She lifted her chin, though shame tried to drag it down, and let her voice carry into the sudden hush.
“Please, sir,” she said.
The words floated into the room and landed in silence.
Then she spoke the line that had brought them here, the line she’d rehearsed in her head like a prayer.
“Please, sir, if we sing and play the piano for you… will you give us some food? Even just old bread.”
A laugh sliced through the quiet.
Then another.
Soon the entire audience was laughing, the sound swelling like a wave meant to drown them.
Jackson lifted his microphone, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Did you hear that? These little beggars think they can entertain us.”
He looked at Catherine with cruel amusement. “Where exactly did you train? The Juilliard School of Garbage Dumps?”
Laughter roared.
Christine started to pull away, sobbing, trying to flee back into shadow. Catherine held on, because letting go felt like losing her sister to the cold.
Madame Esther circled them like a cat around trapped birds. “My dear children,” she cooed, sweetness fake as plastic. “We just performed Rachmaninoff and Chopin. What could two dirty little street rats possibly offer this audience?”
Catherine’s face burned. Her hands trembled.
But something inside her refused to break. Or maybe it had already broken too many times to notice one more crack.
“Our mama taught us,” Catherine said loudly, speaking over laughter. “Her name was Helen Harper. She died five years ago. We’ve been alone ever since. We’re hungry. We’re cold. We just want a chance to earn food.”
The laughter wavered. A few people shifted uncomfortably. Sympathy tried to rise, but it was weak, like a candle in a storm.
Jackson smelled the hesitation and decided to crush it.
“How touching,” he mocked. He spread his arms to the audience. “What do you say? Should we let the gutter show us what it knows about music?”
A voice shouted, “Yes! Let’s see!”
Another voice: “It’ll be hilarious!”
More laughter.
Jackson’s smile sharpened. “Very well. Perform.”
