“I wrote it,” he replied, stung. He opened the brown clarinet case, his hands stroking the worn felt inside. He had owned this instrument since he was nine years old, picked up at an estate auction by his parents, desperate for something for their music-mad son to play. It had been re-padded, re-keyed, and re-corked, but it had never lost its sweet tone.
He put together the two long pieces first, the first and second joint, as they were called. Then the black bell at the end. Then the short barrel, and finally the mouthpiece. He selected a reed from the pack inside the case, moistened it for a moment, then screwed it into the mouthpiece. Blowing a practice note, he pursed his lips, then eased the joints the slightest bit apart. As he blew a second note, he saw Doriel's expression ease.
S
