The woman glanced at the bag, at the flats, at the cardigan's softened cuffs. Her smile stayed where she had put it. The lobby did not hush, but the parents nearest the doors became suddenly interested in the papers in their hands. The girl with the violin case — her name was Claire, though nobody in the lobby had said it yet — shifted her weight and looked at the harp as if it had become more complicated than an instrument.
"Are you lost?"
"No, ma'am."
"You're auditioning?"
Nia's chin lifted a fraction. Not a performance of bravery. A correction of place.
"That's why I'm here."
The woman nodded, gentle as a closing door.
"This scholarship is very competitive. There's nothing wrong with starting somewhere easier."
From behind the double doors came the faint end of a scale, a violin climbing and stopping, then applause polite as paper. Claire moved the case from one hand to the other. She looked at her mother, then at Nia, then at the red discs waiting in their quiet row.
A man crossed the cream stone with the unhurried pace of someone whose job was to keep a day from tipping over. Charcoal suit, white shirt, an event badge clipped level to his lapel: M. CARTER, AUDITION COORDINATOR. He was about fifty, with a close haircut graying at the temples and a face that had practiced calm until calm became a tool he could pick up without looking. He had seen the cluster from the registration table. More precisely, he had seen the angle of the woman's shoulder, which was the angle of a person making a room smaller while calling it help.