Was she not hearing Myra properly, or was her pianist the one refusing to listen? Picking up her violin, Jelly pretended she wasn’t smarting within. How could Myra ever think her anti-Semitic? And Ulli would never espouse this madness, would he?

‘Let’s play.’ Myra opened her volume of Schubert on the first page of the Duo in A major. A few pages in she stopped. ‘No, you’re late! Listen to my left hand here. You need to be together with the bass line. You can’t just drift about up there like a bumble bee.’

‘Sorry,’ said Jelly. ‘Once more again.’

‘Listen, Jelly. You’ve got ears. Use them!’

‘My arm… ’

‘Oh, my dear, this isn’t like you. Is your arm affecting your brain, or is it the other way around? I’ve never known anyone’s playing to tumble down so quickly.’

Jelly’s innards crumbled. She was sure Myra had no intention of hurting her. Indeed, her words were all too true.

Myra fetched a handkerchief for her. ‘You must get the better of this. You can’t give in. You’re not the only person in the world with a sore arm or vultures in the press – it will all pass, you know… You don’t need to panic. Breathe deeply.’

Jelly tried; it was harder than her friend seemed to think, especially since the Schumann performance was nearly upon her and her arm had to be better in time, and supposing it was not?

‘It’s all right,’ Myra soothed her. ‘I know it’s difficult, but you need to get a grip. I do wonder why your sister and her friend insisted on pushing the “spirit messages” source forward to such a degree. That’s what’s really upset you, and surely there was no need. An unknown concerto by Schumann is quite big enough news by itself.’

‘I wish I’d never heard of it. I wish Clara had burnt the manuscript while she could.’

‘Don’t let it get out of proportion. Remember, Sai, it’s one piece. Of course we revere great music. Of course it’s what we live for. But think how lucky you are, Jelly, and I too. Most single women with artistic careers are living on the margins of things. We are both unusually successful and unusually fortunate. So let’s be clear: in the end, it’s just a piece of music.’

A line from one of Ulli’s letters came to Jelly. Nothing is ever ‘just’ a piece of music.

‘In a way, it isn’t,’ she said. ‘I know it sounds strange, but it feels like our last chance, the Schumann’s and mine together. In a way, the concerto is me.’

Myra was quiet, shoulders bowed. Jelly could sense her mix of concern and exasperation. Myra the woman was worried about her friend; but Myra the musician had work to do.