I froze, dumbfounded by what I had just heard. It couldn't be, not while his music was still echoing through the auditorium, vibrant and full of life. Johann Bergmann was only thirty-nine. He was far too young to die.

The three policemen rushed out of the auditorium, the youngest looking rather queasy again, while word of Bergmann's death spread through the audience. As the riots started up again like they'd never stopped at all, I felt as if my dreams were passing me by once again. I'd hoped to meet Bergmann, to show him the pieces I'd written, to convince him to teach me the art of composition, to become a great composer, just like him. Now, all of those dreams had disappeared, as if they'd never existed in the first place. Perhaps they were nothing but silly, childish thoughts, but they were everything to me. I couldn't imagine returning home to London empty-handed, resigning myself to a dreary, meaningless life, teaching students who didn't care, never again touching the keys of a piano, but with Johann Bergmann gone, I didn't see any alternative. Without him, I had no purpose, no meaning, nothing left to live for.

As I realized the extent of what I'd lost, not just Johann Bergmann, not just his glorious compositions, but my childhood dreams too, I began to weep.

I couldn't bear to watch the rest of The Lost Shadow, so I ran out of the auditorium and into the Grand Foyer. Once I was there, I wiped my tears away with a handkerchief and then continued down the staircase. Upon reaching the bottom, I saw the policemen, now joined by a coroner, preparing to transport Bergmann's corpse to the morgue. I stepped closer, hoping to get a glimpse of what had happened.

"Stand back," one of the policemen told me. "This is no sight for a young lady like yourself."

I briefly glanced toward the scene of Bergmann's death; however, I couldn't see anything other than a pool of blood on the floor. I then backed away and headed for the door, but I wasn't sure where I was going. The stars twinkled above the city, and I knew there wouldn't be another train home until tomorrow morning. I needed somewhere to stay for the night.

I spent the next hour or so aimlessly wandering around Paris, contemplating Bergmann's death. I had never truly met him, but nevertheless, his passing felt like a great tragedy. Even if we had never spoken, I felt like we were kindred souls. Sometimes, when I listened to his music, it was as if he had taken my emotions, written them into notes, chords, and melodies, and played them back just for me, just so that I could know that I wasn't alone in the universe. He had guided me through the turbulent years of my youth, showing me the darkest and brightest parts of life, opening up whole new worlds for me to explore. How could I not mourn the loss of a man like that, even if he never knew who I was?

It still felt as if there was a massive hole in my heart, one that might never heal, but I thought that it might be best if I got some sleep. Maybe I would wake up tomorrow, and I would find that all of this was nothing but a nightmare. Even if this was real, even if I woke up tomorrow and Bergmann was still dead, I would at least be well-rested for the journey home.

Eventually, I stumbled upon a boarding house somewhere in the Quartier de la Porte Saint-Denis. It was certainly not a glamorous neighborhood, and the building looked old-fashioned and worn down, but it would have to do.

I knocked on the door, and a large, stern-looking woman answered. "What do you want?" she said.

"I would like to rent a room for tonight only," I said, struggling to remember the words in French. "Could I?"

The landlady sighed and said, "It will be two francs." After double-checking to make sure that I would have enough money for the trip home tomorrow, I counted out the coins and handed them to her. She left for a few moments, but she soon returned with a key. "Your room is on the third floor, at the end of the hall," she said. "Breakfast is at 7 o'clock sharp."

I thanked the landlady and hurried up the stairs to my room. However, as I walked down the corridor, I heard the most lovely sound. It was a violin, playing the Mendelssohn Violin Concerto. The performance was impeccable, with more expression and emotion than perhaps any other violinist I'd ever heard. Even when the violinist stopped and started, cursing with every mistake, it was still incredible. I followed the sound, absorbing the rich, warm tones as I continued down the corridor.

Finally, I identified the source of the sound. It was coming from the room next to mine. I waited in front of the door, eager to hear more, and when the violinist finished the first movement, I knocked on the door.

A man around my age with pale skin, dark hair, and round spectacles answered, and he was holding what was perhaps the ugliest violin I had ever seen: it looked like it might fall apart at any moment. "I'm sorry to...uhh...to interrupt," I said, again fumbling for words. "Your violin...what's the word again...?"

"What are you doing here?" the man asked in perfect English.

"I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners," I said. "My name is Matilda Brackenborough, and I'm staying in the room next door. I happened to hear you playing the Mendelssohn concerto, and I thought it sounded absolutely delightful."

The man smiled and then said, "Thank you, Miss Brackenborough. I'm Felix Moreau, and it's truly a pleasure to meet you."

"It's lovely to meet you as well, Mr. Moreau," I said.

"What brings you to Paris?" Moreau asked.

"It's a long story."

Moreau chuckled as he leaned against the door frame and said, "I have time."

"I went to see The Lost Shadow..."

"How was that?" Moreau interrupted. "I wanted to go, but all of the cheap tickets sold out weeks before the premiere."

"It was fine," I said. "The music was fantastic, but the audience was riotous, and...and..." I could hardly bring myself to say it, but eventually, I did, if only in a whisper. "Johann Bergmann died."

