“Brunch,” Cleo said breezily. She was unloading two carrier bags into the fridge. “I brought you some food as I didn’t think you’d have had a chance to shop for yourself yet. There’s a good local store in the village, but this should get you started.”

“You’re a darling.” Looking over her shoulder, Lucy saw that Cleo’s basics included halloumi, sun-dried tomatoes, a couple of quiches, salad and fresh vegetables, and she had a moment of doubt that she would be able to assemble even the most basic of meals for herself. She was more a ready meal and takeaway girl, more bad habits that had been engendered by traveling so much and working odd hours.

“Don’t worry,” Cleo said, seeing her look of alarm. “It’s easy. I’ll leave you a few instructions.” She smiled. “Now might be a good opportunity to learn how to cook, Lucy. You’ve finally got the time instead of dashing from rehearsal to performance and back again.”

Her sister’s tactlessness stole Lucy’s breath for a moment, then she reminded herself that it was simply a case that Cleo had immediately accepted what she herself had as yet been unable to process; that her old life was over. If her medical condition eased she might one day be able to play again, but never to concert standard, let alone soloist level. The endless hours of practice and the punishing work schedule would be too much. Cleo had realized that and had moved on, seeing it as a chance for Lucy to do other things after years dedicated to music. Lucy herself had not got her head around that at all. It was not an opportunity but a loss.

Her gaze slid to the violin case, propped up against the wall where she had left it the previous night. She wanted to take the violin out and discover that she could play after all, that there was no pain, that she would be able to resume her career. But this was real life, not a fairy tale. The diagnosis had been clear enough. So maybe she should start to think about other possibilities. She had to earn a living, after all. Her savings were relatively small and after this break she would need to get a job.

“Maybe I will,” she said half-heartedly. She didn’t want to learn to cook, or do anything else except play music, for that matter, but she knew deep down that she had to, and it hurt.

Fortunately Cleo realized not to push the point. She stuck her head in the oven, emerging rosy-faced with a tray of pastries.

“This is ready,” she said. “It’s just pumpkin and feta tarts, and some French toast. There’s some whipped cream in a bowl—” she nodded toward the worktop “—and could you bring the cafetière?”

“You’re a goddess,” Lucy said, following her out through the doors with the coffee pot and the mugs.

“Domestically and in every other way,” Cleo agreed. She sat down and stretched her arms up to the sun. “Oh, this is lovely. My first proper day off in ages. Sam’s minding the shop.”