"You're very good," Gretel said gently. Beethoven had not been Theresa's first lesson, there was too much a chance of her feeling overwhelmed. The last thing Gretel had wanted was to scare the girl's talent. But she remembered had Theresa had looked the first time she read the score, the first time she played and then, later, the first time she'd played it well. It had been--effervescent.
"The thing about Beethoven," Gretel said, "is that he's literary. You could spend as much time reading the music as you do playing it, and that can be profoundly distracting." There was a score on the piano; Gretel idly flipped through the pages, her face unreadable and oddly careless. "You should see if they have any of the opus five sonatas or anything from his twenty's, really. He was a lot kinder to cellists before going deaf. Of course, it's candy compared to the 102; that stuff is pure drama. It's sneaky, though; the start doesn't sound anything like where it ends up at."
She put aside the useless score and looked back at Billie, openly interested. Hmming slightly, she swept a keen gaze over the girl from hair to toe.
"Beg pardon," she said absentmindedly and reached out to place her palm flat against Billie's arm. Carefully and briskly, she adjusted the girl's posture. It had been adequate, yes, good even, but it hadn't been quite right. A nudge here, a tug there, no touch lasting more than a tap. Elbows a little closer together, forearms slightly more aligned in parallel, wrists tugged a little straighter. For a moment, she pressed her hand lightly, so very lightly, over Billie's extended fingers.
"Don't think fingertips," Gretel said. "Think of the pads of your fingers. That's the only point of contact that matters." She removed her hand.
"There, absolutely lovely." She tilted her head again, examining. "Don't pop your wrist and try to lean a bit forward without bending your neck; it'll give you weight in playing."