Yet, as those hands began scraping steel against spruce, he thought of something his mother had told him—that as a little girl, she would hear a music that no player could ever create, a music born not of composer, nor player, but of the hands of her grandfather at work.

But Andrew had never known Catalin Matía, and when he thought of his grandfather, all the sounds he remembered came from yelling and tools being thrown.

All the sounds he remembered were his mother cringing, apologizing, calling herself stupid when lunch wasn’t on time or when that bastard felt the shop was too dusty, too noisy, too empty, too full.

Even now, his mother would flinch whenever she heard an unexpected noise, or anyone entered the store.

Such things are music, too.

Yet now, his mother’s hands were a rich, seamless legato, with neither stutter nor apology.

“That’s better, isn’t it? But I think we can go a bit further,” she said to herself.

She removed a bit more wood, then a bit more. Then she paused.

“Gotcha,” she murmured.

She tapped the wood, and suddenly Andrew heard a ripple of color. And as the night grew dark, Andrew Matía’s heart began to fill with the rush of spruce, the flare of maple, the cadence of sandpaper and steel.

Katrina had never eaten veal before, but she had always imagined it breaded and fried. Here, however, it was stewed, with minced garlic and sliced mushrooms, all in a thick, buttery, cream-laden gravy. Miss Astrid said this was a family recipe, but Katrina had never known a family that ate food like this.

“I experimented a bit. I used winter melon from the Lieus. And usually, I would serve this with aubergines, but unfortunately they aren’t yet ready, and Miss Satomi wanted rice.”

Aubergines? Katrina perked up. She had no idea what aubergines were, but the word made her mouth water.

“So, Katrina, how did you like the Matías?” Shizuka asked.

“The Matías?” Astrid stopped, surprised. “The Matías took the job?”

“Of course. Lucía was fascinated by Katrina’s violin. By the way, this veal is wonderful.”

“Katrina, you’re very lucky. They are the best of the best,” Astrid said.

Katrina thought back to the neighborhood. An auto glass shop. Another auto glass shop. A nail salon. A sign store with all sorts of LED MASSAGE signs flashing in the window. And down the street was Starrgate Donut.

There was nothing quaint and picturesque about it.

“Miss Satomi, why is a violin shop like that … there?”

“Places like the Matías’ are usually out of the way,” Shizuka explained. “Many musicians like to keep their secrets.”

Something to ask about later, Katrina thought.