Daniel pressed on it, then tugged gently. With a soft click, the back panel slid open like a drawer.
Inside was a small box, ornately carved, the wood dark with age. The brass inlays curled like ivy around the edges and there was a tiny keyhole on one side. The top bore a faded floral motif and a name etched in elegant script.
Matilda
Fern stared.
Daniel slowly lifted it out. ‘Is this…?’
‘The music box,’ Fern whispered. ‘The one Matilda mumbled about to Dorothy. “The music box holds all the secrets.”’
They stared at it in silence.
Daniel reached for the lid.
‘Wait,’ Fern said. ‘Shouldn’t we…?’
But he had already lifted it.
There was no music, no tinkling melody, no movement from any little mechanism. The inside was padded with velvet, and nestled at the bottom was a sheaf of papers.
Fern carefully lifted them out. The paper crackled faintly in her hands and her pulse raced. The ink had faded to a soft sepia, but the contents were unmistakable: bars of music, hand-drawn with care, the notes flowing in elegant curves. A composition.
At the top, in Matilda’s looping handwriting, was the inscription:
M.H. / London / 1963
Daniel looked at it. ‘Matilda must have written this.’
‘Yes, and judging by the date… would that be the time she was at music school?’
Daniel nodded. ‘What are we going to do with this?’
There were no other words on the paper, no explanation. Just a melody, frozen in ink, waiting to be played.
ChapterForty
The manuscript sat between them on the desk. Untouched.
‘Right,’ Daniel said, exhaling. ‘Only one problem.’
‘What?’ Fern asked.
‘I can’t read sheet music.’
Fern blinked. ‘Wait, what? I thought you played guitar.’
‘I do. By ear,’ he said. ‘Which is very different from being able to read something that looks like this.’
He gestured to the dense tangle of black notes, clefs and rests. ‘What about you? You’re a music journalist, surely you’ve picked up something about notes during your career?’
Fern looked sheepish. ‘I played flute in Year Eight. Badly. I mostly faked it.’
Daniel scratched the back of his neck. ‘We need help. I’ve got an idea.’
Five minutes later, they were hunched over Fern’s phone, the manuscript propped up against a book, and a beginner piano app open on the screen. Fern lifted the lid then patted the stool beside her. ‘Ready, Mozart?’ Fern grinned.
Daniel gave her a wary look. ‘This is going to be painful.’
