"I'm sorry - I should have introduced myself," the blond-haired man said. "My name is Paul Saint-Yves."

Paul. I'd heard that name before, but I couldn't quite remember where. I stared at the man in front of me for a long time, trying to figure out how I knew his name, his face. However, my memory failed me, and eventually, I gave up and asked, "How do you know who I am?"

"I'm Bertrand Sylvestre's brother-in-law," Saint-Yves explained. "He's mentioned you a few times in his letters. You're something of a composer, aren't you?"

"I like to think so," I said as I glanced toward the composition book lying at the bottom of my purse.

"A woman composer. How cute," Saint-Yves said. "Anyways, aren't you supposed to be in Paris?"

"I'm taking the day off," I said. I glanced out the window, wishing I could be somewhere else. I had a whole city to explore - why should I be stuck talking to this man who obviously didn't care about me? I had better things to do with my precious time.

That was when I realized why I recognized Saint-Yves' face. I'd seen it in photos, back at Sylvestre's house. He was Claire Sylvestre's brother, and although there were some differences - the shape of his nose, the curve of his jaw - there was a close familial resemblance. He must have been close with his sister, and he must know something about Mrs. Sylvestre and what had happened to her.

Maybe I could figure out, once and for all, why Sylvestre was practically incapable of telling the truth about his wife's death.

"You know, I've always been curious about Mr. Sylvestre," I said to Saint-Yves. "It seems like there's a lot he doesn't tell me."

"I think that's just how he is, Miss Brackenborough," Saint-Yves said. "Mr. Sylvestre's always been a bit reserved."

"How long have you known him?"

"Oh, for years," Saint-Yves said. "We met in...'78? '79? It was after his year in Rome, just after he moved back to France. I've always been one of Sylvestre's most ardent supporters, and when we finally met, we instantly became friends. I don't think I've met anyone else who understands me so well, whose music touches my soul like his. So, of course, I introduced him to my little sister.

"Mr. Sylvestre was smitten instantly, but it took Claire a little while to warm up to him. Eventually, they got married and had my wonderful niece and nephew, and I think they'd still be together today if she hadn't..."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Saint-Yves," I said when I saw the distraught look on his face. "I can't imagine what it would be like to lose your sister...I have a sister too, and even living this far away from her can be hard sometimes..."

Saint-Yves nodded slightly and then said, "It all happened so quickly. She was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer, and well...it was like one day she was alive and well, and the next, she wasn't."

I shuddered and said, "I can't even imagine..."

"It's been over a year now," Saint-Yves said sadly. "I still miss Claire, of course, but it's less painful to think of her now than it was before. I've started to move on."

Honestly, I had no clue whether or not Saint-Yves was telling the truth. It sounded like yet another one of Sylvestre's stories, another lie to avoid facing the fact of the matter, but I couldn't fathom why Mrs. Sylvestre's brother would want to deceive me. If anyone would tell me the truth, it would be him.

Saint-Yves glanced toward the clock and said, "I should get going. I have other places to be, and if I'm not mistaken, so do you."

"Goodbye, Mr. Saint-Yves. It was nice to meet you," I said, and as we headed our separate ways, I still wasn't quite sure what to make of him. He didn't exactly seem like the kindest person in the world, although he was certainly better than the likes of Mr. Crémieux. I couldn't say for sure whether or not he was telling me the truth about what had happened to his sister, but a part of me didn't trust him at all. Something about him seemed off to me, but I couldn't say for sure what it was.

I left the train station and wandered through town, passing by the cathedrals and the half-timbered houses until I finally made it to the gardens, where Orléans bled into the French countryside. I walked past the terrace, past rows of flowers, and when I finally sat down on a bench next to the Loiret river, I looked out toward the waves, and I thought of the fencing hall, of the opera house, of Vienna and whether it was too late to go back to the station and catch a train to Austria. I thought of Léa.

I missed her.

It had been less than twenty-four hours since we'd last spoken, but nevertheless, all I wanted was to be with her. Ever since we'd met, hardly a day had gone by when I hadn't seen her, talked to her, and now that I was here, nearly a hundred miles away, all I wanted was to go home and see Léa and her bright blue eyes once again.

Then again, I felt the same way about Moreau. I missed him too, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I liked him as a friend, but not as anything more than that. If Léa was right about him, we needed to talk. She was right - if he really was interested in me, I needed to stop leading him on. I stared into the water for a while, and I promised myself that next time I saw Moreau, I would tell him that I didn't love him in the same way. Hopefully, it would save him some heartache.

My mind drifted back to Sylvestre and his family, and I wondered what they were doing today. It was a school day, and if I was going to be perfectly honest with myself, I should have waited until the weekend to run off to Orléans. Sophie needed her English and piano lessons, and someone needed to keep an eye on Jean-Luc when his father couldn't. I had responsibilities back in Paris, and I'd needlessly abandoned them.

I got up off of the bench, and after stopping by one of the local bistros for lunch, I headed for the train station once again. I had to go back. There was too much to do at home, too many jobs to do, people to talk to, mysteries to solve. However, a part of me was glad that I'd come to Orléans. I'd gotten away from the hustle of life in the city for a little while, and I'd gotten to talk to Mr. Saint-Yves, even if he ultimately wasn't very helpful. I felt relaxed, refreshed, and sorted out, like a new, better version of myself.

I took the last train that day from Orléans to Paris, and when I finally arrived back in the City of Lights, I headed straight for the boarding house. When I got upstairs, I heard Moreau practicing the Mendelssohn as usual. I smiled and eagerly knocked on the door, but when I didn't get a response, I simply headed into my room, knowing that I'd surely get a chance to talk to Moreau later.

The next morning, I went to Sylvestre's house for work as usual, but after my day off, I was feeling quite rejuvenated. I'd nearly finished the first movement of the symphony on the train the previous day, and I desperately wanted to show Sylvestre what I'd been working on. I had no idea what he'd think of it, but for once, I didn't care. I was proud of what I'd done.

However, even before I knocked on the door, Sylvestre swung the door open and glared down at me angrily. I tried to smile, but he just kept on glaring until he finally opened his mouth and asked, "Where were you yesterday?"

I wished I had a good answer. 

A/N: Sorry this took so long! Hoping to get more updates out soon...