As it turned out, Léa and I became fast friends. Each day, after my composition lessons were over, I went straight to the fencing hall, if only to see her. At the Order of the Nightingale meetings, I walked there with Moreau by my side, but things were still tense between us, so we hardly talked. As soon as we got there, he left to sulk in the corner, while I went to find Léa, who almost always ended up next to the snack table somehow. I hated how miserable Moreau seemed to be, but at the same time, I couldn't give up Léa for him. Whenever we were together, magic happened.

There was another piece of good news though. One morning, just before work, I got a letter from Gertie saying that she was coming to visit. It wouldn't be for another two weeks, but at least I would get a chance to see her again. It felt like it had been forever since I'd last seen my older sister, and I missed her greatly.

I was still re-reading the letter, delighted by the thought of Gertie's visit, when I arrived at Sylvestre's house that morning. I knocked on the door, and when Sylvestre answered, he immediately said, "Miss Brackenborough, I have an extra assignment for you today, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all," I said.

"Jean-Luc has a concert at five today at the Palais Garnier, and I'd like you to take him."

"Of course, Mr. Sylvestre. I'd be happy to do that."

In truth, I didn't want to spend my evening babysitting Jean-Luc, and I was fairly certain that he didn't want me there either. Nevertheless, this was my job, and besides, it would be nice to hear Jean-Luc play. Hearing a soloist of his caliber was a rare experience, and I knew that I should take advantage of the opportunity.

However, as soon as Sylvestre left and the children were both at school, I ran into the telegraph office to send the following telegram to Léa Valencourt.

Concert tonight at Palais Garnier. Want to come?

MB

Only a few hours later, I received a reply.

Hell yes

LV

The next few hours were uneventful, but I couldn't help but think of Léa. I couldn't wait to see her again, to talk to her about the concert, to listen to Jean-Luc's violin playing with her by my side. I could hardly focus on Sophie's English lesson when the concert was mere hours away.

Just before the concert, I picked Jean-Luc up from school, and Jean-Luc, Sophie, and I walked to the Palais Garnier. "I don't want to play tonight," Jean-Luc complained, dragging his violin case on the ground.

"I'm sorry, but there are hundreds of people waiting to hear you," I said. "And could you please show a little bit more respect to your instrument?"

Jean-Luc grunted incomprehensibly as he picked up the violin. However, he slammed it into a door seconds later, as if he were trying to prove a point.

"Stop it, Jean-Luc," I said. "If you can't play tonight, it's going to be your fault."

"I already said I don't want to play."

I sighed in exasperation as the three of us approached the Palais Garnier. We hadn't even entered the building yet, but already, I felt sick to my stomach. This was the first time I had been here since Bergmann's death, and I could already see the riots, the policemen, the glimpse of Bergmann's corpse lying on the floor next to the staircase.

"Hi Mattie," I heard someone say, and I turned and saw Léa. "Are you okay? You don't look like you're doing too well."

"I'm fine," I insisted.

"So what concert are we seeing tonight?" Léa asked.

"Jean-Luc is playing a solo recital," I said, gesturing toward him as we headed into the building. Léa gave Jean-Luc a slight wave, but he simply glowered at her.

"And who's the girl?" Léa asked.

"Jean-Luc's sister, Sophie," I explained.

"Oh wonderful," Léa said.

Before Léa could say anything else, a high-pitched voice exclaimed, "Jean-Luc!"

Jean-Luc immediately spotted the small boy waving to him and waved back. "Hi Antoine!" he exclaimed. "Glad you made it!"

"Romain's here too," Antoine said. "He's in line to make sure we get good seats."

"Cool," Jean-Luc said. He turned to me and asked, "Miss Brackenborough, can I go now?" I nodded, and Jean-Luc immediately ran off with Antoine.

"You know, we should probably find our seats too," Léa suggested. "We don't want to end up with the worst seats in the house."

"That seems like a smart idea," I said as I joined the back of the line.

The three of us waited for what felt like forever, and I couldn't help but remember exactly what had happened here. I could see it - in this very spot, someone had hit Johann Bergmann over the head, causing him to tumble over the railing and onto the floor below. I leaned over the railing for a moment, if only to see just how far Bergmann had fallen, and I pictured his body lying on the floor of the Palais Garnier. When I stepped away, I wished that Jean-Luc was performing somewhere else, some place where my memories wouldn't haunt me. I could already tell that these thoughts would torment me all evening, without pause or interruption.

Finally, we stepped into the auditorium and found our seats. "The acoustics in here are nice, but personally, I prefer the Vienna State Opera," Léa said.

"I've never been to Vienna," I said.

"It's a lovely city, far better than here," Léa said. "The architecture is gorgeous, the musicians are world-class, and I've never met anyone as effortlessly beautiful as the people I met in Vienna. I moved there when I was eighteen, and I don't regret a moment I spent in that city."

