“Right then, guys,” she said. Lydia noticed how her style had altered over the weeks, from humorously ingratiating to unsmiling and brisk. Even in three months, the woman had aged visibly. “We have two days of rehearsals to get this absolutely down. The concert is tomorrow night, and it has to be good. A lot is riding on this. So I’m banking on your own professionalism and pride in your skills to get us through it. You are the talent—I’m just facilitating that talent.” Milan grunted softly, but Lydia could tell that the speech pleased him. Mary-Ann had been underplaying her contribution to the performance more and more every week, until she’d begun to paint herself as some kind of passive vehicle, barely relevant to the music at all. She had lost confidence. Surely she wouldn’t last much longer. “We have two Hungarian Rhapsodies, a set of Hungarian Dances and the Kodály Háry János suite to get through. I think we might as well start with a quick Hungarian Dance—number one, first things first.”
