But before Shizuka could say a word, the seventh student spoke instead.

“I will enter this contest,” Katrina said firmly.

Shizuka tried not to show her surprise.

“Well … good,” she said. “I have been working on a piece for you. It’s an arrangement of The NetherTale.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I am playing the Bartók.”

The Bartók?

Shizuka shook her head.

“Absolutely not. Too risky.”

“I am playing the Bartók,” Katrina repeated.

“Katrina,” Shizuka explained, “the Bartók sonata has no accompaniment. It is completely solo. If you falter, there is no fallback, no camouflage.

“Besides, even if you do manage it, people will still say it sounds wrong. Play Paganini or Mozart, and the crowd will recognize that what you did was flashy and difficult. They will love you because you channeled something beautiful.

“But the Bartók? Play the piece flawlessly, and the audience may still hate it. Split times, notes in between notes … Why would you play such a piece?”

“Because it is perfect.”

“Did you not hear what I just said?”

“Miss Satomi, remember how you wondered what Bartók might say in a voice that is not his own? Well, I’ve spent my life that way. And as for sounding wrong, no matter what? I can live as well I can, and people would still…”

Katrina’s voice drifted as she opened her case and retrieved Aubergine.

“Miss Satomi, will you please, at least, listen?”

“Yes,” Shizuka finally said.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even pretty good. But Shizuka realized immediately that Katrina had not been unsteady from fear, but from working through the night.

There were marked improvements in her intonation and interpretation.

Her musicality, her voicing had evolved—but there was Katrina’s special talent.

For it was obvious that she’d not been merely practicing; the seventh soul had been listening, and following, too. But listening to whom? Menuhin? Not exactly. Definitely not Mullova; the tone did not have the same color. But this was somebody, someone she’d heard a long time ago.

“STOP!”

“Miss Satomi?”

Her teacher was shaking.

“How … did you find me?”

Slowly, calmly, Katrina explained how Shirley had received the transmissions when they were approaching the Earth.

She pulled out her phone.

And then, for the first time since Berlin, Shizuka Satomi heard herself play.

Shizuka Satomi.

She was Shizuka Satomi.

The music was heartbreaking, joyful. The sound was so full of yearning, yet every note was full and wise. Was that her?

Yes! But why hadn’t she remembered—no—why had she never known that she sounded like that? As a performer, she never had time to listen, just listen, to herself.

If only she had been able to hear her own voice.

Her voice! Part of her danced. More of her cried. If only … If only …