The Last Note

Text 1: The Winter Recital, by Harriet Sayer

An original novel extract.

The first note went astray. Mara heard it flatten against the hall’s high ceiling and fall among the chairs. In the front row, a woman glanced at the programme. Mara’s fingers tightened around the violin until the wood pressed into her palm.

The next phrase waited on the page, black and exact. Her bow began to shake. She drew it across the strings anyway, and a thin, wavering sound crept out. Somewhere behind her, a chair shifted. The stage lights made the audience a dark blur, but she could still see the empty seat where her brother should have been. He had promised he would come.

At the end of the line, Mara stopped. The silence spread farther than the music had. She could lower the violin; the accompanist’s hands were already resting in her lap. Instead, Mara turned the page. Her first note this time was small, but it held. She lifted her eyes from the music and played the phrase again, then the next. When the final chord faded, nobody moved at once. Then someone began to clap, and the sound travelled towards her, one pair of hands at a time.