PROLOGUE
LONDON, 1973
Alexandra closed her eyes, her breath shallow as she tightened her fingers around her violin. She lifted her chin, rehearsing in her mind, trying not to listen to the impeccable performance of the violinist ahead of her, trying not to compare herself as she prepared for what was to come.
I can’t do this.
Fear rose inside of her, a line of sweat forming on her upper lip as her heart started to pound. She thought for one fleeting moment that she should simply gather her things and run, that she should avoid the heartache of what she was about to put herself through. That she shouldn’t have been there in the first place.
‘Alex.’
A hand closed over her shoulder, gentle and reassuring. She opened her eyes and turned to find Bernard standing there, his thick dark hair falling over his brow, his soft hazel eyes reassuring as she stared back at him; at the man who’d made all of this possible.
‘This is your moment to show the world who you truly are,’ he whispered, his hands light against her back as he pulled her closer, as she tucked her violin to her chest and stared back at him. ‘Youdeserveto be here, Alex. You deserve everything that has brought you to this moment.’
His lips brushed hers, and when he pulled away he pressed his forehead gently to hers, carefully stroking her hair as they stood. His breath was warm against her skin, the feel of him so close reminding her of just how far she’d come, of the opportunity she’d been given, of the gift he’d given her.
‘Nothing will ever be the same after today,’ he murmured. ‘Today is your day, my love.’
She looked up at him as he took a step back, as he reached for the hand that held her bow and gently lifted it, placing a kiss against her skin as he looked into her eyes; eyes that told her she had nothing to fear. Eyes that told her he believed in her.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, swallowing past the fear in her throat, choosing in that moment to believe the words of the man who loved her.
Then her name was called, and as Bernard slipped into the background, Alexandra stood tall and took her first step onto the stage, her heels clicking as everything around her fell silent.
Bernard was right. It was time to show the world who she truly was.
1
LONDON, PRESENT DAY
Ella turned the little box over in her hands, brushing her fingertips over the label as she stared at her grandmother’s name. She’d thought about it all day, wishing for a quiet moment to open it and discover the contents, and now it was almost dark and she was still none the wiser about what was inside. She hesitated before pulling the string, thinking of how many years the box must have sat unopened, deeply curious as to what she was about to discover.
Part of her wondered if she should have waited until she was with her mother or her aunt, but the other part of her knew she simply couldn’t wait a second longer; she’d already had the box in her possession for an entire day.
Ella gently tugged at the string, fibres lifting into the air as the knot gave way, and she carefully placed the name tag on her desk before taking a deep breath and opening the small wooden box. She wasn’t sure what exactly she’d been expecting, but inside was a piece of paper folded down into a tiny square. She took it out as tenderly as she might handle the priceless art in her gallery and carefully unfolded it, her eyes travelling quickly across the contents of the page.
It was a sheet of music, with a handwritten note in the bottom right-hand corner.
I know you can make this your own. B.
B? She read it over and over, and although it made as little sense to her as the musical notes themselves, she was still curious about what it could all mean. She looked back in the box and saw there was something else there, something folded in half, and she used her nails to prise it from the bottom where it was partially stuck.A photo. It was black and white, but even without colour it appeared vivid. It reminded her of a Greek island, for it showed a view of an endless stretch of water with a glimpse of a stucco-type house to one side, and in it a woman and a child—a girl—were staring back at whoever was holding the camera. She examined their faces, the quality grainy as she squinted and held it closer to her eyes, wishing she could recognise the two people or at least find something in their appearance that was familiar to her. The woman was smiling, mid-laugh perhaps, and the girl was leaning into her, her head dropped to the woman’s shoulder, their hands clasped. Her daughter, perhaps?
She looked away from them for a moment and studied the background, before finally setting it down and logging on to her computer to search for images of Greece. She might not recognise the people, but she was certain she was right about the location.
She was immediately inundated with photos of endless blue water and picturesque homes, and she sat back and held the photo up again, imagining it was in colour, knowing without a doubt that it was an island somewhere in Greece. She’d travelled there once, on her summer holidays before going to university. The last summer she’d shared with her brother.
Ella let the photo fall to her desk and stood, stretching as she went over to the little fridge behind the counter near the rear of the gallery. She’d opened a bottle of champagne barely an hour earlier with a client to celebrate their new purchase, and although she’d only had a sip at the time, she was ready for a glass now. It had been a long day, made even longer by her having to pamper a temperamental artist the moment she’d walked through the door that morning, not to mention stroke the ego of a client who insisted on having a fuss made of him every time he set foot in the gallery. The little box of clues was certainly doing a great job of distracting her from her high-stress day, and after she’d poured herself a glass, Ella sat back at her desk and stared down at the sheet of music and the photo again.
She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been clues that told her nothing at all. If it had been a letter, or perhaps even an heirloom, a birth certificate with names perhaps, or something explaining what or whom she was supposed to look for to discover her grandmother’s past, she’d have understood the purpose of the box more. But these clues meant nothing to her, and she doubted they’d mean anything to anyone else in her family either.
Except for Harrison. Maybe her brother would have understood the piece of music; he was the only one in the family who could even read sheet music as far as she knew. To her, it may as well have been a foreign language, nothing more than a meticulous arrangement of marks on a page.
Ella finished her drink, enjoying the way the bubbles tickled her throat, before carefully packing the clues into the box and placing it in her bag. She left her glass on her desk and rose, turning off the lights as she walked, her heels clicking over the polished concrete floor of the gallery. She loved this time of night; alone, each piece of art illuminated by its own carefully positioned light, the building silent except for the sound of her footsteps. It reminded her of being the first to arrive for swim training as a teenager, that moment before anyone jumped in the pool, the silence matched only by the perfect, motionless water before it was marred by ripples.
It was the painting closest to the door that stopped her tonight though. Ella lifted her hand and carefully touched the edge of the canvas, her eyes flitting over the ‘sold’ sticker to the side as she admired the bold brushstrokes and lush colours. The artist was new to the gallery, someone she’d discovered herself and brought into the fold only weeks earlier. And now, with her first painting sold within days of arriving, Ella had single-handedly ensured the career of the young woman whose name was modestly signed in the bottom corner.
It reminded her of the scribbled words she’d read only moments earlier, and as she turned off the last light and locked the door, she wondered if she’d ever find out who thisBwas, and just how the note had come to be left in a little box bearing her grandmother’s name. Did that initial stand for one of the people in the photo, or had it been writtenforone of them, signed by a friend or family member? And how was she ever supposed to make head or tail of the clues she’d been given without the help of someone who knew more? What could the photo possibly have in common with a sheet of music?
