Sophia Elise Lang sat two chairs to Ethan's left. She was eleven as well, though she carried herself as if she had already negotiated treaties with adulthood. Her hair was neat. Her case was newer. Her bow hand rested on her knee with the ease of someone who trusted her own competence. She had been watching Ethan since he entered, not with pity exactly, but with the sharp attention of a musician who recognized another musician's silence. When Richard spoke, Sophia's jaw tightened. She stood, crossed the small space between them, and held out her bow as if offering a sword in a story older than both of them.
Sophia Elise Lang said, "Use mine."
Ethan looked at the bow, then at her face. His own bow, tucked in the cracked case, had a hair that had frayed that morning in the parking lot when the latch stuck and he forced it. He had told no one. He took Sophia's bow with both hands, careful not to touch the hair.
Ethan James Mercer said, "Thank you."
Helena Marie Ashcroft's expression shifted, the protective firmness softening into something more complicated. She glanced at Richard, then back at the boy in the faded hoodie.
Helena Marie Ashcroft asked, "You really want to do this in front of everyone?"
The room waited. A radiator clicked. Somewhere down the corridor a beginner class laughed and was shushed. Ethan nodded once.