She stood absorbing herself into her surroundings: the Gothic arches, the dark wood of the screed, the tombs of Chaucer, Purcell, King Henry V. Stained glass scattered flecks of royal blue, tangerine and scarlet onto the ancient stone.

Supposing the spirits of those composers and her great-uncle really were there, watching her? And if they were, what of Sep? What of her parents? She had to stop thinking about it.

They decided to play from the organ loft, where it would be easiest to coordinate with their accompanist. Shortly before it was time to start, after he had gone out to make his preparations, Jelly lay down on a rug on the floor, stretching out her aching back. Above her, soot-stained vaulting reached towards infinity.

‘Sai, we should go and get dressed.’ Adila held out her hands to pull her up.

‘I’m floating. Come and try it.’ Jelly patted the floor beside her.

Adila lumbered down and lay back. The sisters stayed there in silence, gazing up into the arches. ‘You could take leave of earth like this,’ Jelly said.

‘Listen, everyone’s arriving… ’

The hum of voices in the air reminded Jelly of bees in the Dorset heather. Staring only upward, while different protrusions of carved stone tossed sounds between them, she couldn’t identify the directions of the myriad noises. They could have been the spirits murmuring, winging around in search of a good spot on which to perch and listen. Proof of spirits meant proof of an afterlife – and was that not the real problem with her Schumann concerto?

‘I feel better. Let’s go and change.’ As Jelly stood up, the blanket of pain seemed to rise and carry on rising, leaving her body clear, her breath controlled and her hands warm, supple and ready for anything.

‘Nervous?’ Adila was moistening her own lips.

‘Not remotely.’ With her violin and bow in her hands, her sister beside her and, who knows, invisible spirits giving their support, Jelly felt the freedom of the stage taking hold. Tonight would be one of their best concerts. She needed no more reassurance.

Chapter 7

‘Sai! Come here, quick!’ Adila was in the hall, hair wild, eyes aflame, a telegram from Erik in her hand. ‘We have found the Schumann Violin Concerto!’

Jelly flew down the stairs, narrowly avoiding an overexcited Caesar underfoot. It was late August; they had just returned from a holiday in Scotland, staying with the convalescent Anna by a Highland loch. Erik and Ebba had spent the summer in Sweden – but returning to London, Erik engineered a diplomat’s circuitous route.

‘He has managed to go to Berlin, and he has found the manuscript himself, in person.’ Adila shoved the paper towards Jelly. ‘It was in the Prussian State Library. In the wrong file.’

Jelly read the impersonal typewritten words over and over again, wondering why she didn’t share her sister’s joy.