The choir mistress, Liz, a contralto who used to run the children’s chorus at the Met, stood from the front row.

“We have,” she said, polite, tightly coiled. “What you’ve given us. There are twenty new bars we’re working through tonight—”

“I’m writing as fast as I can,” Oscar yelled, and everybody stopped breathing.

Oscar never snapped. Oscar laughed, teased, encouraged. This voice was a new one. It seemed to shock even him. He stood at the podium, muscles locked tight.

“Right,” he said quietly. “Right. I apologize.”

But he didn’t budge. Didn’t lift his baton. Stared at his score while the orchestra shifted and coughed.

I started to rise from my seat as Dad shot from the wings. I hadn’t realized he was here tonight.

Dad placed a hand on Oscar’s back and murmured in his ear. Oscar nodded, motioning feebly for Dad to take the baton.

A ripple ran through the musicians. Martin Chertok—the Martin Chertok, the Once and Future Maestro—was taking the podium once again, lifting his hands like feathers, drifting, settling, until everyone’s instrument was at the ready.

Oscar walked down the aisle, then stopped to turn back, listening.

They’d begun at the start of the andante con fuoco. The choir was better this time—the tenors too loud, but that was easily adjusted. At least their voices made sense in the context of the piece. They were approaching something ineffably lovely, dawn rising slowly over a cityscape . . .

Oscar turned from the stage and started away.

I jumped from my seat, my arms a roadblock.

“Hey,” I whispered. “Hey!”

It took a second for his eyes to land on mine. “It’s so off. I need to toss it out, start something—”

“It’s not off,” I whispered urgently, willing his voice quieter too. “I promise, it’s not. This is the first time they’re rehearsing it.”

“It’s not what I have in my head. What we have when we’re working.”

He reached out to run his finger over my cheek, pulling away a stray eyelash.

“Well, then, I shall sing tonight.” I raised my chin like a prima donna.

“You always sing.”

“No, here.” I nudged him. “I’ll sit in. I can be a ringer.”

Me, a ringer, helping all these pre-professional opera students achieve a better performance. Hilarious.

But Oscar had turned toward the stage, taking my wrist, leading me straight to the choir seats.

“Wait wait wait, no no no.” I dug in my heels to stop. “I was one million percent joking! I forgot to say ‘get it,’ but I’m saying it now! Oscar!”

“Do you mind?” He turned to lock eyes with me. “It’s a good idea.”

“I mean.” My heart ratcheted to express-train speed. But, oh God, would this really help him . . . ?