The next morning, I ran into Moreau moments before leaving for Bertrand Sylvestre's house. "Why hello, Miss Brackenborough," he said. "How did that meeting with Sylvestre go?"

I explained to Moreau what had happened: how Sylvestre had disapproved of my compositions, how he had offered me a position as a tutor and caretaker for his young children, how I was on my way to his house at this very moment, ready for my first day of work. Moreau, however, was displeased.

"You can't be serious," he said.

"It's the only way I'm going to learn how to compose," I said.

"But you shouldn't have to look after Sylvestre's children to learn from him. You deserve better than this."

He was right, of course, but there wasn't much I could do now. "It's my decision, Mr. Moreau," I said to him.

"Okay," Moreau said. "Are you doing anything this evening?"

"I'm free after Mr. Sylvestre comes home from work."

"Great," Moreau said with a smile. "Could I meet you at six?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?" I asked.

"It's a surprise, but I promise you'll like it."

I was still suspicious of whatever it was that Moreau had planned, but I agreed to meet him at six anyways. We said our goodbyes, and on the carriage to Sylvestre's house, I thought about my new job, Moreau's surprise, and most of all, Johann Bergmann. According to the newspaper, someone had murdered him, but I couldn't imagine anyone who would ever want to do something so awful. Bergmann had composed many strange, beautiful pieces of music, pieces that some loved and some hated, but he had never harmed anyone. I couldn't conceive of a single reason why anyone would ever want to kill Johann Bergmann.

When I arrived at Sylvestre's house, I tried to push away my thoughts of Bergmann, and I knocked on the door. Sylvestre's house was large and well-kept, nearly the exact opposite of the boarding house where I was staying, and already, I felt slightly intimidated.

I heard a high-pitched voice shout, "Papa, someone's at the door!" A few moments later, there were loud footsteps, and then Sylvestre answered the door, with a small blonde-haired girl of about seven clinging to his leg.

"Come on in, Miss Brackenborough," Sylvestre said. I entered the house, and I took a moment to look around as Sylvestre shut the door. "Jean-Luc!" Sylvestre shouted. "Come downstairs please!"

"I don't want to!" someone, presumably Jean-Luc, shouted from upstairs.

"Miss Brackenborough is here to take you to school," Sylvestre said. "You don't want to be late, do you?"

"But I'm too sick to go to school," Jean-Luc said. "My stomach hurts, and my hands are clammy, and..."

"You've said that every day for the last week, Jean-Luc," Sylvestre said. "Just get down here already."

Jean-Luc sighed loudly and dramatically, and a few minutes later, he shambled into the doorway, carrying a book bag and a violin case. He appeared to be around thirteen years old, but already, he looked much like his father. They had the same wild, brown hair, the same slanted nose, the same hazel eyes.

"Wait a second," I said when I noticed the violin case, far too professional for a mere student. "You're Jean-Luc Sylvestre. The violin prodigy."

I had heard all about him. He had won competitions, toured all across the world, played to sold-out concert halls in the world's largest cities, his skillful violin technique belying his young age. It was strange to see him now, with his father and his sister, acting like an ordinary thirteen-year-old.

"Yeah, I suppose," Jean-Luc said.

Miss Brackenborough, these are my children, Jean-Luc and Sophie," Sylvestre said. "Jean-Luc, Sophie, say hello to Miss Brackenborough."

"Hi," Sophie said shyly.

"I'm too old for this," Jean-Luc complained.

"Don't be rude, Jean-Luc," Sylvestre said. "Miss Brackenborough, I'll show you where the children's schools are. You'll have some time to rest and prepare for their lessons before you pick them up this afternoon. Jean-Luc, are you ready to go?"

Jean-Luc groaned, but nevertheless, he followed the rest of us out of the house. On the way to Jean-Luc's school, Sophie talked to me excitedly, asking me about everything from where I was from to what my favorite animal was to whether or not I liked chocolate ice cream, while Jean-Luc regarded us in stony silence. When we finally made it to the Lycée Henri-IV, which was really more like a large, elaborate campus in the heart of the Latin Quarter, Jean-Luc immediately ran off with two other boys his age, his violin case slamming into the door as he raced them to the school gates.

"Jean-Luc!" Bertrand shouted. "Be more careful with that instrument!" However, his son paid him no attention.

