"Box fiddle," he says, still plucking idly at the trumpet strings. "Traveler's fiddle--a pochette, in some places. Lots of fiddles when you get down to it, harps were out of my means when I was young enough to learn sitting at anything for that long."

If his new friend was hoping for something easier to pick up, the instrument Cael pulls forward on the strap is deceiving in its familiarity.

"I suppose it's a lyre, to some, and you can play it a bit by hand, but it's meant for a bow." A thin body widens slightly where the strings are meant to resonate, just short of the bridge, but the neck feeds into a rectangular frame, leaving negative space in which to grasp the neck. "More people make it shriek than sing," he advises, shifting his posture to line it up with his sternum and demonstrate the high sound with a swipe of the bow.

"Did you want to try it? They can't toss water up from the windows, if it sounds like a screaming cat."