the first page, suppressing a sneeze as the familiar smell of dust and dry rot irritates her nostrils.
The first page looks as ordinary as her mother’s kitchen, apart from its age. Spidery handwriting, the ink faded to brown, reads:
Client Pledges.
Some pledge. More like “Deals with the Devil,” Phee thinks. The entries should be written in blood. The first is dated 1 June 1822, in the same handwriting as the header.
Thomas McCullough, violin, Derry, Ireland. A check mark after his name means that Mr. Thomas McCullough of Derry, Ireland, is dead, his contract with the violin ended.
She turns the brittle pages with care, feeling the weight of all of the lives marked by this book. The last seven names, on the very last page, are all in her grandfather’s handwriting, but their names are as familiar to her as her own. She tracks their lives on a daily basis, watching for signs of trouble on Google and even the dark web. She’s set up an app to trawl the internet and give her early-warning alerts, the same app that notified her of the upcoming funeral.
There is a check mark next to one of these names, the only one Phee has added so far. She’s made it red and flamboyant to mark that account as done.
Marilyn Browning, violin, Kansas City, 3 May 1963.
“May you rest in peace,” Phee whispers, tracing lightly over the name. The violin sits on a stand here in her apartment, and Phee plays it herself, these days. She’s not prepared to sell it to somebody else.
Of the remaining names, five are violinists. The sixth is, or was, a cellist. The entry might as well be permanently burned into her retinas.
Braden Healey, cello, Seattle, 5 January 1990.
This man-and-cello pairing, the very last of the accounts in this book, has caused her more trouble than any of the others. Braden broke the terms of his contract and went AWOL about eleven years ago, leaving the cello behind.
In the wake of the tragedy that has befallen his family, though, she asks herself if she has really done everything she could.
She could have searched harder. Pressured Braden’s wife. Hired a private investigator. When the first accident happened, the one that destroyed the sensation in his hands, she grieved over him, went soft. Who was she to insist that he continue to play when clearly that ability had been stolen from him?
The cello was in good hands. His daughter made a fine surrogate. Phee persuaded herself that the circumstances were exceptional and it was best to leave everything alone. For almost eleven years nothing has gone wrong, and she’d almost stopped worrying about the curse.
Now another tragedy has fallen, and even though so much time has passed without event, she has to admit that both she and Braden are in violation of sworn oaths to the same old man. According to that old man, when oaths are broken, the curse rolls in.
Phee is a product of twentieth-century America, raised on practicality, responsibility, and hard work. She’s far removed from her Irish-born grandfather and the mythology and magic that he cloaked himself in. And yet, most of the time, she believes.
Musicians, and those who make instruments, are a superstitious lot. The tale of blues musician Robert Johnson and his meeting with the devil at the crossroads is a classic, but he’s not the only one. Similar stories are told about legends of rock and roll like Ozzy Osbourne and Keith Richards. Much farther back in history, violinists Tartini and Paganini were both rumored to have received their unbelievable dexterity from a deal with the devil.
Even musicians who would be appalled at the idea of selling their souls have odd little rituals they perform before every concert, ceremonies of candles and foods and music that closely resemble incantations.
When Phee was eighteen, brand new to her inherited position as luthier, she’d scoffed at the idea of a curse. It was only the oath she’d sworn to her grandfather that held her to the duties, and she bore them relatively lightly.
Until an incident that turned her blood to ice. Coincidence, Bridgette still insists, when she’ll discuss it at all. Phee is not so sure. And now, a new tragedy is connected to Braden and the cello, and Phee isn’t taking further chances. One way or another, she has to get him playing again.
She wraps the ledger book back up in the towel and returns it to its place. In her desk drawer are six hanging file folders,