Lucy glanced beyond the burrito to the disheveled violin before her. Mr. Zacatecas said he dropped it while playing at a wedding. He said it was an accident.

An accident? The poor thing was still damp with beer. A life of increasing neglect had steadily degraded the instrument, causing parts to warp and misalign. Soon it would be beyond saving.

“Just keep it together,” he had said.

Keep it together.

“Andrew, if you have time, why not stay after lunch? It’s been a while since you’ve spent any time in the shop. We still have two weeks before Mr. Zacatecas returns. And it’s very basic work.” She tried not to sound nervous.

“What if I mess up?”

“You won’t. You’re a Matía.”

At the sound of the name, his face turned red.

“I can’t,” he mumbled. Then he dashed out of the store.

He’ll come around, Lucy told herself. He had to. Somehow he’d find a way to continue the store. Maybe he could coax his uncles back when the store was properly his. Or maybe he’d be a genius who could rediscover the family secrets himself.

For a son of the Matías, all things were possible.

Until then?

Just keep it together.

Lucy took a deep breath and loosened the strings on the tired violin.

For now, keeping it together was in her hands. Her woman’s hands. Yet how could the hands of a daughter possibly preserve the legacy of this family, this name?

The doorbell jingled again.

“Did you forget your phone, Andrew? I told you not to—”

She froze midsentence.

This was not Andrew at all.

Exquisite. Fiery. Sunglasses. Footsteps in perfect time.

“Is Franco here?”

“Franco? Oh, I’m sorry. He passed away twelve years ago.”

“What? Twelve years? Has it been twelve years…”

Lucy felt this woman trying to place her.

“I’m Lucy,” she finally offered.

“Lucía? You’re all grown up! I’m Shizuka Satomi.”

Of course she was. A photo of her was over her head. It had been Catalin’s favorite. But a photo was nothing compared to reality. Lucy had to suppress an urge to bow.

With casual elegance, Shizuka turned to Katrina.

“This is Lucía Matía. Lucía has been in this shop since she was a child.”

Katrina bowed and tried to make herself small.

“Lucía, I remember watching you change the bridge on Aoi Miyazawa’s Strad, remember? The one she got from that billionaire German? You couldn’t have been more than eight or nine.”

Lucy looked at her feet. “I was ten. And Miss Miyazawa wasn’t supposed to know that,” she muttered.

“Not only did she know it, she performed with it that night.” Shizuka laughed. “Even then, you had the hands of a Matía. And now you’re finally the master.”