“Fine? How would Shizuka Satomi be fine, with you keeping her from her own music? Even you must have wondered why there were no records of her music, no trace of recitals or concerts. Surely you must have wondered why someone with her brilliance could never perform.

“Did you not for once think that what stood between her and all of that was you? Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe. Shizuka Satomi would never think of sacrificing herself for such a dullard.

“So perhaps instead … you chose to shut your eyes?”

“N-no…”

There was no way she could have known, right? Miss Satomi said she would teach her violin. Miss Satomi said she would help her find her voice. Miss Satomi said to work on her marcato. Miss Satomi said to smell the air.

Miss Satomi said she would get a star.

Tremon laughed.

“Oh, that is precious! The irony! To think how passionately Shizuka argued that these times had changed. You should have heard how she insisted that her seventh student was special. That you were different. And yet ordinary betrayal is as sweet as it ever was.

“Katrina Nguyen … You’re a selfish little thing, aren’t you?”

Tremon looked at his watch.

“Oh dear. But I should let you rest. Try to sleep as best you can—you have a big performance tomorrow, and you know how much your Miss Satomi believes in you.”

The demon turned to leave.

“Wait! Mr. Philippe!”

“Yes?”

“The bow. I know where it is. How do I take it?”

“Why, it’s easy as can be. Just take it. I’ll keep you veiled from Shizuka and her incessantly meddlesome housekeeper. After all, I am her old teacher.”

“She won’t know?”

“Not at all. Not tonight. Not until you play.”

Katrina lay in bed, staring at the dark.

The cursed bow now shared her violin case with Aubergine. Taking it had been, as Mr. Philippe had reassured her, almost too easy.

And now this was the last night that her soul would be free.

Katrina stared at the ceiling. She remembered a February night, much like this one, waiting, in the dark.

Ticket. Laptop. Escape bag. Violin.

She remembered how she had left, climbing through the window, and clutching her side.

At least that night, Katrina had been able to escape.

Katrina thought back to the letter she had left on her desk with her parents. Had they received it? Had they read it?

They must have. Right?

Katrina had blocked their number, so she had no way to know.

Were they worried? Did they even know that she was alive?

She picked up her phone, then dialed a number in the dark.

“Michael? Is that you?”

For a split second, Katrina thought she had dialed the wrong number—she had not heard that name in such a long time.

“Y-yes. It’s me.”