Claire picked up the pitcher from the sideboard. Her hands were steady. She was interested to observe this, as if they belonged to a colleague. She refilled Willa's water. She refilled Evelyn's. The duck arrived, and she served it with the cherry sauce on the side as the ticket had been modified, because Martin had survived the guest's sleeve after all, or someone had. The plate went down without a tremor. The pasta was boxed without being requested yet, because the girl had not eaten and the evening had gotten larger than hunger, and Claire knew the difference between hovering and anticipating.
Willa looked at the box, then at Claire.
"Thank you for not making it a joke," she said, very quietly, so her mother could pretend not to hear if pretending was required.
"Thank you for asking," Claire said.
Evelyn cut into the duck. Her knife was precise. She did not look up when she said, "My daughter takes lessons. Her teacher is strict. He would say this was inappropriate."
"It was," Claire said. "I know the rule I broke."
"And you played anyway."
"Yes."
Evelyn took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. The diamonds did not care about any of it. "Real pianists train for years," she said, but the sentence had lost its weapon and had not yet found its apology. It sat between them like a glass no one had ordered. "That's what I said."