My sister snapped a $4,000 violin across her knee to punish my daughter, completely unaware her daughter's name was carved inside it.

"Are you going to replace the violin?" Jaren asked again, his breath catching in the receiver.

I stood by my living room window, looking out into the twilight. Theron had paused his typing, watching my reflection in the glass with quiet concern.

"I'm not giving Tamsin another dime, Jaren," I said steadily. "If I buy a violin and hand it to your household, what do you think she will do with it? She'll pawn it, sell it on Marketplace, or crush it the next time she throws a tantrum. You know that as well as I do."

"Then what about Bryer?" Jaren’s voice cracked. "Maren, she’s twelve. She practiced three hours a day on that cheap plywood rental. The state youth orchestra audition is in six weeks. She thinks her life is over."

"Her life isn't over," I said softly. "Listen to me carefully. Does Bryer have practice tomorrow after school?"

"Tamsin told her she’s not allowed to go to the music wing anymore. Said it’s an embarrassment to show up empty-handed."

A cold disgust settled in my chest. "Tomorrow at four, tell Tamsin you're taking Bryer to the library for tutoring. Bring her to my house instead."

"Maren—"

"Do it, Jaren. And don't tell Tamsin a single word."

After hanging up, I looked at Theron. He pushed his laptop aside and rubbed his temples. "How bad is it?"

"She stole five hundred dollars from Bryer's college fund to go to a day spa and buy designer clothes, while telling everyone on Facebook that I’m letting her child starve."

Theron let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Your sister is a masterclass in psychological warfare. What's the plan?"

"We call Marcus Davies."

Marcus was an old family friend and a master luthier who operated an atelier downtown. When my own daughter, Maya, was taking up the cello two years ago, Marcus was the one who restored her instrument. He didn't just sell instruments; he built heirlooms.

I dialed his workshop number. Fortunately, Marcus was working late on a restoration.

"Maren," Marcus answered warmly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Marcus, I need an exceptional violin. Something responsive, sweet, and built for a prodigy who has been playing on junk for four years. And I need it custom engraved before tomorrow evening."

Marcus whistled softly. "A rush order on an artisan instrument? I have a bench-made Romanian spruce-and-flamed-maple piece that just finished curing last month. It’s appraised at four thousand dollars. Pure concert quality. But what do you mean by engraved?"

"Inside," I said. "Through the F-hole, onto the inner maple backplate where the maker’s label sits. I want words carved directly into the wood where no casual glance will see them, but anyone looking inside will never forget."

"What words?" Marcus asked, his tone turning serious.