She also explained that the fellowship committee had not yet decided which students would receive final awards.

“That means Sophie still has a fair chance,” I said.

“It means she will have the chance she earned,” Dr. Shaw replied.

Sophie looked at her hands.

“What about the person who accused me?”

“Their claim must be evaluated on its evidence, not on their position in the community.”

She asked Sophie to submit all drafts and project files through the school rather than through an adult mentor.

Then she asked something nobody else had asked all week.

“Do you still want to participate?”

Sophie was quiet long enough for the train outside to rattle past.

“I want my music back,” she said.

Dr. Shaw nodded.

“That’s a different question, and a very important one.”

On the drive home Sophie told me that Lila had played part of The Blue Room at a private party in March.

I almost pulled off the highway.

“You heard it?”

“I wasn’t there.”

“Who told you?”

“A girl from the string quartet sent me a short video.”

Sophie took out her phone but did not play the clip immediately.

“I thought maybe I was being unfair,” she said.

“Lila didn’t look happy in the video.”

The footage showed a crowded living room with white flowers on a piano.

Lila stood near the fireplace playing a passage that sounded almost identical to Sophie’s middle section.

I recognized it because my daughter had repeated that passage over and over on evenings when our kitchen clock had seemed louder than the television.

A man off camera announced that Lila was performing a new work by Celeste Caldwell.

People applauded before Lila finished.

Sophie stopped the video.

“That’s my piece,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“What if the whole town thinks I copied her?”

I did not have a reassuring answer.

The difference between proving the truth and convincing a crowd suddenly seemed enormous.

Lila knocked on our back door that evening.

She came through the side gate rather than the front walk and kept looking over her shoulder.

Her face was pale beneath the hood of a raincoat.

“I need to speak to Sophie,” she said.

I stepped aside but left the kitchen door open.

Sophie stood at the table, the violin untouched in its case.

“I didn’t know she was going to submit it under my name,” Lila said immediately.

“Submit what?” Sophie asked.

“The composition.”

“You played it at your mother’s party.”