predict that in a matter of seconds Brian is going to storm in and say 'Melancholy Blues' has potential."

John chuckled, "That IS a far cry from-"

SLAM!

Brian rushed into the control room, the Red Special in his hand. John's jaw dropped, as did mine. I was just kidding!

"That's amazing!" he exclaimed.

"Now, now," I downplayed. "That was pure fluke. If Brian changes his mind, that will be a miracle."

And from Brian's expression, he didn't look like he had the patience for another of Freddie's sales pitches. Freddie either didn't notice or didn't care; even from all the way out here in the church recording room, I could see behind his eyes a new series of cajoles brewing. I ran back in, hoping maybe I could help out in some way. Not that I felt I could, but I was ever optimistic.

"And the traffic was terrible, so I'm sorry," Brian was apologizing. "What did I miss?"

Freddie grinned. "So glad you asked." He rubbed his hands together.

Brian looked over at me, perplexed. "Why is she here?"

"His idea," I said, pointing at Freddie.

"You're so loyal," Freddie smirked. "Ratty, would you mind playing that track back for us?"

"Wait, you recorded that?" I cried. "But you said-"

"I said, it didn't necessarily mean we would record you, but on this occasion, we did. That's all. Wasn't so bad, was it?"

"You are such a tricky snake," I sighed, but the smile was still etched into my face.

"And you need to listen a little more carefully. Ratty?"

Everyone fell silent. Ratty pushed the proper button and threw the right switches, and suddenly Freddie's and my voices, though plagued with ambient noise from John setting down the bass guitar and Roger coughing at random intervals, resounded in the control room. For the first few seconds, I went hot with embarrassment, but when we started singing together, my nerves became a little less raw. Brian's face remained motionless, and Freddie winked when he caught me staring at him. I hadn't meant to; I couldn't help admiring his body, not when there was so much to be admired.

As our makeshift recording ended, we turned to Brian for his input. He sighed. "I still don't like it."

Freddie nodded, and said, "Well, we'd still have to throw in the percussion and the bass, but-"

"I said it before, Freddie, I'll say it again. It's not rock and roll. It's not even in the same postal code as rock and roll."

You think this is bad, man, wait till Hot Space, I thought to myself.

"And I don't know what she's supposed to lend to it," Brian