Rose sleeps well on her own.

She wakes when she hears talking in the next room. It’s Conor talking to her roommate, Isobel.

“Rosie,” she says when Rose comes into their sitting room, “you made this poor lad sleep on the couch?” Isobel is wearing her pajama bottoms and a sweater over a string top. She has bleached hair cut to an inch of her scalp. “What’s up with that?” She nudges Rose with her elbow. Her socks are mismatched. She is still wearing makeup from the previous night. “I don’t blame you, though. He does look a bit rough around the edges.”

“Ha ha. Right!” says Conor, rising and giving Rose a big, fat kiss full-on. He dips her ceremoniously and she gives in, her hair falling back and touching the floor. She groans. Conor scoops her back up.

“Oh,” says Isobel. “I see.” A grin spreads across her face. “So that’s the way it is.”

Rose looks at Conor blushing and says, “Yup. That’s how it is. So rough that if we’d slept together I wouldn’t have any energy left for the rematch today.”

“Rematch? Huh?” Isobel turns to put the kettle on.

“My master class. It’s a long story, Izzy.”

*   *   *

The Avenue Gardens in Regent’s Park are in full summer bloom and when Rose and Conor pass Readymoney’s old drinking fountain in the center of the Broad Walk the clock reads ten past nine. (Roger had texted he’d be in his office at ten.)

“Has your mum been here?”

“Yes. A few times.”

“Super gardens.”

“She can’t pass a flower without taking a picture or taking down notes and making little sketches in her notebook.”

Conor bends to a patch of unusual-looking ferns. He reads from the printed sign: “Maidenhair. Species: A. veitchii Hance. Family: Adiantaceae.”

“Oh God, my mother will love you!”

Conor smiles. “You nervous?”

“A little.”

“Don’t be. You played—”

“Conor! I told you not to say anything.”

“Sorry, forgot. Jeeze, don’t bite my head off. Here, let me take that.” He reaches for her violin case.

“No, it’d be bad luck. I’m used to having it against me. It keeps me grounded.”

He puts his arm around her and her violin.

Twenty minutes later they are across the park, walking right on Marylebone Road and approaching the wooden doors of the academy. They enter and George the porter smiles his crooked smile when Rose stands before his desk. She signs in.

“I’m bringing a friend in with me today, George, okay?”

“Yes, miss. Nice to see you again.”

Rose remembers George had been standing at the front door that afternoon she ran out of the recital hall. “And you, George.” She turns and heads up the steps, Conor following, giving her plenty of space. By the time she knocks on Roger Ballantyne’s door it’s like she is a gathering storm and ready to burst.

“Come in.”

She nods to Conor and he holds up the crossed fingers of both hands. Rose hears the words in her head even though he hasn’t said them: Get your Irish up, girleen. Then she steps into the office.

“Rose! I’m so glad you came back,” Roger says. He has on his brown Waiheke Island T-shirt with the wineglass logo and white linen pants and flip-flops. He steps closer, lowers his voice, and says, “I was worried I’d never see you again.”

Rose turns to her violin case.

“Listen, before you say anything, let me apologize. My behavior was deplorable. Despicable.”

Rose suddenly realizes she isn’t nervous, but she pulls a sulky face anyway.

“Can you forgive me?” He shuts the door.

“Maybe.” Her pout slowly turns to a smile. “I’m sorry I left, Roger.”

“I understand. Don’t apologize. No worries. It’ll be all right. What do you say we both get a second chance?”

Something has come into her. She doesn’t know what. She unpacks her case. She turns her head quickly, swiftly, when she hears a wood pigeon murmuring on the ledge and she hopes Roger won’t shoo him away, and when he doesn’t, when he just looks too, she feels he is with her and he is ready to listen. She lifts her violin with her left hand and brings it to her shoulder. Her chin senses the known place and nestles into position. She thinks of Conor’s workshop and the ginger cats and the winter sunshine on the day they first met. She thinks of the man outside in the corridor who transformed pieces of wood and string into her violin that’s about to sing. She hopes he will hear her. She bends her fingers and squares them, places them for the first four-note chord of the adagio. With her bow raised, she takes a moment, counts to three, scans the room: the poster, the morning light angling in from the window, Roger standing by the door. Then, with the top of her bow hovering just a whisper above the strings, she nods imperceptibly to the unseen surfer standing outside in the hall and begins the adagio with a sweeping run into an arpeggio.

It goes like a good dream. She is relaxed, inspired. Somewhere near the end of the second movement, the fugue, Roger nods his head. Then he waves enthusiastically for her to keep going. She does. She plays straight through to the end of the piece and when she finishes with a flourish on the up bow, her chest fills with air and her outbreath releases all her worry in her ability. She is good. And now Roger knows it, too. And Conor.

At once the door opens and Conor steps boldly into the room, clapping. “That was mighty! Absolutely one hundred percent—”

Rose shoots him a look and masks her delight.

So does Roger. It takes him a half second before he says, looking at Conor, “Well, your … your friend here is right.” He eyes Conor as if peering down his nose over his glasses, although he doesn’t wear any. To his student he says, “It’s great work, Rose. Really great.”

Rose is grinning. She thinks Roger is waiting for her to say something. When she doesn’t, he asks: “Should you and … I … go for a drink?”

“No, but thanks,” she says, and she puts her violin back into its case. “I’m going back home. I’m going home for the summer.”

“Well,” Conor says, “that’s that, then.” And he reaches into his jacket pocket and hands Roger Ballantyne a business card. Conor Flynn, Master Violin Maker, Kinvara, Co. Galway. “See you,” he says, and follows Rose, who waves to Roger and walks out.

Fifteen

Children are born. They have a life but they belong to no one. This was running through Iris’s mind on the long, silent return to West Newton Street. When she and Hector arrived back in the South End early that evening, Grace came out to greet them. She’d heard the car pull in, but as the two soberly approached with a space between them defined as vacant, she stood aside and said nothing. Iris had been crying and when she looked at Grace she shook her head, couldn’t speak.

There was nothing and everything to say. Grace stood openmouthed. Hector didn’t come inside. He stayed on the sidewalk, not attempting to follow, and watched Iris go in.

In her room Iris began to pack. She was leaving—no matter what—the next day. She’d get on any plane crossing the Atlantic just to get away. It had been a horrible mistake. She was back where she started. She sat on the bed and held her breasts. It was the left breast. It hurt.

“Iris? Are you all right?” There was a soft knock at the door.

Iris didn’t answer at first. It was sweet of Grace, but Iris didn’t want to have a chat about it. Didn’t want to have a sit-down with Grace sitting in Bob’s old chair commiserating.

“I just need to sleep,” Iris said.

“Of course. I understand. I just thought you might like some tea.” There was a soundless pause. “I’ll leave it on a tray outside the door in case you change your mind. And I’ve brought up the phone if … in case … in case you need to phone Ireland.”

Iris heard Grace lay down the tray outside and waited a few moments until she was sure Grace had gone. She listened at the door, wanting also to avoid meeting Hector. She didn’t want to see him. Not that any of it was his fault, but her feelings for him were confusing.