"Two?" Elise said.
She looked at Noel's pointing hand. First at the piano, then at the violin, and then at his face, looking like someone who didn't expect that.
"You can play both?" she said.
Noel folded his arms.
"I'm not perfect," he said. "But yes."
.
.
He thought about it while they wheeled the piano into position.
The piano he had learned for a film period drama, three years before he died, where his character was a concert performer. The director had wanted real playing, not miming, so Noel had spent four months with a teacher and practised until his wrists ached every evening and then practised even more when his teacher wasn't there.
He had been good at it, eventually.
The violin was older.
He had been six when his parents died. His uncles had not wanted the responsibility of a child, of course, he remembered that clearly, and he had been taken to an orphanage home.
It had turned out to be a good one.
