There were different techniques to remove cyanoacrylate. However, each had drawbacks. A knife could catch on a clump of glue and cut into the wood. Heat would warp the wood itself. Chemical solvents could break down the glue, but they could do the same to the grain.

“Okay, come on girl. You can do this. Take your time.”

Quietly, her fingers probed around the bridge. They traced its top, around its edges, gently scratched its sides. Yes. They paused. What? Again. There it was again. Yes, the tiniest smallest gap, but it was there. Just a little movement. A quiver.

Yes. Right there. Again.

Then, as if on its own, her hand grasped the bridge, twisted, and—

SNAP!

Lucy Matía reached for her stool and sat down. Her fingers shook, and she felt a little lightheaded.

But the bridge was in her hand, and the violin was free.

As strong as it was, superglue wasn’t meant for wood. Also, it had been carelessly applied, which meant there’d been a weak spot in the joint. Of course the finish was marred, but the wood underneath was fine. Her hands had been careful not to pull up the grain.

“Hands of a Matía,” she murmured out loud.

Then, Lucy paused.

Really?

Catalin Matía would smile whenever someone described great music as divine.

To him, that was nonsense. Great music is all about weakness, uncertainty, mortality—what does Heaven know of these?

In the same way, there is nothing transcendent about a violin. It is maple, spruce, ebony, an ounce or so of hide glue, some brushes of varnish.

Perhaps this why the violin fits the human soul fit so perfectly—only such a simple, mortal object can hold its fragility and turn it into a prayer.

Even without a player, a violin has music. Just as a painting artfully holds and reflects light, a violin shapes and glows with sound. A motorcycle passes. Someone vocalizes next door. The air conditioner hums. Even without a player—even without strings—the violin responds to it all.

Of course, not every piece of wood can manifest this music, just as not every pair of hands can create it. People pay thousands, millions of dollars to acquire such a violin.

Or $241 plus shipping.

Because this violin was trying. Faintly, and almost as if buried or bound. But Lucy was certain. In the quiet of the shop, even after all it had endured, this violin was trying, with all its soul, to sing.

What would Catalin Matía do?

Lucy didn’t need to imagine.

She remembered her grandfather insisting that Paganini’s il Cannone was just another sloppy Guarneri before Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume got to it. In fact, Vuillaume had crafted an exact copy of the instrument that not even Paganini could detect.