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Tongue tucked into a corner of his mouth, Cesare bends over the lute, stringing and tightening the loaded gut. They're finnicky, these strings; hard to get, harder to get right. He blames the pegs and curses softly, a low guttural flow of Catalan his mother would have washed his mouth with soap for.
And then he's got them where he wants them.
Closing his eyes, he tunes the cori. His fingers find the spots, unthinking, caressing the frets. His right hand plucks a chord, then another, before dissolving them into arpeggi.
"Miquel," he murmurs, "talk to me," but there's only the sound of his breathing. That, and the soft, soft music. "Listen. I'm serenading you."
After what you did to the boy?
"What did I do?" Cesare folds over the wood, sounding out the depth of his melody. "I didn't hear him complain too loudly."
Miquel shrugs, shrinking deeper into a black turtleneck. He looks skinny, and grey-faced. Fine. The thought rings with sadness. With disappointment. Play then.
And then he's got them where he wants them.
Closing his eyes, he tunes the cori. His fingers find the spots, unthinking, caressing the frets. His right hand plucks a chord, then another, before dissolving them into arpeggi.
"Miquel," he murmurs, "talk to me," but there's only the sound of his breathing. That, and the soft, soft music. "Listen. I'm serenading you."
After what you did to the boy?
"What did I do?" Cesare folds over the wood, sounding out the depth of his melody. "I didn't hear him complain too loudly."
Miquel shrugs, shrinking deeper into a black turtleneck. He looks skinny, and grey-faced. Fine. The thought rings with sadness. With disappointment. Play then.