It was Harry who noticed them first, likely on account of having caught Much's hand clean through the chest. He'd looked around, and his hands had stilled on the translucent piano keys, and his broad face had cracked into a grin of recognition. Miz Betsy!
The melody in the air collapsed as the rest of the band lowered their instruments and turned in their friend's direction. Perlie, tall and rake-thin and outrageously dapper in a powder-pink three-piece with fine white pinstripes and a burgundy pocket square, gave a shout, his voice carrying over the chorus of greetings. Ey, it's Miz Betsy! What it do, Miz Betsy? Who your man?
Qebhet smiled, loose and at ease in a way she so rarely was amid a crowd of living souls. "Hello, my friends. This is Much."
Perlie eyed the Merry Man critically, rubbing his goatee. Much, huh? He don't look like much! He barked a laugh at his own joke and Qebhet chuckled despite herself, shaking her head.
"Much, this is Harry, Perlie, Eli, Alonzo, Walter and King. They're one of the finest jazz bands in New York." (A rumble of heys and wassups from the ghosts, a Damn right! from Harry and a faux-affronted One of? from Perlie.) To the ghosts, she added, "We've come to see the show."
Harry frowned at Much. But he can't...
"No. But that's never mattered, has it?"
Alonzo laughed. Ha! You got our number alright, Miz Betsy. It was never about being seen, for these six. It was about putting their music into a world they'd each been taken from far too soon.