“Raylim was usually too sensible to make striped lutes, yet this one had bands of bright white holly and pitch-black bogwood. Ken would never forget helping Raylim dredge up that log from deep in the fens. It had cost them two sets of clothes, an ax they never found, and the lasting ire of one muddy mule. The black oak was splintery stuff, but took a keen polish.

The soundboard was marsh cypress, set like a picture in a frame. But the most amazing part was the Arnabi ironwood fretboard. The golden sapwood mixed with russet heartwood, like paints swirled together and left to dribble down the neck. And true to its name, Raylim had filled his trash bin with dulled blades and swear words while carving it.

Sadly, a lute this beautiful was bound to live a secluded life. Tucked away from dust and danger in some fancy estate. Only allowed out at parties. Held by amateurs. Not the kind for adventures, crowded taverns, or festival stages.

But for the next seven minutes she was Ken’s.”