“You sure you want to do this, honey?” If V’s family was anything at all, it was protective. Over the years, it’d had to be. Held up as a curiosity, attacked by racists and anti-racists, they hung together. Like a band, she supposed, the kind that knew they stuck together or broke apart. Maybe that was why so many of them were musical. Her father met her steady gaze, his own dark eyes contemplative, and brushed back a strand of his badger-streaked hair. “If what you say is true, you’re going to get some attention.” V smiled. “I know. But it’s time for me to move on, Pop.” Her father studied her, didn’t break the silence or his attention. If she’d showed any wavering, he wouldn’t have gone on with this. He’d have told her that she should take the session money. But she wanted this, she really wanted it. Not fame, not that, but being a part of something she really loved. She’d listened to that album several times and the more she heard it, the more the artistry and invention stunned her.
