doesnât look gormless.â
âExcuse me.â Wendy peered over her shoulder at Gilda. âDo the two of you mind not talking about me when Iâm sitting right next to you?â
âIâm Julian.â Julian extended a hand to Wendy.
As Wendy shook Julianâs hand, they heard a rush of polite applause from the concert hall following the conclusion of Garyâs performance.
âThank you, performer number seven,â a manâs voice projected over the diminishing clapping.
âThat must be Professor Waldgrave,â Wendy whispered.
âIt was a technically adept performance,â Professor Waldgrave continued from the performance hall, âbut you must keep a steadier tempo and maintain more control. It was as if you were riding a horse that got away from you and you had no sense of where the music was going to end up. And speaking of musicâletâs play some next time, shall we?â
A murmur of surprised, sympathetic laughter welled from the audience. Gilda couldnât help but feel sorry for Gary.
âOuch,â Julian whispered.
âOmigod, Iâm toast,â Wendy muttered.
âWendy, you play better than Gary,â said Gilda. âProfessor Waldgrave has a point; Garyâs performance was kind of boring.â
âWhat I meant about that comment,â Professor Waldgrave continued from the performance hall, âis that you must think about color. It was as if your entire performance was colored in shades of brown. I felt as if I were watching a young child scribbling with a single brown crayon. And if the performance had a scent, it would be smelly.â
âBollocks!â a womanâs voice piped up.
Julian snorted with amusement.
âI beg your pardon?â
âYour comments are far too harsh, Nigel.â
âThat must be the bizarre Professor Maddox,â Julian whispered.
From the backstage room, Gilda, Julian, Wendy, and Ming Fong sensed a tense silence descending over the audience in the concert hall; it was surprising to hear the two judges voicing such blunt and public disagreement with each other.
âWe have to keep in mind the difficulty of this piece. There were some quite lovely moments, and he played with great confidence. Fine job, performer number seven. Just try to find that little spark that really gets your audience excited.â
A jolt of adrenaline surged through the backstage room as Professor Heslop hurried through the door and gestured to Ming Fong that it was time for her performance. Ming Fong removed her mittens, placed her music on her seat, and stood with her thin arms folded across her chest and hands wedged in her armpits. In her feminine dress she looked even more diminutive than usual, like a fragile doll.
Gary emerged from the concert hall. His round face looked flushed.
âGood job, Gary,â said Gilda and Wendy politely.
âSounded like old Waldgrave gave you the verbals, mate,â said Julian.
Gary looked confused. âHe said I didnât play music.â
âMaybe add more dynamics next time,â Wendy suggested.
âIf there is a next time.â Gary looked dejected.
âHowâs the piano out there?â Wendy asked. One of the things she dreaded about piano competitions was walking onstage to play on a completely unfamiliar instrument.
âKind of stiff. Itâs cold in the room. The acoustics seem great, though.â
Gilda had intended to ask Gary if he knew anything about the tarot card that had turned up in Wendyâs room, but the topic seemed impossible to broach right after Gary had been humiliated onstage.
âGood luck, Ming Fong,â said Gary glumly.
Ming Fong nodded but didnât look at Gary. She was already in another worldâthe world of her own performance.
âGood luck, Wendy,â Gary added, even more forlornly.
âThanks, Iâll need it.â
âIâd stay and watch you, but I