The room did not know what to do with an ending. Applause in the Winslow was for birthdays and, occasionally, a soufflé. A few people clapped because their bodies required a response. The clapping spread, uncertain, then firmer, then embarrassed at its own firmness and thinner again. Claire did not bow. She looked at Willa.
The girl's eyes were bright in the way that meant she was trying not to make a scene of her own face. She nodded, once, a small serious nod that belonged to a person older than ten and also exactly ten.
Evelyn's hands were around the stem of her glass. She had not clapped. Her mouth was parted. The public amusement had nowhere to sit. Something else was in her face, quick and unwelcome: recognition, or the fear of it. She blinked it back. When she spoke, her voice was lower than it had been during the dare, and it still carried.
"You might have said."
"You might have asked," Claire said.
Her own voice sounded strange to her, close to the strings. She could feel Martin at her shoulder now, not touching her, the heat of a man deciding whether to be a boss or a witness in front of a full floor. She did not turn yet. Willa spoke as if the adults might forget she had started this if she did not claim it.
"You do know how."
"I used to do it in front of people," Claire said. "That's not the same as never."
Evelyn's bracelet clicked. She was assembling a sentence that would return the table to her. Claire could see the assembly. She was tired, suddenly, in the hands, the good tired of work and the bad tired of being looked at. She was also angry, a clean anger, not the kind that spills a second glass. She set her fingers on the keys again.