The phone call came at seven in the morning, which in itself should have told me something was wrong. Nobody from the Halden Chamber Orchestra had ever phoned me before; I was the person they emailed, politely, when they needed someone to hand out programmes.
'It's Clara Weiss,' said the voice, as if I might not know who conducted the orchestra I had been trying to join for three years. 'Our second violinist has broken her wrist. Falling off a bicycle, of all things. I'm told you know the Brennan symphony.'
I did know it, in the way you know a city you have only seen on a map. I had played the second violin part alone in my bedroom perhaps a dozen times, mostly to annoy my neighbour, who had once complained about my scales. I had never played it with forty other people, and certainly not in front of an audience.
'I know it,' I said.
'Good. Rehearsal at ten. Concert at eight.' She rang off before I could change my mind.
I spent the bus journey with the music on my knees, fingers tapping out the difficult passages on my leg. The woman next to me moved seats after ten minutes, which I could hardly blame her for.
The rehearsal hall was colder than I remembered. The players were already tuning, and as I walked in, the noise faded a little, the way it does when someone unexpected enters a room. A tall man with grey hair, who I later learnt was called Owen and had played in the orchestra since before I was born, pointed his bow at the empty chair beside him. 'You're with me,' he said. It wasn't clear whether this was a welcome or a warning.
The first hour was a disaster. I came in early twice, and in the slow movement I lost my place so completely that I simply stopped and pretended to adjust my music. Clara said nothing. She didn't need to. Her silence filled the hall more effectively than any criticism could have.
It was Owen who rescued me, though not in the way I expected. During the break, instead of offering advice, he told me about his own first concert with the orchestra, forty years earlier, when he had dropped his bow during the final chord. 'It rolled right to the front of the stage,' he said. 'The conductor picked it up and handed it back to me without a word. I wanted to disappear.' He laughed. 'Nobody remembers. Except me, obviously.'
I don't know why that helped, but it did. In the second half of the rehearsal I stopped trying to play every note perfectly and started listening instead: to Owen beside me, to the cellos behind, to the way the music breathed. I still made mistakes, but they were small ones, and I recovered from them.
That evening, the hall was full. I remember very little of the concert itself, apart from a moment near the end of the slow movement, the very passage where I had stopped that morning, when I realised I was no longer counting. My hands seemed to know what to do without asking me.
Afterwards, Clara walked past me in the corridor. She paused, nodded once, and said, 'Thursday. Same time.' It took me until I was halfway home to understand that she was inviting me back.