On an impulse he collected his answer sheets, stacked them neatly, and walked across to the connecting door. He turned the doorknob and went through without knocking.

He braced himself. Anyone who entered Bonvissuto’s office uninvited could expect a hot welcome.

The expected blast did not come. Professor Bonvissuto was not there. Alone in the room, standing by the piano and staring at him uncertainly, was a slim, blond-haired girl.

He stared back. Her hair was cut a little lopsided. She wasn’t very tall, maybe five four, and her pale blue dress didn’t look quite right on her. Drake, no connoisseur of clothing, did not realize that it had been intended for someone a couple of inches taller. But the most striking thing about her, far more significant than clothes, was her age. She looked about fifteen. It was hard to believe that the mature contralto voice he had heard came from her.

“Are you next?” she said finally. “I thought I was the last one. He won’t be long.”

He realized that he had been staring, but so had she. She must assume he was there for a vocal audition. He thrust his sheaf of papers out toward her. “I’m not here to sing. I was taking an exam. I’m one of Professor Bonvissuto’s students. Was that you?”

“What me?”

“Singing. ‘Blow the wind southerly.’ ”

“Yes. Why?”

“It was good.” He wanted to add that it was wonderful, heart-stopping, soul-searing. Instead he said, “Where is he?”

“The professor? He went to register me. I didn’t think I’d be accepted, and it’s the last day to sign up. He said he could push it through.”

“He can. He knows how.” Drake, not knowing what to do next but reluctant to leave, sat down on the piano stool.

She asked from behind him, “Do you play?”

“Yes. Not very well.” He was convinced that he could feel her critical stare burning into the back of his head.