Hold on to your heart
'Cause I'm coming to take it
Hold on to your heart
'Cause I'm coming to break it
- Florence + the Machine, "Hardest of Hearts"
Sam essentially exploded into the tiny instrument shop, the bell above giving a violent jingle when he opened and closed the door with more force than most customers. To be fair it was hailing and raining—and hard—outside, and he just needed to escape the inclement weather. He stood for a moment leant against the door, to catch his breath, to wipe his sodden, floppy bangs from his eyes. He let out a breath.
The room was empty—no one behind the counter, or in sight. But the door directly adjacent to the entrance stood ajar and Sam could see a row of cello cases and a rack of half-finished violins and violas hung on a wall through the crack. A plucking noise sounded through the door. Tuning. Every once in a while the soft creak that only the wooden pegs under the scroll made. Sam shook his hair out of his eyes again, shrugging droplets off his shoulders.
The light was dim, soft and golden from adjustable lamps—a stark contrast to the blue squares thrown against the wall from the windows, with shadows of droplets twisting down. The patter of the rain and the twang of the strings was the only noise.
"Hello...?"
Sam stepped quietly. Heard the rustle of fabric and the tap of leather-soled shoes on wooden flooring. Everything was variations of fine wood. The door swung open the rest of the way, spilling out a warmth that made Sam gravitate closer.
"My apologies. I didn't hear the bell."
The man was tall—almost as tall as Sam, and much heavier set. He wore cream colored shoes with scarlet stitching that probably cost more than Sam's cell phone bill, and crisp burgundy slacks with a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and burgundy red suspenders. Very 1920's. He held, in his arms, a finely grained and heavily flamed violin stained with the most delicate of golds so that it flashed like a piece of amber in the light. A string was loose. Sam assumed the man must have been re-stringing the instrument.
Sam twitched out a bashful smile. "I—sorry. It's just. Raining so hard and all I kind of went through the first door I recognized. Um." He scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry."
"You recognized The Golden Fiddle before the McDonald's at the corner...?" The man—with clear grey-blue eyes—smirked. He headed toward the front counter, setting his violin down on the glass. "Well, I'm flattered. Anything you need?" His blond hair went white under the light from the street.
Sam's tongue flicked out to the corner of his mouth before he said, "Um. A towel... would be nice. But—I mean." He held up his hands. "Never mind. Do you sell rosin?" And what kind of a stupid question was that? Of course he sold rosin, he ran a music store with a heavy focus on stringed instruments. He could kick himself. His grimace must have been more obvious than he wanted.
The man laughed, louder than Sam expected—Sam jumped a little bit. "Do I sell rosin? Is the sky blue?!"
Sam glanced out the window. "Um, usually?"
Lucifer snorted. "What kind of rosin are you looking for, King Kong?" He tilted his head, and it seemed... unsettling.
"There are different types?" Sam tried to act like he knew something more about the instrument he played, but if he were honest with himself, despite his natural skill with a bow, he really lacked a lot of technical knowledge. He learned to play from a worn-out old woman at Ellen's bar, and by ear, and through years of practice on an old hunk of plywood.
Another guffaw. "What do you play?"
"Cello."
The shop's owner sauntered out from behind the counter, over to a little array of tins and pouches. He sorted through them, and with a thoughtful noise, picked one in a white velvet pouch, with the label underneath in gold. "My brother Michael makes this one—it's dark with copper, and works well with most anything." He tapped his knuckle, with a hum. "Though it's likely too expensive for you. What do you usually use?"
Sam frowned. "I dunno. Uh... it's this really old cake and the container or the cloth or whatever is gone. Was a gift from my godmother." He shrugged, and stuck his hands into his pocket, looking around the cozy little shop in as natural a manner as he could manage.
The shopkeeper shook his head with an exasperated smile, like he'd heard that line so many times and it just amused him. He pressed the rosin between his palms, interlacing his fingers and tapping his hands against his lips. He approached Sam, and held out the rosin. "Tell ya what, big boy." He grinned and something about it struck Sam as feral and capital-D Dangerous. He reached down to pull Sam's hand from his pocket and pass the rosin from rough palm to still-soft fingers. "You take that free of charge, and you try it out, and if you don't like it you can bring it back." His hand lingered on Sam's wrist for a moment before he stepped back. "And if you like it, tell everyone where you got it. Deal?" He winked.
Sam nodded, swallowing before saying, "Deal."
The man clapped him on the shoulder. "Good boy."
"My name's Sam." He found himself blurting it out.
The shop owner leered. "Nicholas Luciferius D'Angelo, proprietor of The Golden Fiddle." He held out his broad hand for Sam to shake. "My friends call me Old Scratch."
Sam shook his hand.
It was cold.
