Not the Sort of Thing for Little Girls

“No, no, luce mia. This is not the sort of thing for little girls.”

Those had been her grandfather’s words, spoken each evening as the sun went down. Lucy had grown up with those words, ferrying her home before the stars came out. She had grown up with those words … that let her father in, let her brothers in, leaving her alone with two hands and nothing to hold.

Even a child could hate those words.

But on this night, she had fallen asleep unnoticed. And rather than her grandfather’s words, she woke to darkness and the jingle of the front doorbell.

How late was it? She peered out the window; her father was walking home.

She grabbed her coat and was ready to chase after him when she noticed the door to the workshop was ajar. And on the other side was the back of her grandfather, hunched over his workbench, immersed in what was before him.

“Ah, after all my son gave you,” she heard him say. “You still disobey.”

He said it in a curious singsong, like a parent admonishing a mischievous child. But it was not quite a child.

He took out his chisel and held it over the wood. She had seen him use a similar tool before, but this he held almost like a weapon?

“Now, we shall behave?”

The workbench light seemed to flicker, making the violin appear to twist and squirm beneath him.

Then Lucy heard a strange music unlike any before. It wasn’t that it was beautiful. She had heard plenty of beautiful music. But this made her heart race, and her body eager and jittery, like it did when she held a sharp knife or a box of matches, or walked over a bridge and wondered how it would feel to jump.

The voice blended with the sound of her heartbeat, in time with her breathing. She moved closer. Closer, until she could smell the varnish and the wood. It smelled like flowers. It smelled like blood.

“Lucy, no!”

Her grandfather threw a cover over the violin. He gently but firmly led her toward the door. But Lucy resisted.

“Grandpa, I want to hear more—”

She reached to pull the cover off the violin.

She wanted to see it; she wanted to hear it sing.

“Get out now!” she heard.

And then she felt a sharp slap across her face.

In shock, she ran away crying, and slammed the workshop door behind her.

Not long after, Catalin Matía had found her curled in a corner next to the violas. He wiped her tears with his handkerchief.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

That night, he walked her to the Big Donut and bought her a Bavarian Chocolate with sprinkles. He said he’d buy her hot chocolate if she would promise to forget what happened that night.

“Lucy, do not ever come in there again. Do you understand?”