He did not cease playing, or make any concession to greeting other than to slide sideways, a wordless invitation to Charlotte to sit. She did so, the narrowness of the bench obliging her to seat herself close enough to him that she could hear the breaths he snatched between notes, feel the emanation of effort coming from his body as he swayed slightly to the music. The muscles of his arms worked under the fine muslin of his shirt, and his fingers, although moving faster than the eye could see, did not blur, but rained down like fine ivory hammers.

Charlotte found that watching his hands obliged her to stare sideways at the man himself, so she closed her eyes once again and immersed herself in the sounds he was drawing from his recorder, in the rose-gold glow of the sun filtering through her eyelids, in the fainter accompaniment of birdsong. And still the notes flowed, busy, swift, almost too much so, their pressing impulsion making Charlotte’s ribs ache slightly, as if she had climbed a hill too fast.

She had no idea how much time had passed before silence fell. And stretched. Several times, she opened her mouth to speak, to launch into courtesies and commonplaces, remark on the beauty of the music or the surroundings, and each time she remained quiet. The birds went on chanting dizzily.

Herr Rosenstein felt no urge to commence conversation either. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and polished the mouthpiece of the pipe. Charlotte felt a flush rising from her bosom to her neck, and unfurled her shawl. Still they did not speak.

Then he put the recorder back to his lips, and began to play again, and it was the melody from the Mozart sonata he had played for her on the piano in the schoolroom. This time, unadorned, its purity was paramount. Charlotte found herself welling with a sensation so strange, piercing, and unfamiliar, it was not until hours later that she identified it as joy. It was certainly not something she had ever expected or anticipated in her life; since Tom’s death, she had not even courted the notion of happiness, content simply to endure.

And now speech became impossible. Words could supply no sequel to the music, the sun on her face, the gold and green of the fresh garden, the softness of the shawl sliding down her shoulders. In the distance, a plume of water burst into vision between the trees, scattering silver-blue against blue: the lake fountains had been set in motion.