Evelyn put the ticket in her pocket. "What is your name? The way you would want it said. Not 'the waitress.'"
"Claire Brennan."
"Evelyn Rowe. This is Willa." A formal repair, late, almost funny. Willa offered her hand, solemn, and Claire shook it as if they were colleagues in a very small firm. Then the door to the street opened on the October night, cold and ordinary, and they went through it, the cape and the black coat, into a car that would hold a conversation Claire would not hear.
Andre was waiting by the lockers.
"Window's a snitch," he said. "I saw enough. You good?"
"I might be playing tomorrow. Officially. Badly paid."
"Badly paid is how music enters most buildings," Andre said. "Don't let them clap you into thinking you're a different species. You still owe me a side of the silver."
"I know."
They rolled silver. The work was the same work. Claire's hands did it. Between one fork and the next she felt the Steinway's action still living in her fingers, a ghost of resistance, and she did not shake it out. She kept it, the way you keep a matchbook after the room has already been lit.