“La Maestra,” Andrew said.
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about a label for these violins. We’re selling more of them, and ‘the eBay violin from China that we fix up’ isn’t really a good name. Besides, that’s what everyone is calling you, anyway.”
She frowned. How was she a master?
The brass doorbell jingled.
It was an Asian music mother, coming into the store with her Asian music son. She turned to Lucy and looked past her toward the back.
“Is the violin technician here?”
“You’re looking at her,” Lucy said.
“I need you to fix this. It doesn’t sound right,” the boy said uncertainly.
“Right?” He turned to his mother.
“That’s right.”
The woman sighed impatiently. “Well, if you can’t figure the problem out, then we can go to Grunfeld’s. In South Arroyo.” She said the last part for emphasis.
Andrew nearly dropped his scraper. Really? His mother had just been working on the Satomi Guarneri …
But his mother smiled. “Of course you could,” she said cheerfully. “How are they doing? I heard about poor Helvar. So sudden, wasn’t it?”
“Um, yes,” the woman said, trying to hide that she had no idea who this Helvar was.
Andrew tried not to laugh as his mother examined the boy’s instrument.
“I think we can help you with that.” She winked at the boy and took his violin.
The son wandered around the shop. His eyes looked at the flyer.
“It’s that Chinese bank competition. The one with the Leonida Stradivarius,” Andrew offered.
“Oh, that thing,” the mother said icily. “Typical lack of respect. Not to be racist, but I wish the Chinese would stay out of our music. They have their own, you know.”
Andrew blinked. Wait—did she not realize that she was Asian?
“Hmm?” Lucy came back and presented the instrument to the boy, who played a few tentative scales. His mother smiled.
“Is it good?” her son asked.
“Of course, dear, can’t you hear?” She turned to Lucy. “What did you do?”
“A little of this and a little of that,” Lucy said casually.
“How much do I owe you?”
Lucy shrugged.
“Twenty-five dollars will be fine. And I’ll give you a cleaning cloth.”
The Asian music mother nodded, paid cash, and quickly walked out with her Asian music son.
“Mom?” Andrew asked once the door had closed.
“Hmm? Something bothering you?”
“That violin. You deadened its sound on purpose.”
She nodded. “I decided that pulling it back would make everyone happy. Security is what they wanted, after all.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Lucy paused.
“Oh … why not?”
“Mom?”
“La Maestra. See if you can get those labels made.”
“Yes, Mom!”
“And one more thing … When you’re done with that, can you get us lunch?”
She gave Andrew the twenty-five dollars.
“Sure, Mom. What would you like?”
She closed her eyes and smiled. “A burrito. Carne asada, all meat, wrapped in white paper, then in the yellow paper, with two napkins, in a brown paper bag.”
* * *
Katrina walked into the practice hall. She seemed unsteady.
Of course she would be. Shizuka quickly went over what she would say. Gently, but firmly, she would urge her student to accept the invitation.
Katrina would protest, saying Shizuka had promised that she would never have to compete. Shizuka would nod, then tell Katrina she was sorry, but no matter how many of these horrible messages one erased, they would never stop, and that playing on this stage was the only way to rescue her music.
Shizuka would tell her that she didn’t need a cursed bow to win. She would say Katrina would work and study and practice to save her soul, not sacrifice it, and that she would do everything in her power—not as the Queen of Hell, but as her teacher—to protect and guide her.
But before Shizuka could say a word, the seventh student spoke instead.
“I will enter this contest,” Katrina said firmly.
Shizuka tried not to show her surprise.
“Well … good,” she said. “I have been working on a piece for you. It’s an arrangement of The NetherTale.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I am playing the Bartók.”