The unsaid goodbye that usually haunts her lingers in her grandmother's doorway. It seems unable to reach inside these walls, even more familiar than those of the conservatory at Adelaide's.

'Et voila,' she'd said, the first person to speak French around Emmeline. She'd made it seem effortless, to slip from one language to another; when Emmeline had gotten older and started to study it herself she'd realised Adelaide hadn't really been that impressive but... She remembers the feeling nonetheless. 'Ma conservatoire.'

Conservatoire had sounded so elegant, with its suggestions of grandeur and accomplishment. Conservatoire. The music had washed into her and swept her up in its current, each note like a waterlily and she'd been still coasting on it by the evening, so she'd asked her parents what it meant rather than avoiding conversation. She'd been too awestruck and anxious to ask Adelaide - it had been one of the very first times she'd met her, and they'd spent the day talking over orange juice and muffins. Unlike her grandmother, Adelaide had been a baker; there were neat, repetitive scars on her right hand from knife slips.

'I dance to the music while I'm holding it, I can't help it,' she'd said, smiling with a light that reassured Emmeline. She'd wondered for a while if they were intentional, more out of habit than choice or concern. Adelaide was the happiest person she knew, but sad enough of the time that it felt genuine.

Her mother had told her about conservatories and for a while, the dream of such success had overtaken her. Eventually, she'd realised that although playing the piano was like the feeling of waking up to find snow, the strange, inexplicable wonder and the way breathing takes a little less effort than usual - that kind of success wasn't what she wanted. Success was playing and making her grandmother cry. Success was feeling like she was made for it. Success didn't need her to suffer for it. Success was joy.

The cat - Margaret - is on the table when she enters the kitchen. It's an absurd creature and when it deigns to look at her she feels, ridiculously, uncomfortable. Her grandmother started adopting cats when Emmeline's grandfather had died, almost ten years ago. She was too young to understand at the time how big of a thing that must've been: she was eight years old, sad but not inconsolable. She doesn't even remember her grandmother's reaction to it. She wonders if she'd talk about it if she asked. Probably.

There's an endless rota of pregnant cats in the house, anyway; the local shelter needs a place for the mothers to be comfortable and her grandmother needs company, something she'd much rather have from animals than people. Emmeline doesn't mind the cats - she'd spent the summer here, and although it's only three weeks into September, it feels like the time between now and then has been pulled apart with only threads connecting the two - but she's not wholly reassured by this one's proximity to the tea her grandmother is pouring. She takes her cup quickly and feels the cold recede from her fingertips, back towards her heart.

'Here. You know, don't you, that I'm always here for you?'

This is unexpected. She loves her grandmother and knows that she is loved in return, but they don't usually get into conversations about it. 'Yes?'

A smile. 'Good. I should think so, after I let you squat here for months on end -'

'Nan!' (This is intended to be inflammatory. Her grandmother goes only by 'Pip'.) She laughs and Emmeline feels like she's home.

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'Oh, that was probably deserved. Okay. What I mean to say is that I have your best interests in mind at all times and as such you shouldn't write off what I'm about to say before I finish saying it.'

'What?' Her heart does a funny skip, discomforted. She isn't good with suspense. She isn't good with a lot of feelings, really.

'I think you should do it.' She leans down, starts to look through her bag.

'Do what? You know I have absolutely no idea-'

Her grandmother puts a piece of paper down on the table with too much gravitas so it is fanned across to rest right in front of Emmeline. 'That.' She says, and Emmeline feels herself split into two halves, one hot, one cold. The seam starts in her chest and it burns.

'This is-'

'I know what it is, darling. What I don't know is why you didn't tell me about it. I am, in fact, very offended.'

She shoots her a glance. 'I didn't want to do it, is why.'

The paper is a flyer, for an audition at the private school. She'd picked it up a week ago, having seen the pile in the pigeon hole in the music department. Open to anyone. She didn't believe the 'anyone', felt that there was an unspoken rich enough on the end, but hadn't been able to walk past. Or rather, she had, many times, obsessively, trying to work out whether or not to take one. After a while, she'd given in, justifying it to herself as not meaning anything. It was only a piece of paper, after all. (The excuse sounds weak even to her. She knows the value of the right words on a piece of paper and that is rarely ever preceded by 'only'.)

'Hmmm. I might be more inclined to believe you if you hadn't folded it neatly and kept it in your coat pocket for... a week?'

Caught. She forgets that her grandmother is so wickedly smart, though she shouldn't. She has three degrees and was a human rights lawyer for thirteen years before she abandoned it all, moved to the coast and took up painting. Now she runs her own gallery.

'I-'

'Before you offer any more terrible excuses - you should work on those, really, Emmeline - I mean it. You should do it. In fact, you will do it. I know you, and I know you need pushing to take the opportunities that already belong to you.'

There's glass in her chest, she thinks. Transparent and sharp. 'I'm not good enough for them.'

'Don't insult me.'

'I-?'

'I think you're more than good enough, and I clearly know far more than you. With age comes wisdom, et cetera. So: don't insult me. I wouldn't tell you to do it if I didn't think you were capable.'

She is quiet. She realises, quite unexpectedly, that she desperately wants to do it. 'Okay.'

Her grandmother leans back, her face a mirror of Margaret's, who has settled in a stretch of golden-hour sunlight. 'You promise?'

The next inhale feels bigger, realer. 'I promise.'

Happiness blooms, in her chest and in her grandmother's smile. It's light, and the moment they look at each other is infinite. She's not felt this way in a long time.

'Good. Now that's settled, I believe I promised you cake.'

'I think you actually bribed me with cake, but same difference.' Her voice sounds different. The words float in the air, buoyed on the feeling of possibility. She hardly recognises herself.

Her grandmother huffs, a half-smile lessening the effect and she ruffles Emmeline's hair as she swishes past. Emmeline bites her lip and tries to contain herself.

Cake is placed in front of her. 'Hey.'

'Hm?' She is preoccupied with trying to get rid of the icing.

'I'm very proud of you. Really.'

Her face goes hot. What for? She thinks, but doesn't say it. 'Thankyou.'

'You're doing okay, Lina. This - ' A vague gesture that she guesses is supposed to mean Adelaide and depression and the summer spent away from her parents or maybe it means the whole universe, (with her grandmother, either is plausible) - 'Is okay. It's going to work out. And if you need help, or space, the room upstairs is technically Margaret's now but I'm sure we could find you a sofa or something. You're welcome here.'

Suddenly her throat is thick, tight. 'Thankyou.' She means it. The word doesn't feel enough.

Her grandmother catches her gaze; smiles gently. 'You're welcome.'