Moreau looked shocked, as if he couldn't quite believe what he had just heard. "Bergmann died?" he said. "How?"

"No one's quite sure," I said. "It seems like he fell off of the grand staircase."

"That's awful," Moreau said. "Bergmann's one of my favorite composers."

"He's one of mine too." There was a moment of silence and then I said, "Anyways, I came home from the opera, and now I'm staying here until tomorrow morning. What about you, Moreau? What brings you to Paris?"

"I grew up in England, but I returned to France to attend the Paris Conservatory," Moreau said. "I graduated last spring, and I'm still looking for work, although I haven't had much luck so far. I auditioned for the Concertgebouw Orchestra last week, but I didn't even get past the preliminary round. I didn't phrase one of the passages in the Mendelssohn correctly, and my orchestral excerpts were abysmal..."

"But you're an amazing violinist," I said.

"Thank you, but most people seem to disagree." He then paused and said, "Maybe it would help if I understood the context of the concerto better. I have the piano part, and there's a piano downstairs, but all of the other people who live here are awful pianists, so I rarely get to hear what it sounds like with the accompaniment."

"I wouldn't say that I'm a great pianist either, but I could give it a try."

"That would be great," Moreau said. He went back into his room, put his violin into a case that was just as hideous as the instrument inside, and handed me the piano part. I skimmed through it, glad that I could at least lend Moreau a helping hand, as the two of us headed downstairs.

When we reached the first floor, I sat down at the piano bench, and as soon as Moreau had tightened his bow and tuned his violin, we began to play. Just like before, his playing was beautiful, and I tried my best to follow him through the piece, my fingers stumbling across the piano keys. It was imperfect, but it was something truly beautiful.

After we finished, my mind began to wander, and I started to play one of my own compositions. Moreau looked on for a few minutes, fascinated, before he finally asked, "What piece is that?"

"It doesn't have a title, but I wrote it myself," I said.

"You never mentioned you were a composer," Moreau said with a smile.

"It's just a hobby." I paused, and then hoping Moreau wouldn't judge me too much, I said, "It's silly, but when I was a child, I dreamed that Bergmann might teach me to become a great composer. I think a part of me still wanted that, but now that he's gone..."

Moreau nodded. "I understand," he said. "Personally, I don't think you need training though. From what I've heard, your music is already incredible."

"There's only so much that books can teach you," I argued. "Besides, you went to a conservatory. You don't know what it's like not to have that opportunity."

Moreau went silent for a moment before the landlady walked in to complain loudly in French about the noise. Moreau apologized and then started to head upstairs, and I quickly followed him.

"I should have known that Madame Leclerc would come to interrupt us," Moreau said as we walked upstairs.

"Is she always like that?" I asked.

"Yes, but you get used to it after a while." We were silent for a while and just as we reached the second floor, Moreau said, "Miss Brackenborough, I think I just had the most brilliant idea."

"What is it?" I asked.

"You may not be able to learn from Bergmann, but my old composition teacher might be able to teach you. His name is Bertrand Sylvestre, and..."

"Sylvestre? The one who wrote that string quartet a few years ago?" I wasn't hugely fond of Sylvestre's work, but if learning from him might help me become a composer at last, then it might be worth it.

"Yes, that one," Moreau said. "The telegraph office is still open - I can send him a telegram, and you should have an answer before the first train leaves tomorrow."

"That would be perfect," I said. "Thank you."

Moreau went into his room for a moment and emerged with paper and a pen. He then scrawled out a message in French and handed it to me to see what I thought of it.

Met a lovely composer today. Her name is Matilda Brackenborough. Any chance you could meet with her sometime?

Felix Moreau

"Looks perfect," I said.

"Great. I'll send it tonight," Moreau said. He waved to me as he headed for the staircase, and he said, "Have a good night, Miss Brackenborough."

"You too, Mr. Moreau," I said. I then went into my room and collapsed onto the bed. The events of the day replayed in my head as I stared up at the ceiling, from the riot at the opera to seeing the pool of Bergmann's blood on the floor to meeting Moreau. I mourned Bergmann's death, but at the same time, I thought toward the future, toward the possibility, however unlikely, of studying with Sylvestre. Other than talking to Moreau and hearing his beautiful playing, it was perhaps the only good thing that had come out of today.

I finally drifted off to sleep, the Mendelssohn concerto still stuck in my head.

The next morning, I awoke to find that Moreau had left a handwritten note in front of my door.

Dear Miss Brackenborough,

Professor Sylvestre's reply arrived a few minutes ago - I thought you might like to see it. It was lovely meeting you yesterday, and regardless of whether you choose to stay in Paris or not, I hope that we can keep in touch.

Yours sincerely,

Felix Moreau

Attached to the note, there was a telegram.

Tell Brackenborough to meet me at Café de la Paix at 11 today.

B. Sylvestre

I smiled as I folded up the note and the telegram and put both of them in my purse. The train to London would leave soon, but I supposed that I could stay in Paris for a little while longer. After all, I had a meeting with Bertrand Sylvestre.