‘But it’s spring – the snow has gone,’ she felt herself blushing. Normally she would never have had the courage to speak to a stranger. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to do so if it hadn’t been for the violin. Or so she told herself.

He smiled at her. ‘The snow will come again in time.’

This day became in Edith’s mind the border between two worlds. Whatever she had been before she heard him play the Snow Song, she would no longer remember. By the time he had finished she felt she had entered her realm. She had never known what it was she wanted, now she did: she wanted to hear his music for the rest of her days. She was standing and the tune made two giddy sticks of her legs. She sat down beside him and only then did she notice his small, raggle-taggle dog. They were silent for a while.

‘Do you know the secret of the violin?’ he asked. ‘And how it came into this world?’

‘No,’ said Edith, aware she was being watched by disapproving villagers hidden behind shuttered windows. None of it mattered. ‘What is the secret?’

He had turned from her and was putting the violin back in its case. ‘A gypsy could tell you the story of the violin’s birth.’

Edith asked, ‘Do you know it?’

‘I do,’ he said.

And she boldly asked if he might like to have supper with her and her father that evening, adding, ‘You could tell us the story of the violin.’

The butcher, in the shadow of his doorway, was angry to see Edith talk with such ease to a stranger. Strangers weren’t welcome in this village, she should know that. He made a mental note to fine the cabinet maker for it. The old drunk should keep a closer eye on his daughter. The butcher looked again and saw Edith and the stranger sitting side by side as if they had always sat that way – two beautiful creatures. He hit his fist into his hand and returned to the slaughterhouse.

All that day Edith felt her heart to be still dancing to the young man’s music. She sacrificed one of her chickens and cooked it with great care and with great care laid the table. Only then did she tell her father of their guest. He had as usual been drinking since midday. There was plenty of work for a cabinet maker but not for a drunk who could only be trusted to finish a bottle of wine.

‘I don’t want a gypsy at my table,’ he said.

‘He isn’t a gypsy,’ said Edith.

‘He’s a stranger,’ said her father. ‘You know what happens when a stranger enters the house.’