Nia let her hands rest. She was shaking in the place under the shaking, the deep place. She kept her face quiet. She looked at Mr. Carter because he was the one who had pulled out the bench, and waiting for a next instruction seemed more honest than bowing to a hallway.
"Thank you," he said. His voice was ordinary, which was a mercy. "You're Nia Cole. You're on the list at eleven-forty, in the room. That was not the audition. That was the lobby. If you want to stop there, you may. If you want to come in and play for the panel what you prepared, the house harp will be brought in, or you can play this one if Dr. Shah agrees. We have time to do it properly."
Mrs. Whitmore found her voice. It was still pleasant, and it had a new edge, like a paper cut. "So this was a preview. How nice for everyone to have to stand here and be an audience."
"No one had to stay," Mr. Carter said. "And no one had to speak to her before she touched the instrument she was told would be available." He turned back to Nia. "Do you want a minute?"
"Yes, sir," Nia said. "And then I want to play the audition."
"Good."
He nodded toward a bench along the wood paneling, away from the doors. Nia stood, a little unsteady, and picked up the navy bag. Her heel pinched. The pinch was still useful. She sat where he had indicated and opened her folder, not because she needed the music — the Bach was in her bones — but because she needed something to do with her hands that was not collapsing.
Claire walked over before her mother could decide whether to forbid it. Up close she smelled like clean shampoo and rosin. Her eyes were blue and worried and interested, a combination Nia had not expected from the ivory blazer's daughter.
"That was the Prelude in C," Claire said quietly. "Bach. I know it from piano. You play it straighter than the pianist at my school. That's a compliment. He muddies it."