Beams crack and squeal like pirouetting trees before the foreboding march of timber harvesters.
Tumblers dance on shelves, evoking the silence found only in the shattering of glass.
Finally, the vital, sentient instrument is alive again.
River sets the Violin, Kaku Inko, to her nostrils and draws in the lush, seasoned nasality of its presence.
There is a sweet and feral touch to the blush of some old woods, and the Violin bears up this standard like no other Earthly creature of hew and turn.
She takes the bridge end, then grabs the velvety cravat eyeing her with its diamond pin from the eighth hook.
Her fingers weave the jewel-pinned, olive brown succulence of tied silk under the strings of the Violin, wrapping the scroll, neck and pegs for several seconds before letting go and stepping back to admire her work.
“That should do,” she says, looking on the only window of the Unicorn.