I was just about to head back to the University when my restless pacing took me by a pawnshop’s window. I felt the old ache in my fingers. . . . “How much for the seven-string lute?” I asked. To this day I do not remember actually entering the store. “Four talents even,” the owner said brightly. I guessed he was new to the job, or drunk. Pawnbrokers are never cheerful, not even in rich cities like Imre. “Ah,” I said, not bothering to hide my disappointment. “Could I take a look at it?”
