I didn’t. I didn’t want to talk about music at all. But I didn’t want to lose whatever game this was either.

“Frescobaldi.”

His eyebrows rose. “Damn, going for the deep cuts.” Then he rubbed his cheek, relaxing his shoulders, falling marginally mortal. “It’s Bell.”

“Bell?” I eyed him warily. “Elizabeth? Or . . . it really doesn’t sound like Iain Be—”

“Oscar Bell.” He closed the distance, extending his hand. “Nice to—”

I edged away. “You composed that.”

He shrugged. Cocky.

“That’s your fugue.” A snort burst out of me. “Okay.”

“I could sketch it out for you.” He glanced around, miming scribbling. “I should start writing this shit down anyway.”

Before he even finished saying it, his knee was back on the bench, fingers back on the keys, repeating the first movement, adding another voice, another and another as if it were as simple as breathing.

I didn’t realize I’d been backing up until I hit Mom’s Steinway across the room. I flinched away like her piano was a hot pipe. “You couldn’t have improvised that. There’s no—”

“Course not.” His eyes danced up to meet mine, teasing. “I came up with it on the ride over.”

Now that I looked out through the front bay windows, I saw an SUV taxi idling at the curb, back hatch open.

“Sorry if I surprised you.” The boy’s voice dropped into a different register. “Mr.—uh, Marty just said to come say hi to Ruby.”

I closed my eyes, letting out a slow breath. He knew Dad. Of course.

“I’m hoping you’re Ruby? But right now I’m thinking you’re not.”

“What? I’m her. Me,” I said as Dad’s voice bellowed from the street, “Carry it down there and put it by the door, that’s good!”

This guy—“it’s Bell”—was still staring at me.

I shrugged, flustered. “Why wouldn’t I be Ruby?”

“I don’t know. You seem older, so I thought maybe you were another of his students. And . . .”

Another of his students? Since when did Dad have his own students?

“The way he talked about you—I thought you’d be short?”

I let out a startled laugh, then glanced down. All five foot eight of me was draped in black—black ballet flats, black yoga pants, black sleep top, black cardigan, its black sleeves covering my hands to the fingertips. With my pasty face and long dark hair frizzing loose, I must have looked like something out of a micro-budget horror movie.

But Oscar extended his hand again. “Sorry. Let’s . . . I mean—I’m Oscar Bell. Nice to meet you.”

“Ruby. Chertok,” I said, sliding my palm into his. “Pleasure to . . . um  . . .”

He smiled, lips parted as if he wanted to finish my sentence for me. His hand was sturdier than most pianists’—warm and smooth, except for his rough fingertips.