"No, I don't imagine he would. He's not even six, after all." And Temple doesn't intend to 'know' that a violin needs to be tuned. It's the sort of instrument that's never been seen in a place like District Eight, where the only things that swollen and arthritic hands can handle for music are sorts of pan-flutes, where the most common accompaniment is the voices of workers rushing towards not-entirely-accurate notes like fish teeming around a hook. No hand that works a thread or loom all day wants anything to do with catgut and guitar strings.

Temple shrugs one shoulder and casts her glance towards the ceiling, as if calling upon some deity to testify to her innocence. "Divorces are more expensive than a violin."