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These hands were not his own. He was certain of that much. His head was heavy, and his thoughts were fleeting, and his vision had all the clarity and definition of a custard, but the one thing of which he could be absolutely sure was that these fleshy, clumsy digits were not the fingers he remembered. They were not slender, and they were not nimble. They had no strength and no precision. They couldn’t possibly play a fiddle.
In fact, every movement he tried to make came with a struggle if it came at all. Not just in his hands, but in the rest of him as well. He tried to turn, and to raise his head, and to look around the room, hoping that his eyes might focus enough to tell him where he was. Once he knew that much, he thought, he could work on how he got there, and that would b
