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Christophe was on the verge of his own nervous breakdown, freaking out so much he’d contracted a hypnotist to fly over to Agon for her.
She’d searched in vain for Talos, waiting for him to step through the practice room’s door and give her confidence with a simple smile. But he’d been in Athens. If he was by her side she would be able to get through it; they’d already proved that. With more practice, and with Talos and his calming presence, she might be able to do the score the justice she gave it when they were alone.
‘Indeed.’ Watery brown eyes held hers. ‘Tell me about yourself, despinis.’
‘My career?’
That would be a very short conversation.
He waved a hand. ‘I want to know about you. The music you enjoy, the books you read, the films you watch.’
And so they fell into easy conversation, Amalie doing most of the talking and the King making the odd encouraging comment. She was thankful for her childhood spent surrounded by powerful people, otherwise she would have been completely overwhelmed to be dining with a king.
He ate very little: a few spoonfuls of soup...a couple of bites of the main course of red snapper.
Talos stayed silent, following the conversation without contributing, his gaze on his grandfather. He didn’t once meet her eyes.
When the dessert was brought in—light pistachio cakes with an accompanying chocolate mousse—the King finally asked her something in connection with the violin.
‘Do you find it hard, learning new music?’
She considered the question, aware that Talos was finally looking at her. ‘It’s like reading a book where the words are notes and all the adjectives are replaced with tempos and dynamics.’
Astraeus gave a wheezy laugh. ‘I’m sure that makes sense to you.’
She couldn’t help but laugh too. ‘I’ve probably over-complicated it. I should have just said I read music the way you read a book.’
‘And how did you find learning my wife’s music?’
‘I found it the most fulfilling experience of my entire musical life,’ she answered with honesty, trying to tune out Talos’s stare. ‘To know I am the first person to play it publicly... Can I ask you a question?’
The King nodded.
‘Did she ever play it for you?’
‘No.’ His eyes dimmed. ‘She never spoke of her music when she was composing. When she finished a piece, only then would she tell me about it and play it for me.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘She contracted pneumonia shortly before she completed this one. She struggled to finish it, but my wife was a very determined woman. She died two days later.’
‘I’m very sorry.’
‘I still miss her. All the time.’
Forgetting protocol—not that she even knew what the protocol for an audience with the King was, as Talos hadn’t seen fit to fill her in—she leaned over and placed her hand on his.
Shock flared in his eyes but he made no effort to relinquish her hold, tilting his frail body a little closer to her.
‘What your wife created,’ Amalie said gently, ‘was a concerto about love. It’s a tribute to you.’
‘How do you know this?’ he whispered, leaning even closer.
‘It’s all there in the music. I can’t explain how I know, but I feel it. She wrote this score with love in her heart—not maternal love, but romantic love.’
The King’s eyes closed. For a moment she allowed her glance to dart at Talos. He sat rigid, his jaw set, his eyes filled with something she couldn’t comprehend.
When Astraeus opened his eyes he stared at her with great concentration, before turning his head to the courtier standing to his right and nodding at him. The courtier left the dining room, returning almost immediately with a violin case. He laid it on the table before the King.
Astraeus gestured for Amalie to open it.
Apprehensive, certain he was going to ask her to play for him, she obeyed. The gorgeous scent of wood and resin puffed out and she inhaled it greedily, as she had done since toddlerhood, when her father would open his violin case.
She made to lift the violin out but the King stopped her, placing his hand on the instrument and stroking it.
‘This belonged to Rhea,’ he said. ‘It was hand-crafted for her by Massimo Cinelli. It was my wedding present to her.’
Massimo Cinelli was one of the foremost twentieth-century luthiers, a man who made string instruments of such tonal quality it was argued that they rivalled Stradivarius. His had been a life cut tragically short, and when he’d died at the age of fifty-three he had been known to have made around three hundred string instruments, a quarter of which were violins. In recent months an auction for one of his violas had fetched a value of half a million pounds.
