Luthier's Apprentice, The Read Online Free Page A

mean by that, anyway—that he was abducted by a sorceress, perhaps?” her mom scoffed.
    “You said that, not me.”
    The rain pelted against the windows. Emma was startled to see Van Ketts, the owner of the kiosk, watching them from the interior of his shop. She scowled. He was always so freaking nosy.
    But her mom’s silence made her forget about him.
    She was studying Emma. There was something troubled and scrutinizing about her eyes. “Why this sudden interest in magic?”
    Emma shrugged, avoiding her probing gaze. “Did you notice the way Madame Dupriez said a wild imagination can sometimes lead you into trouble? It sounded like a warning. Her eyes were so clear, too. I doubt she’s cried at all.”
    “Now you’re being paranoid. And would you please take that fingernail out of your mouth?”
    Emma sulked. Magic or not, paranoia or not, she was determined to find out what had happened to Monsieur Dupriez.
    And the first thing to do was to find a way into his study.

Chapter Five
    H ER MOM TOOK A TAXI TO the airport early the next morning and Emma moved in with Grandpa.
    After school, while Grandpa laboured downstairs in the workshop, Emma spent the next hour unpacking, doing her homework and settling into her new room with Blackie. She didn’t know how long her mom would be gone, or how long she’d have to stay here. Not knowing made her anxious. To make matters worse, her mom had said not to call her cell phone because there would be no reception where she was going. Okay, so Aunt Lili lived in the middle of the Hungarian mountains, but still... It didn’t feel right.
    Grandpa’s little shop, Adagio, was over two hundred years old and was situated in a beautiful tree-lined avenue in Woluwe St. Lambert, the same suburb district as Emma’s school . It had passed on to him from his Italian father, and his father before him. Lutherie, the craft of making violins, had been in their family for generations. At the back of the shop was the workshop—where Grandpa made his violins. Above the shop and workshop were the living quarters; and above these, the mysterious attic that was always locked.
    Grandpa worked only on specially commissioned violins. Each one took weeks to create. Each one was a distinct, fine work of art. He worked alone, had for years, never wanting assistants to help him—that is, until Emma had become his apprentice at age eleven, five years ago.
    Every autumn Grandpa went on his own to gather special wood for his violins. Sometimes it took him days to come back, and he would return looking physically exhausted, as if he had traveled miles and miles on end. He had told Emma the wood was the most important factor in the making of a violin. A rich, beautiful tone depended on the wood. At seventy, Grandpa was a gifted, skilled woodworker. Because he worked on specially commissioned violins and repair work, there were hardly any instruments showcased in the shop, but he sold strings, bridges, shoulder rests, metronomes, music stands and musical scores.
    His workshop was filled with fascinating tools. Emma had memorized all their names since she was a child: hand drills, compasses, cutting gauges, dial callipers, saws and scrapers, flat chisels, files, peg-hole reamers, dental mirrors, and many others. She remembered how she’d pestered him to know how they were used and why they were needed.
    There was a big square wooden table in the center of the room. Against the wall were blocks of wood split into wedges; young spruce for sound boards and fronts, maple for ribs, backs, heads and necks, ebony for fingerboards, tail pieces and pegs. But the best thing about the workshop was the smell—a mixture of fine wood and oil varnish. It was rather harsh, but over the years Emma had gotten used to it and grown to like it.
    Emma knew everything there was to know about violin-making, which was unusual for a girl. Throughout the ages, violin-making had been a man’s job. There were few women violinists