Chapter 6: The Request
June walked into Maison Lumière on a Thursday evening, early, the way Marcus had advised, before the dinner rush filled the room. She wore her best dress, pressed the night before, and her hair was braided neatly. She carried nothing but her own steady breathing and the melody she had practiced in her head all afternoon. The dining room was quiet, with only a few early tables occupied, and the grand piano waited in the corner, lid raised, catching the lamplight.
Claude Renard stood near the door with his reservation book, and when he saw June, his smile tightened into something polite and cold. "Good evening," he said, in a tone that suggested she had wandered into the wrong building. "May I help you?" June felt her heart beating faster, but she remembered Marcus's advice and her own rehearsal, and she spoke clearly. "Good evening. I would like to ask if I may play your piano, in swap for food. One song, for one hot plate."
Claude blinked, as if she had spoken a language he did not recognize. Then he laughed, a short, sharp sound, and glanced toward the dining room as if inviting the other guests to share the joke. "You want to trade music for supper," he said. "My dear girl, this is not a busker's corner. This is Maison Lumière. Our guests pay for their meals, and our piano is played by professionals."
"I understand," June said, keeping her voice level. "I am only asking for a chance to be heard. If you do not like what you hear, I will leave at once, and I will not ask again." She did not beg. She did not raise her voice. She stood there, seventeen and hungry and dignified, and waited for an answer that felt fair.
From a table near the window, Vivienne Delacroix looked up from her menu. She was a wealthy regular, dressed in silk, with a laugh that carried across the room. "Oh, Claude, let the girl try," she called out, her voice bright with amusement. "It will be entertaining. We could all use a little entertainment before dinner." A few guests chuckled. June felt the laughter settle on her skin like something she had to walk through, and she did, without flinching, because she had decided before she came in that she would not let laughter decide what happened next.
Claude's expression shifted. He did not want a scene, and he did not want to look unkind in front of his regulars. He turned toward the back of the restaurant, where Henri Beaumont stood watching from the doorway of the kitchen, his arms folded, his chef's coat still dusted with flour. Henri had heard the whole exchange. He walked forward slowly, and the room seemed to quiet a little, the way a room does when the person in charge arrives.
"What is your name?" Henri asked June, not unkindly.
"June Ashby," she said.
"Miss Ashby," Henri said, "do you truly play, or do you only hope to play?" It was a fair question, and June appreciated it. "I truly play," she said. "I have played since I was a child. I learned at home, by ear." Henri studied her for a long moment, and June could not tell what he was thinking. Then he nodded toward the piano. "One song," he said. "You may play one song. If it is good, you will eat. If it is not, you will leave quietly, and we will speak no more of it. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," June said. "Thank you."
Claude stepped aside with a flourish. June walked to the piano, and as she passed Marcus, who was setting a table nearby, he gave her the smallest nod. She noticed, too, that Henri had not gone back to the kitchen. He stood near the pass, watching, his arms folded, the way a man watches when he is prepared to be proved wrong and hopes that he will be. A few guests had set down their menus. Others leaned forward in their chairs, whispering to one another, and June could hear fragments of their talk: whether she could really play, whether this was some kind of stunt, whether the restaurant had lost its mind. She let the whispers pass over her like weather. She had heard worse in school corridors and on street corners, and none of it had ever changed what her hands knew.
June walked to the piano, and as she passed Marcus, who was setting a table nearby, he gave her the smallest nod. She sat down on the bench, adjusted it, and placed her hands on the keys. The room watched, some kindly, some not, all curious. June closed her eyes for a single breath, thought of Pearl's kitchen and the upright piano and the cassette that had taught her to listen, and then she began to play, not for the laughter, and not for the pity, but for the music itself, and for the meal it might earn.