Chapter Seven
Matilda grinned as she struck a chord on her lute. She’d tuned it to perfection. The instrument in her hands was worn, the varnished wood now rough in patches, but it played as sweetly for her as it once had for her father.
As she strummed, she tried not to think about what she’d recently come across. All those ruined trees broke her heart, and there was that feeling in her stomach, like a knife twisting around only, she imagined, less painful. It was a feeling she got every time something was going to happen. Her mother had called it a sort of second sight and told her to listen to it.
Her father had told her it was something he felt, something he channeled into the music. In the end, she’d listened to her father most. So here she was with his lute and both her parents go
