“This is Patroclus,” Achilles said. “He does not play, but he will learn.”
“Not on that instrument.” The man’s hand swooped down to pluck the
lyre from my hands. Instinctively, my fingers tightened on it. It was not as
beautiful as my mother’s lyre, but it was still a princely instrument. I did not
want to give it up.
I did not have to. Achilles had caught him by the wrist, midreach. “Yes,
on that instrument if he likes.”
The man was angry but said no more. Achilles released him and he sat,
stiffly.

Chapter 4