‘I want to tell you that I am sorry for the way I’ve been towards you, truly sorry. You are a far better son than I deserve.’

‘On the mountain I thought about a lot of things,’ said Misha. ‘And I think the way you were was not your fault.’

He touched her arm and for once she didn’t brush him away.

‘I couldn’t have lived with myself if you’d died up there,’ she said and in the moonlight he saw a miracle of sorts take place. His mother’s face filled with love for him, the hard lines softened by her tears.

‘I love you, Mother,’ he said.

Vanda wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘And I you,’ she said. ‘And I you.’

She took the violin and bow from him, went indoors and gave them to Edith.

Edith ran her finger over the violin. I have no way to tell of my grief, my anger, she said silently to herself. I have no voice. Be my voice.

She put the violin under her chin and with the bow played a note. It cut across the conversation; the room became quiet. Edith tightened the strings.

‘I think it will take practice,’ said Flora gently.

Again Edith put the violin under her chin. She closed her eyes and started to play. This is my voice, she told herself. I will speak in music. And so the first chord rose; a long wailing note that climbed to infinity then a rush of quick, urgent notes, jiggering and giddy. There was a long pause, and no one in the room dared breathe, for this was surely unearthly sorcery. Edith started to play again. The music spiralled upwards and with a sigh fell into a whisper until a tune broke free and danced its rage, its sorrow, its heartbreak into the starry sky. The older women stared at Edith in speechless wonder; the young women wept for all that they could have been, for all that had been stolen from them, for the injustice of lives ruled by fools. The alchemy of the music soared out of the cabinet maker’s house, and Edith’s wordless lament was heard throughout the village. It reached the butcher’s ears and stung his blackened heart.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Snow Song

Edith heard the tinkling of bells, the sound of Demetrius bringing his sheep down from the mountain. She woke with regret, knowing it was a dream.

She lay half asleep, but still she heard the gentle chimes. Now wide awake, she rose and opened her shutters. Snow was falling yet the sky was pink, shot through with blues; such an unnatural morning sky. She laughed as she realised it was the snowflakes making the music of the heavens.

Edith dressed and opened her bedroom door. Her father was snoring in a chair by the stove. She walked softly past him, whereupon he jumped to his feet.