Lia knelt and slid her finger beneath the top of a cardboard box but then stopped. “I feel like I’m prying into the privacy of your family.”

“Funny. I rather had the same feeling when we were rifling through your grandmère’s apartment.”

“Fair point,” Lia conceded.

“I can, however, tell you with a fair degree of certainty that we will not find another Munch or a trio of Degas works up here,” he said. “Honestly, I’m pretty sure that this is just a collection of rubbish that probably should have been given away or thrown out a long time ago. So don’t trouble yourself and don’t be shy,” he said, releasing the latch on the trunk and pushing the lid open. “Just let me know if you find anything from the years just prior to or during the war.”

Lia nodded and pulled the top off the first box.

They worked for a good hour, Lia sorting through boxes of old clothing, linens, toys, books, sporting equipment, kitchen detritus, and an assortment of instrument cases.

“Who played the violin?” she asked Gabriel, carefully lifting a violin case that had been stacked on top of a battered wooden trunk.

“Certainly not me,” he replied, his voice echoing through the rafters. “I can’t even play chopsticks on the piano.” He sneezed. “Do you? Play the violin, that is?”

“Yes,” she said. “Though I haven’t for a long time.”

“Are you any good?”

“I suppose. It was my grandmère who insisted I learn. She was quite accomplished herself, though she rarely played when I was around.” Lia fingered the clasps on the old case. “May I look at it?”

“Of course.” Gabriel stood, wiped his palms on his hands, and glanced at his watch. “I’m not convinced we’re ever going to find any answers up here in this mess. I think we’d be better off spending our time at the National Archives.”

Lia nodded absently and released the clasps on the case and opened it with care. The violin nestled inside under a protective cloth was a varnished red-brown, the wood grain contrasting beautifully with the black chin rest, tailpiece, and neck. She lifted the instrument from the case, her fingers sliding over the strings.

“What a handsome piece,” she said, turning the instrument toward the overhead lights.

“Don’t suppose it’s a Stradivarius worth millions,” Gabriel said, coming to crouch beside her.

“I thought you said you didn’t know much about violins.”

“I don’t. That about exhausts my expertise.”

“Well,” Lia replied, peering through the f-holes, “it’s most certainly not a Stradivarius.”

“Too bad.” Idly, he brushed the dust off the top of the trunk the violin had been resting on.

“It is, however, a Collin-Mézin,” she said a little breathlessly. She let her finger trail lovingly over the scroll. “My music teacher had one, though she never allowed her students to touch it.”