"I was. But I don't want to get us in trouble."
"Good answer. Did the attendant tell you why you couldn't play?"
"She said it was professional."
Arthur raised his eyebrows. "All the more reason to let a serious young musician hear it, I'd have thought. But the rules aren't mine to make."
He stood, walked to a brass-framed notice beside the piano, and read it twice. Camille expected him to begin an argument. Instead he returned to them and showed her a line printed in smaller letters at the bottom: Instrument access may be approved by the duty manager during unscheduled hours. The piano was reserved for performances, but the notice did not impose an absolute ban.
"No need to make a scene," Arthur said. "You could ask the person whose job it is to decide."
Camille looked at Nia. They both knew the safer choice was to stay seated, wait for their flight, and preserve their limited energy for Boston. Yet Camille also remembered the way her daughter had stood beside the instrument without touching it, and how quickly someone had assumed she had no right even to ask. She rose with a quiet resolve that surprised Nia more than anger would have.
At the desk, she requested the duty manager. Margaret appeared immediately, her smile pinched at the corners. "Is there another problem?"
"I hope not," Camille said. "Your sign says the manager can authorize use when there's no scheduled performance. My daughter is auditioning for a music fellowship tomorrow. I'd like to ask whether she can practice for a few minutes."
Margaret's eyes moved to the score in Nia's hands. "As I explained, these are not toys. We have had children spill drinks on that piano, leave fingerprints inside the action, and strike the keys hard enough to alarm other guests."
"I understand why you protect it," Camille answered. "But my daughter hasn't done any of those things."
"She's very young."
"Yes. She's ten. That isn't a rule violation."
Several passengers heard the exchange. Arthur stayed a little way back, not speaking for Camille, though Nia could see he was ready if anyone asked him a question. Behind the counter a younger employee glanced at a schedule, found a name, and said that Mr. Ortega was in the service corridor. A few minutes later a compact man with silver-rimmed glasses arrived, already carrying a tablet crowded with airport alerts.
Daniel Ortega had managed the lounge for four years, long enough to recognize the signs of a disagreement before anyone described it. He listened without interrupting while Camille explained the request and Margaret described her concern about the instrument. He asked to see Nia's audition invitation, not because he doubted she had one, but because the lounge's demonstration guidelines required an accountable adult and a specific purpose. Camille opened the email from Bellwether and held out her phone.
Daniel read it and looked at Nia. "You're one of their finalists? Congratulations. Have you played a full grand piano before?"