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.

Katrina had come back from the mall. She’d just bought a new pair of short shorts, which made her really happy because one thing about her body she liked was her legs. She dashed upstairs, put them on, and called after Astrid.

“Miss Astrid, what do you think?”

“You’re not going out in those, are you?” Astrid said.

“But I thought they would be nice for summer…”

Astrid chuckled. “Well, when I was your age, I had a nice body, too. Just make sure you bring a jacket so you don’t chill your buns.”

“Miss Astrid!”

What was that sound? That fluffy, glowy, goofy sound?

It seemed to draw sunlight into the room. It made Astrid suggest new curtains and furniture and spend afternoons browsing the latest pretty things on Amazon Prime.

Someone was in the kitchen, laughing.

Katrina Nguyen was laughing.

Think of a piece of music. Is it not a miracle that each time the notes are played, the music is reborn? No scratches, no fading, no loss of fidelity.