I shook out my hair and attempted to focus. How hard could this be?

The auditorium was packed. I’d been told that usually most of the audience had dwindled away by this point ‒ after all, there’s only so much musical prowess that even the most dedicated listener can take. But my performance in the tent the previous day had reversed the norm. I didn’t know whether they wanted me to fail spectacularly or they were on my side because I’d made such a point about the importance of honour. As long as I didn’t come last in this challenge, I was still in with a shot of winning the Games. I kept that thought firmly in mind as Angus MacQuarrie strode off the stage and stopped beside me.

‘How did you do?’ I asked, glad to have something else to focus on.

He grinned. ‘Better than I expected. Music isn’t really my thing.’

I grimaced. ‘It’s not mine either.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘And you’re playing the harp? Isn’t that meant to be the hardest instrument to master?’

‘I wouldn’t say that I’ve exactly mastered it,’ I said.

The official standing next to us tapped his clipboard and pointed at me. I inhaled sharply. My hands were trembling. I smoothed my palms down my thighs and shuddered. I’d never wanted to be a popstar or an actress when I was a kid; public performances weren’t my thing.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Angus said warmly. ‘Just picture the audience naked.’

‘That’s such a cliché,’ I muttered. ‘Does it work?’

‘Are you kidding? With all that flabby flesh?’ He leaned closer. ‘I know for a fact that the head judge is wearing a leopard-print thong. I saw his bum crack this morning when he bent over to pick up a piece of paper.’

I blinked. The official glowered and grabbed my arm, propelling me onto the stage. The lights were blindingly bright, making it difficult to see anything but the only thing I could think of was which one of the judges was an animal lover. I sent a grateful nod towards Angus; if nothing else, he’d taken my mind off the hundreds of pairs of assessing eyes.

There was a red spot in the middle of the stage. I walked towards it, gently put down the harp and stared at it dubiously. C sharp couldn’t be that hard to locate, could it? I thought of The Sound of Music and attempted to run through the octave in my head. Maria Von Trapp hadn’t mentioned C sharp, though. Or played the damn harp.

The audience quietened. If nothing else, the instrument looked impressive as the stage lights bounced off of it. Looking at it more closely, however, I spotted a little dark spot on its polished surface; it was probably a remnant from the dip the harp and I had enjoyed in the Clyde. As the massive clock above my head began to tick, I leaned over to wipe it away. Unfortunately, I inadvertently brushed one of the strings and a single note rang out. Shite, that wasn’t C sharp. Or it probably wasn’t: I wasn’t musical enough to tell.