Shizuka remembered the first competition she won. How, just for that moment, she needed do nothing else; she was complete. She was beautiful, untouchable, and safe. Katrina should at least have that feeling. And more—Katrina should be celebrated, praised. With this music, Katrina would be taken to good places. With this music, Katrina, after giving everything to her music, would also know what it meant to get something back.

A comforting music, to hold you when the door slams in the morning. A roaring music, that protects you when the floorboard creaks at night.

A faithful, radiant music that stays with you as life begins and ends—never leaving your side through all the forevers in between.

Shizuka paused, crossed a note out, then replaced it with three more. She knew how it felt when the performance was over. But Katrina would be different—with this music, she would let Katrina know she was not alone.

To save a soul without killing? That way was closed to her. But for Katrina, such a song was still possible.

Let Katrina forever be safe and loved, with a home, with her music, with an entire lifetime ahead.

There was a knock at the door.

Shizuka looked up and squinted. Somewhere along the way, the sun had come up.

When she opened the door, she noticed that Astrid had left a tray with finger sandwiches, a persimmon, and a fresh pot of tea.

32

Lucy watched her son adjust another Chinese violin. Mr. Zacatecas had purchased one of these to replace his tired Romanian beer fiddle. Now his friends were demanding them as well, as Mr. Zacatecas could not shut up about his fantastic new “Chinita.”

This particular violin needed to be in Tucson in three days. The sound was already powerful. But Lucy showed Andrew how shifting the grain of the bracing here, slightly reshaping the f-hole there, would bring out a more colorful, yet wiser tone.

“La Maestra,” Andrew said.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking about a label for these violins. We’re selling more of them, and ‘the eBay violin from China that we fix up’ isn’t really a good name. Besides, that’s what everyone is calling you, anyway.”

She frowned. How was she a master?

The brass doorbell jingled.

It was an Asian music mother, coming into the store with her Asian music son. She turned to Lucy and looked past her toward the back.

“Is the violin technician here?”

“You’re looking at her,” Lucy said.

“I need you to fix this. It doesn’t sound right,” the boy said uncertainly.

“Right?” He turned to his mother.

“That’s right.”

The woman sighed impatiently. “Well, if you can’t figure the problem out, then we can go to Grunfeld’s. In South Arroyo.” She said the last part for emphasis.

Andrew nearly dropped his scraper. Really? His mother had just been working on the Satomi Guarneri …