Mr. Frampton nodded assent. “I only wish I could return the favor and play you something—but my hands will not permit it, I am sorry to say. They are only good for broad strokes these days.” He gave another thump of his cane for emphasis.
Mrs. Roseingrave tilted her head. “Your hands have earned their rest,” she replied. “I heard you play for the prince in Brighton.”
“Ah,” Mr. Frampton said, leaning back regally against the sofa. “One of my perfect moments.”
“You were a marvel,” Mrs. Roseingrave agreed.
Later, after they passed through the loud, busy town and returned to the shop, Mrs. Roseingrave kissed her husband hello and elaborated for Sophie’s benefit. “I wish you could have heard Mr. Frampton in his prime, my dear—such a light touch, so expressive. You’d have thought the violin was a human voice, he brought such meaning out of it.”
“I believe it,” Sophie said. She went to the counter, where the week’s new sheet music was stacked and ready for shelving.
Her mother’s eyes turned sharp. “And he believes in your potential, Sophia. He thinks you could be the equal of any musician at court.”
Sophie turned away to begin putting out the new ballads and concertos. The paper was crisp and cool in her hot and shaking hands. Her mother and Mr. Frampton had talked of hills, but all Sophie saw in front of her was a cliff, and they were forcing her to either climb straight up or leap from it. “We can’t afford to send me to court.”
“Not yet,” Mrs. Roseingrave said, peering down at the account book. “But a year or two like this one, and that could change.”
“Maybe next year—”
“Many’s the musician I’ve heard say that, and next year never comes,” Mrs. Roseingrave pressed. “Take the chance! You only have so many years to be a performer. You shouldn’t squander the best ones.” She flipped the ledger closed, jammed it under the counter, and strode to the door. Turning back, she sent one more volley her daughter’s way, projecting as only an opera diva could. “I was a singer before I was your mother, girl. What you’re dreading is something I lived through, so you should believe me when I tell you that you’re more than capable of it. If you want to be afraid of something, fear running out of time.”
She spun on her heel—denying Sophie a chance to reply—and exited, head high.
Sophie stubbornly finished her task, ballad after ballad, song after song. When she turned, her father’s glance darted too quickly away, proving he’d been watching her closely. “Well?” she ground out.
“Oh no,” her father said, and looped a new string through the peg of the violin he was repairing. “I don’t argue with either of you when you’re set on something. Although...”
Sophie clenched her jaw so as not to scream. “Althoughwhat?”
Her father raised his hands. “You don’t think you’re ready to perform yet, I know. All I’m wondering is: What would you need to become ready?”
“I—” Sophie started, then stopped, then chewed her lip, then sighed. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I only know that when I think about going on stage, I get a sick feeling in the pit of my soul.”
Her father nodded. “I get that every time,” he said. “I love the piano, but I’m not a performer. So it could be you’re like me, and you don’t want the limelight at all.”
Sophie thought about the prince’s pavilion, and applause she could almost feel washing over her, and blushed dully with shame.
“Or,” her father went on blithely, “you could let yourself feel that feeling, but do the concert anyway.”
Sophie shook her head, his words incomprehensible. “What do you mean?”
Her father shrugged. “You let the fear exist inside you, where it belongs. And you go up on stage and you play for people anyway.” His fingers tightened the violin string, plucking at it to test the tone.
“Sharp,” Sophie corrected automatically.
Her father nodded, and adjusted.
“Better.”
Mr. Roseingrave set the violin aside. “You’re used to listening to your feelings,” he said. “It’s what you do whenever you tune an instrument. Your instincts there are precise and helpful. But perhaps—perhaps what Mr. Verrinder did changed your tuning a little bit. So your intervals don’t harmonize the way you expect them to.”
Sophie shuddered. “What an appalling thought. Am I going to be broken forever?”
“I don’t believe so.” Mr. Roseingrave came over and clasped his hands around hers. His smile turned mischievous. “You’re already almost back to an equal temperament.”
Sophie groaned.
Mr. Roseingrave allowed himself a chuckle, and continued. “It’s hard, especially because you are young and sensitive, and you feel things keenly. Like your mother.” His mouth curled up in the wondering smile he wore only for Cecilia Roseingrave. “But being young, you can only see the damage. It distracts you. Once you’re older, you’ll be better about ignoring the scrapes and letting the wounds heal up.”
