Indigo did not tell her mother about Mr. Lucas being so evil, nor did she mention that her new fiddle could talk. These notions would bring her mother’s ire up & out. Nowadays Indigo minded what she said & to whom. Some folks you tell some things, some folks you don’t. With the dolls all lined up in her room now, no longer going calling, coming down for dinner, Indigo kept her window open all the time. She told her mother this was just for health reasons. Why New England people sleep with the windows open in snow: gives the body & spirit strength. Now, her mother didn’t want her own windows open, but it seemed like Indigo was making more reasonable connections. The windows in the child’s room stayed open.

Indigo invited the Moon in to sing to her doll-companions, mute though they were. She thought they had trouble sleeping. When the night air danced about them, leaving the shivers of that embrace, Indigo would take out her violin & play the way she learned. Letting the instrument speak right up. Giving another space to all the feelings her little girl’s body could not always contain. The talking music aroused the dolls to celebrate. Indigo sat in her window, working with her fiddle, telling everybody, the wind & all his brothers, what was on her mind, the turmoil in the spirit realm, the luxuriant realities she meandered in her sleep. Whenever she wanted to pray, she let her fiddle talk. Whenever she was angry, here came the fiddle. All the different ways of handling a violin & bow came to Indigo as she needed. They came: legato, staccato, andante, forte, fortissimo, piano, allegro, presto.

“Indigo, we’re going to have to talk about this violin.” Indigo was startled by her mother’s nocturnal visit. The breeze felt good on her face. Indigo turned gently from the soft rumble of a sea-town night to her mother.

“Oh, I’m so glad, Mama. I wanted to talk to you about the fiddle some more, but I was afraid you . . .”

“Why Indigo, how could you think I wouldn’t find somebody to give you lessons. I gave Sassafrass every weaving lesson she asked for, sent Cypress to New York for her dancing. Why wouldn’t I give you violin lessons? Surely, there’s one brave soul in Charleston who’ll take this terrible-playing child of mine.”