Consignment to generations of extremes (hell- acious attics, flooded basements) split its maple carapace, warped the fingerboard. To sell it, we’d have to find the bridge, other bits of ebony. My wife’s aunt played it as a child, the nurse whose snagged scarf dragged her down a Manhattan subway tunnel. Or was it the wild one, failed nun with her hats, flowered gowns, and cruise ships? Mittenwald, 1820 and Mathias Neüner’s signature staring out the f-hole. Because the bow is stamped Otto Wünderlich, it’s worth more—the hundred and fifty (exactly) horsetail hairs sprung like the plush frizz you’d pluck from an older woman’s brush.