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“He smiles for people he likes.”
“People like you.”
The statement is light, but I feel the weight of it. Worse, I sort of like the weight of it. The thought that he’s jealous sends an unwarranted thrill through me.
I focus on tuning the new delivery of rohms. “People like his wife.”
Ris rocks back on his heels and a small smile plays at his lips. He looks lighter on his feet than he did earlier.
“Only goes to prove there’s someone for everyone.” He plucks one of the tuned rohm’s from my feet and gives it a good strum. “And yes, I can already hear your lecture about tiphe wood now. When properly oiled, the resonance is superior to any other wood. The trouble, my dear shopkeeper, is that my instruments are rarely properly oiled any longer. They are either neglected, dry as bone, or greased up so much you’d think I wanted them fried for dinner.”
Instinctual indigence for the mistreatment of instruments makes me scowl. “Why would you put up with that?”
“Careful,” he warns, strumming away. It’s a jaunty tune that makes my toe bounce to the beat. “You’re starting to sound like my sister.”
There’s a sour thought.
“And I put up with it because my only competent assistant ran away to start a music shop. I’ve been plunged into the deepest despair, watching my instruments fall to ruin without her.” His grin widens. “Alas, I’ve found the solution. I’m to order overpriced e’ltte wood, sourced from the finest wood in Rach—”
He’s only saying all this to goad me, and it works.
“And you’ll have an instrument that lasts a year, at best. The wood splinters without proper care, and if you can’t bring yourself to oil tiphe wood properly, the e’ltte will splinter on stage! It has to be kept at…oh, you think it’s funny?”
Ris shakes his head, mock-serious, but his eyes are still shining.
“Haven’t you been paying attention? I think it’s a tragedy. The only woman who could take care of my wood—does your boss know you’re laughing at customers? I’ve met with him several times now. I’m fairly certain laughter is forbidden in all his places of business—”
I’m helpless, doubled over and laughing so hard my ribs ache. If Miothro walked in, he’d talk me to a healer to have my head examined. I haven’t laughed this much since I left.
“Enough! You’ll take the tiphe wood.”
His eyes flash as he bites his bottom lip. “Is that what I’ll do?”
“Yes!”
“You have a very strange idea regarding customer service, but far be it from me to ignore a woman’s demands. However,” he says, index finger extended. “Please allow me a brief demonstration.”
He sets down one rohm and picks up another on display—the e’ltte wood. His fingers fly over the strings, plucking a staccato tune that has no right sounding as good as it does.
“Oh, I like this one.” His eyes glaze over with focus, all joking set aside. I can’t help but remember the last time his eyes were that glazed. Ris’ focus is such a tremendous force, when applied to music. When he’d applied it to me…
He takes my daydreaming for disapproval and shoots me a playfully chastising look. “No,listen.”
I listen.
The difference is subtle, but of course he’d notice. It should make the music sound more muffled and flat—that’s the most common complaint I get about this brand. But Ris works with the natural resonance of the wood, creating something understated and beautiful.
The music trails off and he grins at me, triumphant.
“Just because you can make it work somehow doesn’t make it a better instrument.”
“Somehow!” And just like that he’s sitting next to me. Not shoulder-to-shoulder, like we did when I worked backstage. There’s plenty of the space I asked for in between us. It’s not his fault I’m fighting myself not to rapidly close it. “Somehow, she says, as if this isn’t her life’s work. E’ltte wood is superior for playing staccato, because the wood softens the harshness of the notes. And you knew that.”
“I did,” I allow.
“But did you knowthis,” he asks, playing legato instead. The notes should, again, be muffled. Muddied.
Instead, he plays me a tune that nearly stops my heart, it’s so sweet. A confection of a love song. There are no words, he doesn’t sing, but the notes dance, plaintively and hesitant, like to lovers meeting for the first time.
