Finn went out and she bolted the door after him, then immediately felt trapped and a bit lonely, which made her cross with herself. The big iron skeleton clock on the wall told her that it was a quarter to five; briefly she wondered what to do with the rest of the day. Being in the position of having time on her hands still felt odd. Seeing her violin case propped in the corner she felt a rush of apprehension mingled with longing. It was so long since she had played. Suddenly there was such a hunger in her for her old routines, the practice, the performance, the camaraderie of the orchestra.

She opened the case and took out the bow, tightening it a little. Then she picked up her violin. The old velvet lining of the case felt worn and comforting against her fingers, but at the same time she felt butterflies in her stomach. She raised the violin, straightening her neck and relaxing her shoulders, balancing on both feet and making sure she was standing erect. She’d start with something easy to warm up; Beethoven’s Minuet in G.

The familiar notes came smoothly and easily, like old friends. Relief, sweet and heady, raced through her as the melody caught her and she started to feel the music possess her just as it always did. From Beethoven, she moved straight into Saint-Saëns’ Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso. The arpeggios cascaded through the still air of the barn filling it with sound and life. And then it happened, without warning. An agonizing twinge of pain shot through Lucy’s right hand, cramping her fingers on the bow so that it spun away across the room and landed with a clatter against the window. For a moment she stood frozen with shock and pain, and then she lowered the violin very carefully to place it gently on the table, rather as though she was laying it to rest. The excitement and the pleasure had gone. She had allowed herself to hope, to believe that she was getting better, that the pain had gone and she would be able to play again, and soon. Her spirits had soared with the music and then had come crashing down.

She felt numb and despairing. It was never going to happen. She had known that all along really. It was simply that for a moment she had allowed those secret hopes to resurface. Now she faced the fact that even if the pain did fade in time, she would never have the confidence in herself to stand up in a concert hall and play, knowing that at any moment, out of the blue, the cramp could paralyze her. She would be stalked by it, waiting for it, dreading it.

The despair in her deepened, as stark and hopeless as an empty void. And then a feeling grabbed her, a sensation so terrifying that for a moment she felt as though she was going to be enveloped by it and swallowed alive. It wrapped her about like a cold, dank, smothering blanket of wretchedness and she thought she would not be able to breathe. It was as though her own anguish had connected with someone else’s and amplified into a huge and terrible force. A chill seemed to invade every crack and cranny of the barn as sudden as a plunge into icy water. Lucy felt a bone-deep cold; she would not have been surprised to see frost creeping over the surfaces and laying a white rime over the windows.