“And now you have my Guarneri. There are no hands that I would trust more. No great rush, of course. I realize that a job like this demands a little time.”

“But, Miss Satomi!”

There was no way she could do this! Aoi’s Strad had merely required a new bridge. And her grandfather had been there. Lucy nervously looked to Catalin Matía’s portrait, even now proudly surveying the workshop.

“He wasn’t perfect, you know.”

Shizuka walked up to the portrait and gave it a nudge.

“Don’t touch that!” Lucy shrieked. But it was too late. As the portrait swung gently back and forth, Lucy was so stunned that she could not speak.

“You were expecting bolts of lightning from the sky? It’s just a picture.” Shizuka Satomi inspected her finger and frowned. “And a dusty one, at that.”

She put on her sunglasses and made her way to the door.

“Catalin Matía was as human as any of us.”

The Queen of Hell glanced at the portrait one last time. “But I’m sure you’ll find that out on your own soon enough. In any case, everything you need to know about my violin should be in your client notes. You’ll see once you find them.”

By the time Lucy found her voice, Shizuka Satomi had already left the store.

How does one react after experiencing a first applause—applause that is thunderous, glorious?

Shizuka had seen such applause affect six brilliant students. They filled with pride, achievement, even bliss. But soon they worried and obsessed over the next performance. And in their fear, they reached out to Shizuka Satomi.

So now, she would witness Katrina’s growing pride and ambition—as well as her fear and insecurity.

From there, handing her the cursed bow would be just a matter of time.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Miss Satomi. Um … I overslept.”

“I think we can overlook that today. Congratulations, Katrina.”

Katrina blushed, but held herself steady.

“Thank you, Miss Satomi.”

“So, what shall we work on today?” Shizuka asked expectantly.

“I was wondering if we can review the video?”

“Of course.”

Shizuka expected her to bask a little, even brag. Any of her other students would have done so—some quite expressively. However, Katrina examined the video with almost no emotion, point-by-point stopping it whenever she had a question or issue to discuss.

“Miss Satomi, what can I do when my grip slips like it did right there? Are there some exercises I can do to keep my back straight?”

She reviewed how she got lost in the stage lights, how she felt out of breath, how her chin rest became slippery with perspiration and too much foundation, and how her heart raced so fast that she lost her timing on arpeggios.

Yes, she had changed. This was a Katrina without panic or apology. Yet there was also not a shred of ego, of pride.

“Katrina, stop.”