Chapter 4 - The Touch of Gold
The workshop fell so silent that the ticking of the grandfather clock in the reception foyer sounded like thunder.
Jenna did not rush. Her hands moved across the complex assembly of levers, flanges, felts, and springs with an instinct that transcended ordinary training. While the two conservatory technicians smirked by the doorway, Jenna closed her eyes for two seconds, feeling the weight of the hammer shanks between her fingers. A great piano restorer didn't work purely with calipers; they felt the grain of the hornbeam wood and the density of the pressed wool.
Her fingers flew. She adjusted the let-off screws with micro-turns, aligning the drop screws with effortless muscle memory. She shaved a microscopic sliver of felt from the fourth hammer where the humidity had swelled the fiber, balancing the action weight to precisely fifty-two grams of down-touch—the golden standard of European concert grands.
Trent stood over her, his arms folded, checking his stopwatch every two minutes. “Ten minutes left. You haven't checked the back-check clearance on notes five and six.”
Jenna didn't even look up. “Notes five and six have warped pins from improper storage in your unheated warehouse bay. I compensated for the friction by adjusting the bushing cloth two minutes ago. Stop breathing on my felt.”
A chuckle erupted from the far side of the shop. Trent’s face flushed red.
“Time,” Trent barked as the forty-fifth minute expired. “Hands off the bench.”
Jenna laid her pliers down, stepped back, and took Maisie’s hand.
Trent pulled a digital micrometer and an action balance scale from his briefcase. He smugly approached the bench, clearly preparing to deliver the killing blow. He placed the micrometer against the first hammer shank.
Zero variance.
He frowned, shifting quickly to the third hammer.
Zero variance.
He tested the let-off distance—the exact moment the hammer releases before striking the imaginary string. Two millimeters. Exactly as specified in the original 1892 German factory manual. He placed the gram weights on the key front: fifty-two grams depressed the key; twenty grams returned it crisply to rest.
Every single key acted as if it had been calibrated by an automated industrial laser.
The surrounding technicians leaned in, watching the digital numbers flash on Trent’s screen. Morris whistled low and long. “My God. That’s pure touch. I haven't seen action regulated that cleanly since Graham’s father was running the floor.”
Trent’s hands began to shake slightly. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He desperately looked for a flaw, a single stripped screw, a scratch on the antique wood, anything to disqualify her.
“Well, Trent?” Claire asked from the perimeter, her arms folded, a proud smile breaking across her lips. “Does Jenna Walsh get Bench Seven, or do you want to keep embarrassing yourself in front of our entire staff?”
Before Trent could fabricate an excuse, the double doors swung open. Graham Hartley stepped inside, brushing flakes of fresh snow from his navy shop coat. He looked at the crowd gathered around Bench Seven, looked at Jenna standing tall beside her daughter, and finally looked at Trent holding the micrometer.
“What’s all this circus about?” Graham boomed.
“Trent decided to administer the Master Guild Exam to our newest hire, Dad,” Claire said clearly. “Jenna finished it in forty-four minutes. Flawless across all eight registers.”
Graham’s eyes locked onto Jenna. He slowly walked over, inspected the wooden assembly on the bench, tapped the third key once with his thumb, and listened to the silent, oiled return of the felt.
“Pack your calipers, Trent,” Graham said without looking at his son-in-law. “Jenna Walsh, clock in. You’re on full master technician salary as of seven o’clock this morning. And your first assignment is leading the soundboard restoration on the Riverton Concert Grand.”
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Trent’s eyes widened in sheer horror. “Leading? Graham, she just walked off the street! I am the operations director, and I forbid this!”
“You don't forbid anything under my roof, Trent,” Graham replied, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous rumble. “You manage spreadsheets. I manage the craft. Now get back in your glass office before I decide to audit your expense accounts from the Chicago trip.”
