Bronwyn finished her whiskey and bid Tara farewell, cautious of the sun's pending arrival. The party in the streets was still going strong, as it was nearly every night, it seemed. She passed drunks, cops, street vendors, homeless unfortunates, tourists, and musicians. One in particular caught both her ear and her eye.<br/>A tall, lanky black man stood on the corner of Dumaine Street and Bourbon Street. His dreads hung loose about his face and down his back, and his goateed face was tight with concentration as he coaxed a complicated bluegrass melody from his fiddle. His technical skill was superb, and his heart and soul flowed through his fingertips and out from his instrument. Many musicians had either skill or soul, but the greats had both.<br/>Bronwyn slowed, then stopped to listen to the man play. His instrument case sat open in front of him, several dollars and a handful of coins strewn across the bottom of it. Next to this stood a much larger cello case with a sign taped to the front that read "for sale: $800".<br/>The musician smiled and nodded to Bronwyn as he continued to play. His fingers flew across the strings, precise and sure, his bow perfectly drawn across the strings. It was an enjoyable performance, and Bronwyn stayed through to the end.<br/>"Ya got quite a sound, boyo." Bronwyn said as she tossed a ten dollar bill into the man's case.<br/>"I thank you kindly, young miss, I always appreciates tips and compliments, both." The musician said in a southern drawl.<br/>"Not a local accent." Bronwyn noted.<br/>"No no, see, I migrate around, you know? Few weeks here, few weeks there, never in one place for long." He fiddled with the tuning pegs on his instrument, tweaking the strings minutely, plucking every few adjustments to check the sound. "Dat's why I'm sellin' my old cello, here. Too big to keep luggin' around. And no one wants to hear a cello out here anyway, you know? Dey like my fiddlin' just fine." He grinned and spun out a quick riff. "That's better. Anything you wanna hear? Betcha a dollar to a doughnut I can play it."<br/>"I bet ya can." Bronwyn chuckled. She liked this old rambler. "Mind if I look over yer cello?"<br/>"Sure, sure! You right ahead and take a look. Treat her like a lady, mind. Got a few years on her, but she's just as grand and noble as my own blessed Granny. Now that's a lady, no doubt!"<br/>The musician cackled and rolled into another bluegrass tune, keeping time with the taps of his foot, while Bronwyn unbuckled the cello case.<br/>It was in excellent condition, surprising for belonging to a person who spent most of his time on the road. Bronwyn's respect for the musician went up a notch. This was a man who cared for his instruments, probably treating them better than he did himself. The wood was a beautiful honey color, the fingerboard and tailpiece were a rich ebony, matching the bridge that held up the strings. A closer look revealed the years of use: tiny scratches and dents, a tiny crack along the rim that was held at bay by hand-carved purfling. The fingerboard was worn smooth and shiny by countless applications of fingers along the years. The bow looked new, except for the worn grip just above the frog.<br/>Bronwyn pulled out the bow and inspected it, then picked up the block of rosin still in the case and applied it to the horsehair, making it sticky. She plucked the strings on the cello, adjusting the tune until she was satisfied, then braced herself against the brick wall behind her and braced the instrument between her knees. The musician (who had been watching her every move) ended his tune with a flourish, then grinned at Bronwyn.<br/>"You go right ahead, little lady. Let my old beauty sing for ya."<br/>"Obliged." Bronwyn said, then drew the bow across the strings.<br/>The sound was resonant and slow, the melody starting soft and gradually building, harmonies growing more complex, the intricacy of the notes growing ever more complicated. Bronwyn was an accomplished musician, even if she didn't flaunt it much. The cello had always been one of her favored instruments; its low range and resonant sound suited her personality and the flavor of her compositions.<br/>The black musician stared at Bronwyn, surprised. After a moment, he raised his instrument and joined her, playing a simple counterpart harmony, his broad, high notes complimenting Bronwyn's intricate, alto notes. People passing by slowed, but few stopped. The few that stopped threw a dollar or two into the open case, but none stayed to listen. It seemed the musician was right... this town didn't appreciate cello music, even accompanied.<br/>The two brought their impromptu duet to a close, and the musician lowered his instrument.<br/>"I'm of a mind to let you take my cello for free, miss." he said with absolute seriousness. "I've never heard any cello played dat way before, and it seems a damn shame to part you two now."<br/>Bronwyn stood and started to pack the cello away. "I'll pay ya for it, no worries. I can't walk away from it now." She pulled her wallet from her pocket and counted out eight one hundred dollar bills, part of the stash of cash that she'd had hidden in her old modified boot pouch. It had taken all day to dry out. Normally she didn't spend her emergency funds, for that's what they were, but Bronwyn didn't want to chance coming back later. The rambling musician might move on or sell to someone else. Doubtful, but Bronwyn didn't care.<br/>The musician carefully folded the bills and stuffed them down into his shoe for safekeeping, not even commenting on the fact that Bronwyn walked around with so much money in cash. This man had likely long ago learned not to ask nosy questions. He straightened up and clasped Bronwyn's hand with a wide smile.<br/>"You take good care o' my old beauty, all right now? She likes a little love and devotion, you know?"<br/>"Aye, an' she'll get it." Bronwyn glanced up at the sky as it grew almost imperceptibly lighter. She had stay longer than she wanted to already.<br/>"I'm needin' to be goin'. Thank ya sir, an' may the wind be always at yer back."<br/>"You too, young miss, you too." the black musician chortled. "Be sure to say hey if ya see old Leon on de street, ya hear?"<br/>"Aye." Bronwyn said, then hurried down the street toward the inn, cello case in tow. She made it inside and to her room well before the sun rose, but she still heaved a sigh of relief as though it had been yet another near miss. Bronwyn only feared one thing: the sun, and she feared it with as much dedication as she applied to anything else in her life.<br/>Bronwyn leaned the case against the wall and sat down on her bed. Tonight she needed to shop. She needed a decent laptop, clothes, and a new pair of boots. Maybe the stubborn young desk clerk, Tara, could help her figure out where to find these things.