The passenger looked briefly offended, as though a compliment had been rejected. Then she lowered her phone and promised to keep the recording private. Across the room another person had also been filming, and the sight made Camille feel a new uneasiness. Her daughter's music deserved to be heard, but so did her daughter's wishes about who could use her face and her story.
Margaret stood near the counter, listening. A few minutes later she approached, her professional composure no longer quite intact. "Mrs. Lawson," she began, and hesitated. "I owe you and Nia an apology."
Camille said nothing, allowing her to finish.
"I spoke to her as if she had already misbehaved. I assumed that because she was young, and because she didn't look like the performers we usually host, she couldn't possibly be here for a serious reason. There is no good explanation for that."
Nia watched her carefully. It was the first time an adult had named the unfairness without telling Nia she had misunderstood it. Margaret turned to the child and added, "You were right. You were asking. I didn't let you finish. I'm sorry."
"Thank you," Nia said after a moment. "Next time, you can ask the kid what they're doing."
Margaret gave a short, rueful laugh. "That's exactly what I should have done."
The apology did not undo the embarrassment in front of strangers. Nia knew it, and so did Margaret. But it changed what could happen next, because for the first time that day the adult who had decided Nia did not belong was listening to what Nia actually said.
That evening, in an airport hotel overlooking a parking garage, Nia ate a sandwich while Camille refreshed her inbox. Their suitcases stood unopened because they still did not know whether they were going to Boston. Nia had brought a notebook to describe the harbor and the sound of a new piano; instead, she drew the lounge instrument from memory, giving it one crooked leg.
At nine fourteen, a reply arrived from the Bellwether office. The audition committee had an existing contingency procedure for finalists unable to travel because of documented cancellations. Nia could appear by video the next morning, provided she had access to an acoustic piano and a quiet space. She would perform the same required repertoire and original piece as every other finalist, answer questions from the panel, and be scored according to the published criteria. The decision would take several days, just as it would for those who appeared in Boston.
Camille read the message aloud and sat down slowly on the bed. They had been offered a way forward, not a guarantee, and the distinction made her eyes sting with relief. She called Daniel Ortega at the number he had given her, expecting to leave a message. He answered from home, asked what time the remote audition would begin, and said he would check whether the lounge piano could be reserved during the required window.