Light From Uncommon Stars(88)

Did Katrina even know about Baroque violins?

Or she could go the other way. Perhaps she might want to teach her of a rising star like Philip Glass. Or, heck, maybe someone misunderstood to this day, like Bartók.

Oh, what would Katrina do with Bartók?

Shizuka shivered, then looked outside. It was already dark.

One could dream. One could wish for a world like Katrina’s, where one did not have to kill to be saved.

But dreams and wishes are just that, aren’t they? Besides, she had killed already. And, given the choice, would she do it again? To rescue her music, her soul, would she have sent six students to Hell?

She walked to her dresser and retrieved a long, thin case.

February, the end of her contract, was coming soon.



* * *



Lucy Matía was working on another late-night violin. Supposedly, this one was cursed by a spurned lover of Johannes Brahms. Really?

The absurdity of Brahms ever spurning a potential lover … Oh well. At least the money was real.

She shook her head. Somehow, the owner had gotten blood inside the pegbox.

And that other fluid? She did not want to think about it.

The doorbell rang. Lucy picked up a chisel and walked to the door. She relaxed when she saw who it was.

“Shizuka?”

“Nice chisel, Lucía.”

Lucy nervously put the sharp chisel down.

“Um … you can never tell who might show up in the middle of the night.”

Shizuka smelled the air. “So he’s been here.”

“Who?”

“Don’t be silly. Short old guy, looks like a toad?”

“Tremon Philippe?”

“Yes. And that would explain the chisel.”

Shizuka started to say something else, then reconsidered.

“Well, no matter. For now, I take it my violin is ready?”

“Of course, Miss Satomi.”

As she retrieved the Guarneri, Lucy felt herself perspire. Tremon Philippe was a demon, but tonight Shizuka Satomi somehow seemed even more terrifying.

“Lucía, I envy you,” Shizuka said innocently.

“For, myself, my students, even Tremon, it’s a different world. We battled for immortality. We spilled blood.

“Yet now there are people on the Internet better known than any of us would dream. Music and performances—both good and bad, are digitally recorded, and will outlive us all.”

“In the meantime, in your shop, in your family, the violin continues to be the violin. Speaking of which…”

Shizuka examined Lucy’s work carefully, then nodded.

“Wonderful. It took me quite a while to find a Katarina Guarneri.”

“It is a beautiful instrument,” Lucy agreed. She paused. “But it’s not cursed, is it?”

“Cursed? Why ever would you think that?”

“I mean, I had thought…”

Shizuka laughed. “You’ve seen how cursed violins are treated. Ick.”

Lucy thought about her last client and his body fluids. “Ick.”

“But this, however.”

Shizuka pulled out a long, thin case. She opened it and placed it in front of Lucy.

It was a violin bow. But like none she had ever seen.

“Lucía, might you replace the winding and thumb leather, and rehair?”

Lucy picked it up, and her eyes opened wide. She had read about this bow in her grandfather’s notes. The notes were strangely incomplete, but what was there seemed too fantastic to be true. Even seeing it now, Lucy still could not believe it was real.

She picked it up. Immediately, she sensed the bow’s hunger, like an obsession, starving, calling for another musician’s soul. And its composition, the wood— “Of course, you don’t need to answer.” Lucy tried to keep her voice steady. “But … how?”

“Well, it isn’t Brahms spurning a willing lover,” Shizuka said. “Though it’s perhaps even more ludicrous. You know the story of the dogwood tree? Long ago, the dogwood grew strong and proud. And that dogwood was used to make the cross upon which the Christian god was killed.”

Lucy nodded. “Afterward, the dogwood was full of guilt and asked for forgiveness. This was why the dogwood trunk is bent, dogwood flowers have four petals, and all that…”

“Yes, yes. Legend has it that an infidel carved a fiddle bow from that very dogwood to mock the heavens and sing merry songs. And now that bow is doomed to sing for all eternity with the guilt and regret of every musician who plays with it and hears applause.”

Shizuka shrugged. “Of course, it’s an impossible story.”

“Of course.” Lucy nodded nervously. To ascribe such age to a modern-style violin bow would be the height of ignorance. Compared with its predecessors, the modern Tourte bow was every bit as advanced as the computer sitting on Andrew’s desk. Let alone that a concert-grade bow could be made of anything other than pernambuco. But still …

Lucy pulled out her magnifier and examined the grain.

“Miss Satomi, the bow really is dogwood.”

“Of course it is. I’ll be back for it next week.”

At that, the Queen of Hell was gone.

Eventually, Lucy’s heart remembered to beat.