The three of us continued on to Sophie's school, a much plainer institution than Jean-Luc's, and after we'd dropped her off, Bertrand headed to the Paris Conservatory. "Feel free to go back to our house," Bertrand said before he left. "The maid should be there to let you in."

I did exactly that, and as I waited until the end of the school day, I read through the pile of newspapers sitting on the counter, scouring them for any news about Johann Bergmann. However, it seemed like nothing had happened since the previous day. My endless anxiety wouldn't help the police solve the case any quicker.

Every once in a while, I got up and wandered through the house, admiring the framed photographs of the Sylvestre family. There were Jean-Luc and Sophie, growing from babies to toddlers to young children, and there were Mr. and Mrs. Sylvestre, perfectly posed for the photograph. They were a beautiful family, and even from those pictures, it was clear just how much Sylvestre adored his wife. I couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like, loving someone like that and then losing them. The closest I'd come was losing Bergmann, and I hadn't even truly known him.

Mrs. Sylvestre's piercing blue eyes stared blankly into the distance, and I wondered what exactly had happened to her. Had she died quickly and violently, like Bergmann had, or was it long and drawn out? Was her family there, or did she die alone? Was there really a light at the end of the tunnel? What was it like, passing into the next life?

I tried to push such morbid thoughts out of my head, but no matter what I did, they kept coming back to me.

Eventually, it was time to pick Sophie up from school. I walked back to the primary school and found the small, blonde-haired girl among the crowd of children waiting in front of the building. The two of us walked home, and I asked her about her day. She told me everything with a fervor that would have exhausted anyone over the age of ten, complaining about her teachers, raving about her closest friends, and recounting every last detail of every single lesson. A few times I wanted to interrupt her, if only to remind her that I too had read Jules Verne, and I did not need a plot summary of Around The World in Eighty Days, but I appreciated her enthusiasm, so I let her ramble.

When we got home, I immediately started her piano lesson, but that turned out to be a mistake. Unlike her father and brother, Sophie seemed to have little talent or interest in music. Her technique was poor, and she hardly paid attention to the sheet music, missing almost all of the articulations and dynamics. When I tried to correct her, she nodded and then played in the exact same way as she had earlier, ignoring my comments altogether. I wondered where the passion she'd shown only moments earlier had gone.

Halfway through her lesson, Sophie asked, "Miss Brackenborough, what's the word for piano in English?"

"Piano," I said.

"Piano," Sophie repeated, fascinated by the unfamiliar vowel sounds. "What about musique?"

"Music."

"So is English just French with an English accent?"

I laughed. "No, there are lots of words that are different."

"Like what?"

"Song. Voice. Applause."

"What do those words mean?"

I paused for a few moments, and when I remembered the French words, I said, "La chanson. La voix. Les applaudissements."

"Can you tell me more English words?" Sophie asked. "Like, what do you call that?"

She pointed toward the door, and I suspected this was all just an attempt to get out of her piano lesson, but I answered her question anyway. Soon, we were wandering around the house - I taught her the English words for each item, and she taught me their French equivalents. Perhaps it was a little silly to have a seven-year-old correcting my pronunciation, but I was learning better than I ever had in school.

Later, Sylvestre returned with Jean-Luc, and when he opened the door, he found Sophie and I digging through the icebox, naming each of the items inside. "Glad to see you two are having fun," Sylvestre said. "Miss Brackenborough, you're more than welcome to stay for dinner if you'd like."

I looked toward the clock - it was nearly six. "Actually, I have somewhere I need to be," I said.

Sophie pouted, but Sylvestre said, "That's perfectly fine. I'll see you back here tomorrow morning."

I left the Sylvestres' house and returned to Porte Saint-Denis, where I found Moreau waiting for me in front of Madame Leclerc's boarding house. "So what's your surprise, Moreau?" I asked.

"You'll see," Moreau said. He started walking, and I followed him, the two of us conversing rather aimlessly the entire time. Occasionally, I asked him where we were going, but he evaded my questions.

Eventually, we stopped in front of a nice building in a residential neighborhood, not far from the Sylvestres' house. "I don't understand," I said. "What's the surprise?"

Moreau smiled and said, "Well, Miss Brackenborough, now that you're in Paris, I thought you might like to meet the Order of the Nightingales."