Vic's plan to settle his unsettled nerves was to get as close to his usual morning routine as he could. He'd pull out his favorite violin and warm up the strings with a nice tango in a minor key.
The instruments he kept for lessons and on-site for group performance use were tuned to a T and had all their strings, a consideration he made for society, the job of teaching unwitting and youthful victims of it, and because one unhappy parent made for a horrendous Holla rating. The ones for personal use, however, were more than just university rejects--they were mournful, soulful creatures who spoke of years of abuse and experience under many musician's thumbs. He chose to lavish attention on each on because gave those voices a chance to be heard, even if it were only him listening.
None of them were Stradivari. None of them possessed captured human voices or actual human souls--at least, Vic didn't believe that they did. But they were unique and alive in their own way, history in each bump and bruise and unfinished fingerboard. And he was honored to keep them that way, each morning.
Unfortunately for Vic, he did not look at the violin he pulled first, assured that the moving had gone successfully, for unlike his piano, he'd moved the strings by hand. No, this morning he did just as any other morning and placed his fingers firmly along the neck, drawing his bow in a single stroke across the strings.
What came out was NOT the wail of wind or eerie dirge from the underworld. It was HAPPY. A little like he'd suddenly decided to cue up an Irish jig. Blasphemy! Worse yet, it wasn't at all like a human voice. Not even in the slightest.
Shocked, Vic slowly lowered the instrument from his shoulder and stared at the strings looped there. An extra had been slotted into place along the edge, and all of the pegs had been turned. The...fingerboard...was...newly...blackened.
Refinished. Polished. Someone's opinion of FIXED.
Vic hated fixed. He hated the modern, wasteful societal constraints that regarded the things that he called his instruments as "broken", when it was through him they lived again.
"Who..." he asked in disbelief, "WHO?"
And then a demand. "WHO?!"
First the blanket, then the piano, and now, now........NO.
Vic set the bow back into the case and slid the violin onto one of the open stands. "This is troubling," he admitted aloud. "Unacceptable, even."
Vic strode into the kitchen, hunting for paper with which to make a list. The candles weren't lit--which was to be expected. But they were........whole. They weren't nicely draped over the counter, there wasn't even a trace of the usual faux cave formation beginning from former drips. They were simply...gone. New.
He recalled the envelope again and wondered. "It has been a strange week, indeed. I'm certain someone must just have a spare key. Someone horrible. With a lust for consumerism. And quite possibly a death wish."
Was the sugar to keep the "fairy" from touching his things, perhaps? Did it work as a ward against ghosts? His aunt didn't say, hadn't left any further instruction. It seemed as reasonable now as the suggestion of a ghost at all did. For now, he'd have to operate on the obvious, the very human explanation of keys.
Yes, someone tangible had touched his things, wrecked them, and it was going to be an excruciatingly long day of righting the horrible wrongs. He'd have to skip his classes. Two rehearsal sessions. Maybe lunch. He'd have to go to the hardware store for new locks. Terrible.
As he considered the side trip he wondered if he could get away with setting up an alternate solution. Rigging the front and rear doors with some of his family's antiques--so that he could catch the intruder the next time they sought to come into his HOME and displace his chi. Yes.
That would do nicely.
He had brought up one set of spikes from the basement--where they'd somehow migrated to in the first place--by the time his still-sleepy mind comprehended the fact that booby-trapping the doors would effectively trap him within the building. Vic sighed and ran a loving finger over one of the spikes. "I'll just cancel lessons and rehearsals until the miscreant returns." It was a small price to pay to have the opportunity to sit them down and explain things. Sharply. Besides. It wasn't like the ground floor was devoid of windows. He rubbed his hands together and got back to work.
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
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