“Can’t she?” Markus sounded genuinely nonplussed. I jabbed my fork into a slice of cucumber and kept my gaze lowered.
“Of course she can’t,” Leonora said. “Stop trying to change everything at the last minute. We stick to the plan.”
Markus’s cutlery clattered onto his plate, and he held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”
“Unless you’re having second thoughts?” Leonora’s tone was icy.
“Of course not.” Markus’s prompt reply seemed to mollify her slightly.
She turned her attention to me.
“So, Nina, let’s run through it again, shall we? What do you like doing in your spare time?”
I straightened in my seat. “I like reading. Drawing. Anything to do with animals.”
“And?”
“Oh, and playing my violin.” I kept forgetting this part, since it wasn’t true of the real Nina, but when I’d queried it with Leonora, she’d dismissed the question with a quick frown and a shake of her head.
Leonora scrutinized me now. “You will sound a bit more convincing when he’s here, won’t you?”
I met her gaze sheepishly. “Yes, I’ll try.”
They rose to clear the table then, and I peeked at my watch. Markus’s father was due at three; I still had an hour and a half stuck in these silly plaits and this horrible dress, and all to trick a grumpy old man. I’d go along with it for Leonora and Markus’s sake, but it seemed a daft sort of game to me.
* * *
* * *
The Rolls-Royce was late. Only by a few minutes, but Leonora and I had been peering through the drawing room window for a quarter of an hour by then, and her tension was contagious. It made me wonder exactly what she was afraid Markus’s father would do if he found out his planned meeting with his granddaughter had been thwarted—by a sickness bug, of all things. He must be a desperately unreasonable person, I thought. I had no memories of my own grandparents, but in the photos of them taken with me as a baby, they looked to be kind, caring people. I hoped this so-called little game with Nina’s grandfather wasn’t going to turn into an ordeal.
All the more reason to play my part properly, I decided.
“Here he comes,” Leonora said, and Markus sprang from the armchair he’d been pretending to relax in and marched out to the hall. A moment later, I heard the front door open. By the time the car came to a halt on the gravel, Markus was waiting on the bottom step. He held up a hand to the chauffeur and went forward to swing his father’s door open himself.
I’d been expecting someone older, but Markus’s father didn’t look even sixty. He was just as tall as his son, and he had a thick thatch of white-blond hair that added at least another inch to his height. He unfolded himself from the car, and his expression when he turned to the house was severe. Leonora snatched me back from the window, out of sight.
“We’d better go and greet him,” she whispered, and when I saw the way her trembling fingers fluttered to her throat, I felt a wave of sympathy for her. She was frightened of this man—it shocked me to discover an adult could feel this way. What on earth could he have done to her to make her fear him this much, and yet agree to let him visit?
In the hall, we came face-to-face with Markus and his father. The older man’s gaze locked onto mine, and his stare was so piercing, I was convinced he could see right through my eyeballs and into my brain. Heat flared to my cheeks. Could he read what I was thinking? I hadn’t said a word to him yet, but what if he already sensed I was an impostor? I glanced at Markus and then at Leonora, but neither of them met my eye.
The visitor’s gaze left mine and jumped to Leonora, and I let out a shaky breath. I’m Nina, I reminded myself. He’s never met me before. Of course he’ll believe it.
“Ms. Averell.” His voice was silky smooth but not friendly. “You look remarkably well.”
Leonora stuttered something unintelligible, and I frowned, not understanding why his phrase had sounded like an insult rather than a compliment.
“And you—” Again, he stared right into me. “You are—?”
I steeled myself. “I’m Nina, sir.”
He raised his bushy eyebrows high, as if waiting for more, but then he turned to Markus and indicated the door to the drawing room. “Shall we?”
Leonora caught hold of my wrist as Markus and his father went into the room.
“We’ll make some tea,” she said, a little too loudly.
I followed her down the hall to the kitchen, my heart jumping uncomfortably. Had I done enough? Leonora pushed the kitchen door firmly shut behind us.
“You were perfect,” she said. “We’ll let them talk for a while; then we’ll take in the tea and cakes.”
When we eventually joined the men in the drawing room, they broke off their conversation, and the visitor gestured for me to approach him. Markus flashed me an encouraging smile.
“So,” the older man said, “tell me, Nina. Do you know who I am?”
I cleared my throat. “You’re my grandfather.”
“Hmm.” He studied me. “I hear you’re quite the musician. Is that right?”
This was a question I’d normally have been delighted to answer, but I felt a prickle of unease.
“Yes,” I said, “I suppose so.”
“Would you play for me now?” he asked.
Leonora was already carrying my violin case toward me.
“Okay,” I said. “If you like.”
I lifted out my violin and bow, and I took them across to the piano and struck an A, aware that all three adults were watching me intently. Usually, the act of tuning my instrument slid me into a calm, focused state, and I was desperate for that reassuring feeling now. I adjusted my bow slowly, waiting for the familiar scent of the resin to transport me back to my carefree childhood days, the way it normally did. But my heart continued to race, and I couldn’t shake the sensation of Markus’s father staring at me with those glittering eyes. I marched across to the black marble fireplace and positioned myself with my shoulder turned against him so that I didn’t have to see his expression while I played.
I began too fast, and I hurried through the piece, feeling increasingly resentful as my bewilderment about the situation swelled. It wasn’t a terrible performance, but it was nowhere near the best I could do, and by the time I reached the end, I was close to tears. I lowered my instrument and bow.
I don’t know what I expected—polite applause, perhaps. A condescending comment from the man I was trying so hard to fool. But when I reluctantly turned to face him again, I was horrified to see he was crying. Fat tears slid down his pale cheeks, and he gestured for me to sit next to him on the sofa. I desperately wanted to run from the room.