I closed my eyes, wondering if I would remember the Schumann. It was still in me. It was slow, clunky. There were a few missed notes. I played until the piece was done. And then I heard another voice—Mrs. Swenson’s.

“That’s lovely, Ruby. Just lovely.”

It was. It was absolutely lovely.

“Okay.” I stood with a smile. “Time to go.”

•   •   •

Dad’s never-used car from the Metropolitan Opera sat waiting at the curb, empty in the back, having safely delivered the main attraction to Lincoln Center hours ago. I’d suggested we all get ready together, but Oscar wanted to dress there. To be surrounded by music while he prepared.

I understood. But even with Jules sitting next to me, asking a million classical music questions to mask her event jitters, I missed him the whole drive over.

As I thanked Dad’s driver and stepped onto the plaza, I willed my spine straight, smile untouchable, like I’d practiced in the mirror. Jules nodded with approval and drew her own shoulders back, effortlessly cool in an instant.

Avery Fisher Hall and the opera house glittered bright as usual tonight, but there was an eerie quality to the light haloing Lilly Hall. It took rounding the corner of the Met to recognize it.

Press lights. Cameras. The park outside the Lilly Hall entrance had become a red carpet, complete with paparazzi and society reporters.

My high-heeled clip slid into an awestruck glide. Was Oscar’s symphony this big a deal? I hadn’t seen a press turnout like this since Troilus in Aleppo’s opening night.

“Sweet Jesus.” Jules let out a delighted laugh. “Lincoln Center. Who knew?”

My eyes alit on the banner obscuring the tall front windows of the entryway—Oscar’s hair in silhouette, baton raised. Pure want clenched my chest and propelled me straight into the press line.

“Go on, Maleficent,” Jules whispered. “You’ve got this.”

I knew what she meant—this would only work if I played the role perfectly. If I got their attention and kept it. We’d run a few drills this afternoon.

I stepped out on my own and turned toward the cameras, waiting for the photographers to clock me. Then I turned away, continuing toward the glass-walled entrance, until—

“One picture, please!” “Ruby, quick shot!” “Here to support Oscar?” “Gorgeous dress, Ruby, who styled you?”

I smiled blankly, three-quarters posed, answered loudly, “My stylist is Jules Russo,” and watched, exultant, as reporters scrambled to type her name into their phones. “She’s here with me tonight!”

Jules sputtered a series of silent obscenities, then pivoted confidently and joined me in front of the cameras for a few poses, tossing her hair every time we shifted.