This was not real. This could not be real. This was like being in an anime or a fairy tale. But there was no such thing, was there?

“Miss Satomi, what will this cost?”

“I’m paying.”

Katrina shook her head.

“That’s not what I mean. What will this cost?”

Shizuka had heard this question six times before. Six times, it was business, with nothing hidden, with everyone’s intentions clear. Shizuka had spoken to each ambitious prodigy of fame, virtuosity, acclaim, and how they might have all they wanted, if only they traded their soul.

But this was a girl who had run away from home, who had been beaten, had her ribs broken, who had just had her first night of peaceful sleep in who knows how long.

And she had just been separated from her violin.

To talk business right now just didn’t seem fair.

“Why don’t we wait until you settle in first? We can make a better deal once we know what we have to work with.”

Before Katrina could respond, Miss Satomi’s phone beeped. She looked at the text.

“It’s Astrid. Please don’t tell her that I’ve spoiled your dinner. She said she is making veal. With a side of winter melon.”

“Veal?” Katrina smiled as she thought of Skylar berating her for eating meat.

“Don’t tell me you won’t eat veal.”

“I’ve never had it. But I’ll try.”

“Good girl. Astrid is a wonderful cook. Though sometimes she uses a bit too much butter and heavy cream. Perhaps it’s because she’s Swiss. But let’s keep that between us, shall we?

“Anyway, you don’t need to finish that bing sa. If I know Astrid, she will also have made dessert.”

“NO! Listen! Can’t you hear that?” The sounds of her father were getting angrier and angrier.

“Hear what?”

“How can you be a Matía?”

“I never wanted to be a Matía!”

The door slammed open, and her brother ran out in tears.

“It’s just a fucking piece of wood!”

Each evening this happened, Lucy would pray that God might bless her brothers’ ears, grant her father health. But her brothers never learned to hear.

And now her father was gone.

Lucy sat at the workbench. Before her were the tools of the Matías. Chisels and clamps, files, planes, knives, and calipers—honest, beloved tools, passed to Franco from Catalin, and to Catalin from before that.

She picked up a mallet and a sharp, flat blade.

“Papa, I am sorry,” she said. “I know these were meant for hands other than mine. But right now, these are the only hands here.”

Her voice was weak, uncertain. But then Lucy began to work.

And her hands began to move—methodically, precisely separating seams and joinery without a trace of hesitation or doubt.

The door opened.