"Miss Valencourt, can you teach me Austrian sometime?" Sophie asked suddenly.

Léa laughed. "Austrian's not a language," she said. "They speak German in Austria."

"Why?" Sophie asked, fascinated by the endless intricacies of language.

"Honestly, I have no idea," Léa said.

"Why did you come back to Paris if you liked Vienna so much?" I asked.

"Oh, I just got bored after a while. It was the same venues, the same shows, the same people...the people there were pretty amazing though. I worked with some of the brightest musicians of our generation...Hans Richter, Arnold Rosé, Johann Bergmann..."

"You worked with Bergmann?"

"A few times. We kept going to the same parties, and I helped him write some of his choral music."

"What was he like?"

"A little like you, actually. Always writing music, always full of ideas. He was a true innovator, someone who lived to experiment." Léa laughed and then added, "He experimented a little too much with his spelling though. His letters were just about impossible to read."

Jean-Luc had just stepped onstage, but Léa didn't seem to care. She kept on talking as if nothing was happening, while I tried to listen to both Jean-Luc and Léa. Sophie, on the other hand, was poring over the program notes, quietly sounding out all of the foreign words and musical terms.

Of course, the second he began to play, I understood why Jean-Luc was so renowned as a violinist. As he played through Paganini's 24 Caprices, I marveled at the speed at which his fingers flew across the violin, the skill it took to master a piece that difficult at the age of thirteen. It was nothing like listening to Moreau play, of course: Moreau was technically mediocre, but he expressed deep, powerful emotion with his playing, while Jean-Luc's technique was only matched by his apathy. After a few minutes of listening to his perfect and yet perfectly dull playing, I turned to Léa to hear what she had to say about Bergmann.

"I wonder who killed him," she remarked.

"Well, a lot of people seem to think Bertrand Sylvestre did it," I said.

"Jean-Luc's father?" Léa asked, and I nodded. "It's not him."

"How do you know?"

"I've met him before. He can be callous at times, but I don't think he would murder anyone."

I was inclined to agree with her, but I didn't say so at the time. Instead, I changed the subject, asking her how things were going with the Paris Opera.

"Oh Mattie, you have no idea!" Léa exclaimed. "The critics hate me, the audience is pretentious as always, and my co-stars are the most melodramatic people I've ever met!"

Léa continued to ramble for the rest of the concert: it was clear she needed to vent, and I was happy to lend an ear. However, even after the show was over, she still continued to talk - it was as if she didn't know when to stop.

As we stood at the bottom of the staircase, mere feet away from where Bergmann drew his last breath, Lajoie approached us. "Miss Valencourt!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, Mr. Lajoie?" Léa said.

"De Villiers scheduled an emergency rehearsal for the 28th."

"Why? We don't need more rehearsals."

"He wants to rehearse the end of Act I."

"That part's fine," Léa insisted.

"Honestly, I think it's in good shape too, but you know how de Villiers is," Lajoie said as Léa groaned.

All of a sudden, Jean-Luc approached us. "Hello Jean-Luc," I said to him. "You sounded amazing out there."

Jean-Luc rolled his eyes and asked me, "Can I go play with Romain and Antoine for a little while?"

"No, let's get you home," I said. "I'm sure your father will want to see you."

Jean-Luc glared at me and mumbled something incomprehensible, while Lajoie turned to Léa and said, "I'll see you at rehearsal...actually, I'll see both you and Miss Brackenborough at the next Order of the Nightingales meeting!"

"See you then!" Léa exclaimed as Lajoie walked away, whistling the opening theme from Bruckner's 7th Symphony. She then turned to me and said, "I should probably go as well. I'll see you tomorrow."

I waved to Léa as she walked out of the building, and then, the children and I headed back to Sylvestre's house. On the way, Jean-Luc constantly complained about how mean I was for not letting him run around Paris with his friends. "You're not any better than I am, Miss Brackenborough," he argued. "I know how much time you've been spending with Léa Valencourt."

"There's nothing wrong with Miss Valencourt," I said.

"Yeah, she's really nice," Sophie said.

"Thanks, Sophie," I said to her.

Jean-Luc rolled his eyes and muttered, "Keep telling yourself that, Miss Brackenborough."

Eventually, we made it to Sylvestre's house, and I dropped the two of them off and immediately headed home, eager to work on my latest composition. I made good progress that night, my pencil flying across the staff paper, and I looked forward to showing Sylvestre what I had done the following morning.

However, things didn't quite go as planned.

The next day, when Sylvestre came home from the conservatory, he didn't seem like he was in the mood for a lesson. He looked downcast, dejected, worn-out. "What's going on, Mr. Sylvestre?" I asked him.

"I haven't been entirely honest with you, Miss Brackenborough," he said.

"About what?" I asked.

"About Johann Bergmann," Sylvestre said. My jaw dropped, and he laughed and said, "Don't you worry, Miss Brackenborough. I'll tell you everything."