The room was a larger room. The sound bloomed and came back from the ceiling a fraction later than at Eastbridge, and she listened, and she adjusted the size of her touch the way a person adjusts her voice when she realizes the person she loves can hear her without shouting. The pedal she had missed in the lobby she did not miss now. She was not perfect. In the Prière she rushed one cadence, the comfortable place again, Denise's old warning, and she felt it happen and widened the next phrase to restore the balance instead of punishing herself in public. Dr. Shah's pen moved. Brenner stopped pretending he was not moved; his face did the small loosening of a man who had expected competence and received music. Ellen Choi folded her hands and listened with her head slightly tilted, as if tilting helped.
When Nia finished, the silence was the good kind. Not the funeral kind. The kind that means a sound has been respected enough to be given a second of its own.
"Thank you," Dr. Shah said. "Tell us, briefly, where you study, and whether you have a harp at home."
"I study with Miss Lorraine Alvarez at Eastbridge Community Arts. I don't have a harp at home. The one I practice on is there. It has a sticky C pedal. That's why I was early in the lobby. I corrected it. I won't do the early C here if I don't need to."
Brenner coughed, which might have been a laugh he did not want to spend. Dr. Shah nodded. "Good to know. If you were offered a place, practice time would have to be solved. Are you able to come on Saturdays and one weekday?"
"My aunt works nights at the hospital. Mornings and Saturdays are better. I can take the bus. I already do."
"All right," Dr. Shah said. "You may go. We'll be in touch through the process listed on your form. You played seriously. I don't say that to everyone before lunch."
Nia stood. She remembered not to apologize. She remembered not to bow like a pageant. She said thank you, gathered her bag, and walked out into the lobby where the light had shifted a little along the cream floor and the harp was being wheeled back toward the doors by two careful students. Mrs. Whitmore was no longer standing near it. Claire was gone, perhaps to lunch, perhaps to warm up in a practice room where hardware was allowed to look like hardware.
Mr. Carter was at the registration table. He looked up, and for the first time that day he let a small change happen in his face. Not a grin. A recognition.