Richard Alan Mercer cleared his throat. "He practices. I didn't realize how much."
Helena's gaze moved to the father, and in it there was a professional coolness that wealthy parents sometimes mistook for deference until it was too late.
"Mr. Mercer," she said, "your son does not need an advanced class as a novelty. He needs a teacher who will not waste him, and a home that will not treat his gift like a dare. If you intend to keep him here, I will teach him. If you intend to use this room as a stage for your skepticism, I will refund your term and recommend someone else."
Richard's jaw worked. He was unused to being addressed without the soft gloves of fundraising language. For a moment Ethan feared his father would choose pride over the room. Then Richard looked at his son—at the messy hair, the faded gray hoodie, the scratched case—and something in his posture yielded a fraction.
"He stays," Richard Alan Mercer said. "I'll stay out of the way."
Helena inclined her head. "Good. Ethan, next week bring whatever music you have been living inside. We will build from there, not from my assumptions."
Ethan nodded. Outside, the corridor smelled of floor wax and someone else's orange. He walked beside his father toward the car without speaking. The parking lot was bright and ordinary. Richard unlocked the doors with a soft chirp. Only when they were both seated, seat belts clicked, engine humming, did Richard speak again.