The Protector (Lone Wolf, Book 1) by Bridget Essex Read Free Book Online Page B

You can tell in the slope of the body of the instrument, in the
specific curlicues…it was Stradivarius-inspired.   I love a good Stradivarius-inspired violin, don’t get me wrong—he
was a master, and masters should be copied.   But I also love a violinmaker who isn’t afraid to be himself.
    The guy who made this violin wasn’t
afraid in the slightest.
    The instrument itself was of simple
construction—there was nothing fancy or ornamental about the body of the
violin.   But as I picked it up—freshly
tuned by Verity—out of the case, I ran my fingers over the strings, and
somewhere in the hollow cavity of the violin, a delightful thrum answered
the sound of my skin connecting to the strings.
    I ran my thumb over the strings
again, purposefully plucking at them.   The cheerful sound of the notes sang vibrantly into the room as Verity
picked up the bow from the case and rosined it for me, running the rosin up and
down the horsehairs of the bow with the familiar swish sound, bits of
dry beeswax flaking off into the air.   She handed me the bow with the same sort of smile that a cat makes after
it’s devoured the canary.
    I held the violin up and placed my
chin against it, the movement so familiar but also so unfamiliar with this new
instrument as I learned its new shape, bending my body in miniscule ways to
connect better with it.   I held up the
bow and placed it gently against the strings.
    I played.
    I closed my eyes.   I listened as the bow swished effortlessly
across the strings, as a pure and radiant melody came from the violin, spinning
into the air around us like magic.   It
was so clean, those notes, so pure, that a surge of emotion moved through me,
my throat constricted, and almost instantly, tears sprung up in my eyes.  
    I played across the strings, having
chosen something simple to test the violin out with—the piece of music that was
one of the first ones I ever learned that I really enjoyed playing on the
violin, the Allegro movement from Bach’s third Brandenburg
Concerto.   It’s such a perfect baroque
piece, almost textbook with all of its dainty, complicated melodies, the kind
that you hear and immediately think “period drama,” but it has a very innocuous
thrum of power beneath it—don’t be fooled by the piece.   It sounds like something made for kings and
queens and court, but underneath the top melody, there’s this great passion
moving like swift-flowing water far below a perfectly calm surface…
    I finished the piece, raising the
bow off the strings with a small flourish, grinning a little like an
idiot.   The violin vibrated against my
shoulder as I opened my eyes, like the instrument was something alive, and
still singing.  
    I took a deep breath and glanced up
at Layne.
    Her mouth was slightly open, her
lips parted.   Her chest rose and fell a
little too quickly, and her eyes were wide and shocked, like she’d just seen
something she would never be able to describe or explain.   She looked in awe.   Suddenly self-conscious, I set the violin down on the counter,
clearing my throat.  
    “It’s superb, Verity.   I’ll take it, thank you.   Do you want to send me the bill?”
    “It’d be my pleasure,” said Verity,
practically glowing herself.   “You made
it sing, Elizabeth…I can’t imagine anyone I’d want it to go to more.”
    I breathed out, still
grinning.   “Well, I’m a very lucky lady
to have it.   Thank you so much for
finding it for me,” I said, setting it gently back in its case and affixing the
bow into the lid.   I shut the case and
clicked it closed, taking a deep breath as my fingers pressed against the lid’s
rickety old plastic.   I have a nice
wooden case I could put it into, I thought.   Something classy enough for it…
    When I gazed up at Layne again, her
expression had shifted—it’d gone back to being more normal, more guarded.   But when our eyes connected, there was
something that flickered across them, behind her