When Grace returned home her mother was sitting on the piano stool, her fingers stroking the keys that still vibrated from the music he had played. She sat down beside her and leant her head against her shoulder.
‘The Forget-Me-Not Sonata,’ she said.
Audrey nodded. ‘How could you know?’ she asked, for the name was hers alone.
‘I used to watch you dance through the crack in the door. I called it your dance of tears. I never knew why you danced. But I instinctively knew never to mention it. I was afraid you might stop and I so loved to watch you. Then one day you brought out an exquisite little book bound in silk. You wrote something down then tried to write on the next page, but you were never able to. One day you were out, I could no longer contain my curiosity, so I found your little book and opened it.’
‘The Forget-Me-Not Sonata.’ Audrey smiled wistfully.
‘A few dots and the smudge of a tear.’
‘I never wrote it.’
‘But perhaps you will one day.’
‘Perhaps I will.’ Then she sighed heavily and softly closed the lid of the piano. She turned to her daughter and looked at her with eyes that brimmed with compassion. ‘But it won’t be Louis’ story. It will be Cecil’s. I will write “The Forget-Me-Not Sonata” for him.’