ow. I live up there in AhnRee's studio," She pointed up the
mountain.

"Ah, yes--AhnRee. I'm Martin. Lower Byrdcliffe Road is just down at the
end of the driveway." Willow couldn't decide whether he was shy or
busy. He seemed to be telling her to hoof it. The Devil made me do it,
that's what she told Amber later.

"I can play Cripple Creek.

"Oh yeah?" He held the banjo toward her.

"Not on that. Do you have a violin, umm, fiddle?"

"Strangely enough . . . " He stood up, leaned the banjo against the
chair, and said, "Be right back." Now what have I done? Willow asked
herself. She hadn't touched a violin in two years. He brought her an
old violin, nothing special, but the strings and the bow were in good
shape. She played a few notes.

"Been a while," she said. She played the first bars of _Cripple Creek_.
Such an easy melody. It sounded horrible. She stopped. "Just a second."
She took two deep breaths and let the feel come back to her. She played
one long slow note, listening. Better. She played the note again. She
played two notes. Her body began to wake up. It was surprising how you
played the violin with your whole body. I mean, God, she'd been playing
since she was three. She began again, more slowly. She had now
forgotten Martin. She played it through. Then again, a little faster.
Yes, she thought, and took it at a tempo close to the one she'd heard
through the trees. Halfway through, she heard a few tentative notes
from the banjo. She smiled, eased back, and let Martin lead. They
played until they had managed a decent version and stopped. There was
another burst of applause. A woman with short blonde hair and a heart
shaped face was clapping by the corner of the house.

"Hi, Mom. This is my mother, Heidi, ah, Willow."

"How do you do," his mother said. "Very nice."

"Willow appeared out of the woods," Martin said.

"Ah," his mother said, "a wood nymph. This is the time of year.
Although, I must say, musical wood nymphs are rare."

"Well," Willow said, handing the violin and bow to Martin, "I'm off to
gather mushrooms, back to my dwelling of twigs and pine cones." She
smiled at Martin's mother, the pretty bitch, and walked into the woods
without looking back, damned if she was going to go down their
driveway. A few moments later, she heard _Cripple Creek_, as if in
apology. Or was he just going back to work?

There was something familiar about Martin, an intangible set to his
attitude, a stubbornness