A sliver of light traveled outward from the base of the heavy draperies on the front windows. Just enough to determine it hadn't yet crossed into evening when Vic woke from his impromptu snooze under the enormous instrument. Moving his things the day before had taken its toll--or was it the exhaustion from undoing as much of the monster's work as he could from the wood surfaces? Probably he should have just concerned himself with the visible parts of the piano, or even the parts of the piano that might actually impact its tone, but he'd found he couldn't sit on the slightly bowed bench knowing that nearly touching his knees and thighs would be...FIXED.
He couldn't even bear touching the keys.
The one spot, the only spot, that he hadn't taken the time to address was what remained of the long scratch the movers had dug into the side. Someone had painstakingly filled it in, oiled the wood, polished it to a shine in a way that meant when the finish did wear off over a normal period of time it would just be one more worn-in scar upon the instrument's lifeline, rather than a great, bleeding wound. Vic himself had intended to see to that damage this very day, save it by naturalizing it somehow.
He'd also planned to visit the movers at home and further educate them on the caring of instruments, courtesy of some extra violin strings. Except his extra strings weren't exactly pristine, the stuff acceptable threats were made of, suitable now only for restringing. Neither was the piano wire. And the discontented mess of bubbling fury toward the movers had dulled somewhat due to the slash no longer being in as much evidence. Not to mention due to the mysterious fixer-upper. And then there was the fact he could only currently leave his house through its windows which frankly, after napping on the floor and feeling his muscles twinge as he crawled out from underneath the instrument, didn't sound as reasonable as it had before he'd begun his quest to drag around ancient iron constructs.
Hindsight.
Vic curled bare toes against the smoothed-to-a-shine hardwood that filled the entryway. He let out an indignant huff of air through his nose. The house had character too, but the voice of age could be heard in the creaks and groans of it settling in the depths of night, not its appearance. This didn't bother him to the extent the newly buffed surfaces of stringed creatures. It grated, because his privacy was his. But even he knew a roof was only kept overhead with certain measures of care, even he knew being rained on was a misery he had no intention of indulging in, extremes in temperature and humidity the fastest way to utterly destroy his instruments--faster than "fixed".
And at least, come night--and that was if they even dared show their face again--he'd catch the culprit.
In the meantime, he could console himself with--
"Dear God."
Sleep-befuddled steps came to a stop in the archway of the dining room, where his favored violin gleamed once more.
"It."
He passed a hand over his eyes, then scrubbed them, as if rubbing the grit out of his lashes would remove the reflectiveness from the fingerboard, the string from its mooring.
"No. Wha--Where did they even FIND a spare?"
He'd been certain he'd hidden them all. Shooting a glance toward the front door's iron maw, which remained undisturbed, he stepped quickly through the rest of the ground floor. Vic had nearly reached the trap on the back door when he stopped abruptly, then backpedaled to one archway of the kitchen. The fact that it glowed cheerily with dancing candleflame wasn't the issue. Candles suited the ambiance and his mood just fine. The fact that not a single one had gone out...because all of them were once more jutting proud and tall from their bracers...the lovely wax drip that he'd intended to keep as it made his home look lived in...gone.
"Curious." It was the only word that came to mind that wasn't excessively violent. An internal volley of curses were followed swiftly by reason: "No one's come inside. At least not by conventional means." He shoved his hair back with his fingers. Either they'd used his alternate exit strategy to enter his house or..."They're still inside."
Because it couldn't be--surely not--that he had to leave out a damned bowl of sugar for a ghost/fairy/imaginary friend named Sparkles. Victrus Rosenburg just couldn't buy "supernatural".
Dreams come in a size too big so we can grow into them.
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