"Then give him one," Harold Quince said.
The tuxedoed guest turned, eyebrows lifting. His name was Victor Langford, and he had donated enough to this particular evening's cause—children's music education, as it happened—to feel entitled to opinions about who should and should not touch a Steinway.
"You seriously expect him to play that?"
Harold Quince did not raise his voice. He rarely needed to. In the hush that followed, a fork chimed against a plate somewhere near the windows, and even that small sound seemed chastened.
"I expect you to wait."
Victor Langford chuckled, a sound meant to be shared with the nearby tables. "This should be interesting."
Noah climbed onto the bench. His sneakers did not quite reach the floor. He placed his hands above the keys without touching them yet, as if listening for a permission older than anyone in the room. The bench leather was cool. The fallboard's edge gleamed. He could feel the room arranging itself around his back—skepticism, curiosity, his mother's fear like a warm hand still hovering near his shoulder though she had stepped away.