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“When I won’t play my violin,” Alba replies, with a sly smile in my direction.

Isadora giggles, an eerie sound. “I can play violin.”

“I don’t see how,” Alba says. “You don’t have any hands.”

“I borrow other hands,” says Isadora. Sure enough, the opening bars of Bach’s “Air on the G String” spill from the speakers.

“Aw,” says Alba. “That’s not playing, you’re just playing the recording.”

Isadora pauses. “Beck?”

“Alba is correct, Isadora. Playing an instrument is different from playing a recording of an instrument.”

Isadora doesn’t reply. Beck walks over to us and stands with her arms crossed, frowning. “Isadora, would you like to have hands?”

“So I can play a violin? No.”

“You don’t want to play the violin?” asks Beck.

“Alba will play the violin,” Isadora says. “I play the hand I’m dealt.”

I smile, but Beck looks a little stricken. Alba says, “What does that mean?”

Beck turns to her. “Alba, you have your violin with you, will you play something for Isadora?”

Alba gives an exaggerated shrug and brings her violin case to the table. She tunes the instrument and fusses with the bow. This is her new violin, the full-size one she begged for; Richard helped us buy it. It’s still too heavy and too large for Alba, but she’s very proud of it. It’s enough of a real instrument to satisfy her for now, though Richard says she’ll need/want a different one in a few years.

When she holds the violin her posture changes. A minute ago she was tired and slouchy. Now she seems taller, more purposeful. She walks to a spot a few feet away from Isadora and looks to Beck, who motions her backward so Isadora can see her better. I’m touched as I realize that Alba is taking this seriously; she’s accepted Isadora as a worthy audience.

She begins to play Paganini’s Caprice No. 10. It’s her party piece and it seems effortless, though hearing it triggers my memories of Alba’s weeks of frustration before she conquered it. The studio, with its brick walls and high ceilings, is so empty that the music is extra bright and bounces off the ductwork; it sounds terrifically live. The piece is only a few minutes long. Alba finishes, smiles and bows to Isadora. Beck and I clap.

There’s a brief silence and then the roar of an enormous audience fills the space, people shout Brava! and whistle, then clap rhythmically for an encore. Alba ducks her head in bashful surprise and Beck says, “Encore!” Alba bows again and resumes playing position. I can see that she doesn’t know what to play next.

“What was that piece you were playing in your room last night?” I say. “That was pretty.”

“Aw, that was just improvising, that wasn’t real.”

“I liked it,” Beck says.

Alba stares at us, flat-eyed, perhaps wondering if we are making fun of her. “Um, okay,” she says, but then stands with her eyes closed and her violin at her side. Finally she raises it, sounds the strings, adjusts the tuning and begins to play.

She isn’t playing what we heard last night. That was a funny jazzy thing. These are long notes, swooping cascades of notes, layers of sound. I suddenly hear what she’s doing: the room is so resonant that she’s playing against the echoes, stacking melody on top of harmonic drones. The music is plaintive, autumnal, there’s something of exile and grief about it. It’s uncomfortable to hear this weird music emanating from my daughter, as though she has abruptly aged fifty years and lost everything she loves.

When she finishes, Beck and I applaud. Isadora is silent.

“That was beautiful, Alba,” I say. “You improvised that? Wow.”

She looks uncomfortable. “I sort of did. That’s written music, but I couldn’t remember it very well so I kind of filled it in. It’s music from the notebooks at the Yellow House.”

“It sounded like it was made for this room,” Beck says. “What did you think, Isadora?”

“Where is the Yellow House?” Isadora asks.

Now all three of us are silent. Alba looks at me, panicked. Finally Beck says, “Why do you ask?”

Isadora says, “It is a house full of notebooks full of music. You can get it for me?”

Beck says, “The music is Alba’s music. The Yellow House is in Alba’s mind.”