three feet.
Kneeling and creeping forward, she pushed aside a lightweight metal box that might contain documents. Sliding aside a wooden crate stuffed with porcelain-faced dolls, she spied a familiar object tucked beneath an ell of dusty blue fabric.
“A violin case.”
Her heartbeats pounded. Whenever she found her assigned object she had to suppress a squeal of glee. Too girlie. And really, she took more pleasure in a mental pat on the back for a job well done.
The director of Acquisitions, Ethan Pierce, had assigned her this mission because he knew she was a musician. She could play virtually any instrument placed in her hands, but she didn’t practice or keep up with any particular one. Playing music was such a solitary, static thing. An abandoned hobby of hers. She preferred to be out adventuring and getting her hands dirty. Or, give her a car to take apart and she landed on cloud nine, tools in hand, grease smeared across her cheeks.
Yet she had been a good choice for this mission because she’d take the caution necessary when handling the object, the director had stated.
As well, she could appreciate any style of music, not in the least, classical. What kind of geeky fantasy would it be to actually hold Nicolo Paganini’s violin?
Summer slid a palm over the top of the case. It wasn’t hard plastic like most violin cases nowadays, so she carefully lifted the thin, leather case until she could grasp the handle, which was placed center top, and carried it out into the main room, where she could study it. She set the case on a wooden crate and found that only one leather buckle with brass fixings was still intact. And rust crusted over that one. She could easily force it open, but she didn’t want to damage the leather case or break the strap, so she wiggled carefully at the mechanism until finally the strap slipped from the buckle.
“Nice.” Summer pumped her fist in elation. “This is freaking cool.”
It would be insane not to take a look inside. To keep it closed and simply carry it home to Paris and hand over to the Archives? So long, so good to have known you—for a day?
No. She had to look at it. First, to ensure there actually was a violin inside. Second, to touch the instrument the famed violinist had once owned.
Nicolo Paganini had been a remarkable man, lauded by the masses. Summer would go so far as to label him a rock star for the nineteenth century. Gifted beyond belief. Or had he been cursed? The rumors told that Paganini had sold his soul to the devil to play the violin with such spectacular skill. His contemporaries had accused him of being the devil’s familiar, or even a witch’s son.
Modern-day science told a more truthful story. Paganini had been afflicted with a condition called Marfan’s Syndrome, which hadn’t elongated his fingers (as rumors had whispered) but rather had made his connective tissues so flexible as to allow his fingers to span three octaves across the four violin strings and thus create amazingly complicated compositions. Yet to his contemporaries he had seemed to possess superhuman ability.
But if the mission dossier was correct, this violin had not been played. So the deal with the devil could have never been made. Maybe?
Summer would never know the real story without raising the violinist from the dead and asking him herself. And that certainly would never happen. So she’d verify the instrument was intact, hand it over to the Archives and then on to the next job.
The case top lifted with an ominous creak. Inside lay a violin. A black violin. Its condition startled her. The ebony finish gleamed as if it had just been polished with linseed oil and a soft cloth. And the strings!
“They’re tight,” she said with curiosity and a wrinkle of her brow.
She touched each of them in turn—without actually plucking them to produce a tone—E, A, D, G. The string tension was about right from what she remembered the few times she’d played violin when she’d been younger. So tight, it was as if someone had just finished playing it.
“That’s...impossible.”
This Cella Monte home had been sealed for seventy years. The mayor had told her all things inside had remained untouched. Evident from the dusty clutter she’d seen while making her way down to this room. Yet, a violin left to sit so long would certainly show its age. The wood body would dry and likely crack. The fingerboard might even separate from the neck. And the strings would loosen for sure, requiring careful tuning. After so many decades, surely new strings would be needed.
She lifted the instrument, finding it only slightly heavier than the electric version Domingos LaRoque used when he played for Bitter/Sweet. That vampire played in her brother’s band, which combined electric guitars with cello and violin for some truly kick-ass gothic heavy metal. Summer had once owned a classic wood acoustic violin. It was probably stored away in her parents’ mansion, but she hadn’t thought about it since she’d set it aside as a teenager.
The bow sat nestled next to the violin, so she took that out and studied the bow hairs. They were pristine and off-white and smelled of rosin, but they weren’t thickly coated with the substance. Someone had cared for this lovely prize. Or maybe it had never been played, for the bow hairs were not discolored near either end from repeated use.
Was it really Paganini’s violin? Or simply a family instrument passed down through the ages, of which stories had been concocted about its legacy. And as the generations passed along the tale it had been forgotten which parts of the verbal history about this black violin had been embellished.
Because really? The legend told that on his deathbed Paganini requested this violin be destroyed. It had been tasked to his son to ensure it was done.
Why had it not? And what made Acquisitions believe this particular instrument was the real thing? What was it about this violin that made it a danger to others? Did it possess magic? Had it been magic that had given Paganini his unprecedented skill?
Summer believed in magic. Witchcraft. That was real. Tangible. Explainable. But fantastical bob-bib-be-bo that swirled about a thing with Disney sparkles? Not so much.
She had to remind herself that oftentimes the items she sought appeared innocuous and common.
A stroke of her finger across the violin body glided over the slick, lacquered surface. Did she dare? If she pulled the bow across the strings would the instrument crumble and fall to pieces? Violins actually seemed to improve with age. There were centuries-old Stradivarii that sold for millions at auction. Was this a Strad?
Aiming the flashlight on her cell phone, she checked inside the body of the violin. There wasn’t a paper designating the maker and year, though some writing did show on the curved inner rib. She couldn’t make out what it said. If she had one of those flexible gooseneck tools with a light on the end she could thread it inside the instrument and learn more about it. But even if she could read it, it would likely be in Italian. She spoke and read only French and English.
She checked the case and found nestled in a square of soft fabric a round lump of amber rosin that should rightfully be as hard as glass. Instead it smelled sweet and had the slightest give to it. She ran the bow across it quickly, and the hairs took on the sticky rosin, which was designed to give the hairs good grip.
Something at her ear whispered softly, like a teasing springtime breeze coaxing her to walk outside, enjoy the absence of snow. She really hated the snow. Flowers and the warmth of the sun (albeit felt through sunscreen and protective clothing) made her giddy. She couldn’t get the image out of her brain. And the idea
