Nora played with the clasp of my necklace as she stood on her tiptoes to whisper, “You’re doing so well. I’ll introduce you around in a second.”

I mouthed a quick thank-you, but didn’t know what she meant by doing well and didn’t care. My world was this “premiere,” the birth and life of Oscar’s song. I didn’t want to matter. I wanted to listen.

Oscar’s grin dropped as he concentrated, composing as he went. He was trying to block the party din out, but it only grew. I heard the music shift to an inverted seventh and into the first strains of a Mozart homage—then he shook his head, sketched an arpeggio and closed it out, the music dropping off a cliff so quickly that I gasped. Oscar frowned at the silent keys.

The crowd whistled, applauded. His smile returned. “Thank you for indulging me. I’m no pianist. Not like Miss Chertok here, who was kind enough to accompany me tonight.”

No. What. No, no.

Everyone was looking at me now, their expressions shifting as their assumptions about me made a 180. Still wrong. Completely wrong. I noticed some familiar faces among them, shapes popping out of a wallpaper pattern—donors to the opera, a couple of teachers. Arnold Rombauer, by the bar, watching me with strained pity.

“Perhaps Ruby could play for us,” Nora called out. Her hand was on my back now—nudging me in the direction of the piano.

I stared in horror, body locked in place. Nora knew me. She’d been there seven years ago, the last time I’d played for a gathering of this stature. She’d given me this necklace, eased the shame of that night. She knew that what happened in April was the final straw, that I was done—that it wounded me to even talk about it.

But Nora was wearing her fundraiser mask. Was this how she got people to give money? By telling them they were going to, in front of witnesses? Was I still a child to her? A photo-op?

“I’m not . . . I can’t play anything.” My voice hardly came out.

The crowd was clapping halfheartedly, curious about my name more than anything. I turned to Oscar in desperate appeal, but he was shifting down the bench, making space.

“We could duet,” he murmured, his innocence cutting. “Just something easy . . . a Chopin waltz? And I’ll do an embellishment. Sound good?”

Heat raced up my body like I was tied to a burning stake. Everyone turned to watch as tears sprang to my eyes, sweat stung my forehead, my curls stuck and melted flat.

“I can’t play.” The room fell strangely silent, everyone sensing drama unfolding.

Oscar cocked his head, still not understanding.

A clock chimed down the long hall and I nearly let out a hysterical laugh.