What Liz saw when she looked at me was a dilettante. Nora Visser in miniature—and I’d done nothing to dispel it, had I? I’d dressed up pretty, gone to parties, posed for pictures. Pretended to be someone I wasn’t.

“You don’t understand and that’s fine.” She sighed as if exhausted, backing away toward Lilly Hall. “That is more than fine. But why don’t you enjoy your life and leave the music to the musicians?”

Without waiting for a reaction, she swooped inside the glass foyer, nodded to the guards, and took her place in the auditorium.

Lincoln Center loomed like an Escher painting now, knife-blade edges, blinding glass, monstrous shadows, stairways leading up and down and nowhere at all.

I staggered to the fountain and sat on its edge while tourists milled around me.

You’re a tourist too. I smothered that thought while it kicked and flailed. Leave the music to the fucking musicians.

I looked up at his banner again, Oscar’s illustrated hair blurring into a meaningless swirl. Did he want me here? I had no idea anymore.

I swiped my eyes angrily dry—sick to death of crying—and Liz stood in front of me. Again. Her arms were still crossed but her face was open in entreaty.

“I need you to come with me.” She waved me up. “Please.”

Panic bled through that please. I caught it myself, heart pounding, and followed her across the plaza, almost running. Something was wrong.

When I walked into Lilly Hall, I saw the orchestra gathered, instruments ready, the choir in their usual seats, Emil Reinhardt pacing in front of them, scratching and scratching his chin.

Nora Visser popped up from the front row like a jack-in-the-box and Liz continued past her.

“Here.” Liz motioned to me. “Maybe she can get through to him.”

“I have sympathy,” Reinhardt called out from the stage. “I do. But—”

“Five minutes, everybody!” Nora shouted, walking over to clasp my arm. “If we’re not back, use this time on the Mozart.”

“Where is he?” I asked Nora, too flustered to whisper.

“His greenroom,” Liz answered, sarcasm tightly coiled.

Even Nora looked confused.

Reinhardt’s eyes were softer than Liz’s as they met mine from the stage. “Rehearsal Room B. Second floor. Marty set up a quiet space for Oscar to work . . . but sometimes he won’t come out.”

“What?” I stumbled forward a step. “Why?”

“You should conduct it,” Liz muttered to Reinhardt.

He rubbed his head. “That’s not my call to make . . .”

The orchestra started to whisper.

“Let’s deal with this situation,” Nora sang out, walking briskly up the aisle. “And then we can discuss.”