"I had something come up," I said. "It's hard to explain, but I...I really needed a day off."

Sylvestre glowered at me again and then said, "So you went on vacation to Orléans without telling anyone."

"How do you know I was in Orléans?"

"My brother-in-law said he saw you at the train station."

"Listen, I've been rather stressed lately, and I felt like I needed to get out of Paris for a while, and..."

"Stop making excuses, Miss Brackenborough," Sylvestre said. He sighed and then added, "You don't know the trouble you've caused us. When you didn't show up, I had to track down all of those strange people you call friends - Mr. Moreau and Miss Valencourt and the like - but none of them knew where you'd gone, and when I got that telegram from Paul...I was worried about you. I didn't know why you'd disappeared so suddenly, or what on Earth you were doing in Orléans of all places. I had to cancel my counterpoint class at the conservatory yesterday, just so I could pick Sophie up from school. You should have been there, Miss Brackenborough."

"You're right," I said. "I'm sorry, Mr. Sylvestre." Just because I couldn't help myself, I added, "I just haven't gotten a day off since I got here, and I made a lot of progress on the symphony on the train home - it's coming along quite well now that I've fixed some of the orchestration..."

Sylvestre had an exasperated look on his face, like he couldn't stand to hear another excuse for what I'd done. Perhaps he didn't believe me, or perhaps he simply didn't care.

"Have you finished the cello sonata yet?" he asked.

"No," I admitted.

"Finish the cello sonata first," Sylvestre said. "Then we'll talk."

I sighed and then said, "I might be available tonight before the Order of the Nightingales meeting starts. Are you sure you can't help me with the symphony then? I certainly have time for a composition lesson."

"I'm not helping you with the symphony until you finish the sonata," Sylvestre said, scowling once again. "Now could you please walk Sophie to school? I'm already late for work."

Sylvestre headed out the door, and I went inside, already feeling frustrated. I had hoped that Sylvestre would be a little bit more sympathetic, considering everything that he'd gone through in the last few days, but nevertheless, here I was, waiting for Sophie to finish getting ready for school.

What broke my heart more than anything was the fact that Sylvestre wouldn't even look at my symphony. After all, I had come to Paris to learn from Johann Bergmann, but I had stayed for Bertrand Sylvestre and the promise of learning how to compose from one of the leading musicians in Paris. I still had aspirations, as foolish as they were, of becoming one of the great composers, and I thought that Sylvestre would help me get there, but now, I wasn't so sure. Perhaps it was nothing more than a childish dream, a great folly I could laugh about a few years from now. Perhaps I was never cut out to be an artist. Perhaps I was a fool for thinking I could ever complete Johann Bergmann's last symphony, or perhaps it was simply something I would have to do on my own, without Sylvestre's help.

I dropped Sophie off at school as Sylvestre asked, but as soon as she was gone, I worked on the symphony. I worked on fleshing out the last movement, scribbling down melodies and harmonies as they passed through my mind. I even finally wrote that vocal solo, the one I'd told Léa that I would add to the symphony, and as I wrote note after note, carefully shaping the highs and lows of each phrase, I thought of the beauty and power of her voice, the way she expressed emotion. All I could think of as I wrote down the melody was how desperately I wanted to hear Léa bring it to life.

The day went by, and when Sylvestre finally returned home, I quickly left and returned home to finish sketching out the fourth movement of the symphony. There was nothing else I wanted to do, nothing else I could even bring myself to focus on, but nevertheless, the hours went by, and shortly before the sun began to set, I heard a knock on the door.

"Miss Brackenborough?" I heard Moreau say, and I opened the door. "The Nightingales are meeting soon," he said. "Are you coming?"

"I'll be there in a minute," I told Moreau as I reluctantly put my composition book away. I then opened the door, and sure enough, Moreau was there, waiting for me.

The two of us walked to Léa's house, and after a while, Moreau broke the silence. "Where were you yesterday?" he asked me.

"Orléans," I answered.

"Why Orléans?"

"I don't know. I needed a break, and it seemed like the right place to go."

"You should have told me where you were going."

"Honestly, I didn't know where I was going until I got to the train station," I said. I looked him over - there were still bags under his eyes, and although he looked a little bit better than he had on the day we broke Sylvestre out of jail, I still worried about him. "You didn't practice all night again, did you, Moreau?"

"I didn't - I went to bed around eleven, and I started up again after breakfast the following morning," Moreau said. He then looked me over and asked, "You've been worrying about the Bergmann case too much, haven't you, Miss Brackenborough?"

"How could I not?" I said. "His music meant everything to me. When I heard his second symphony for the first time - I think I was twelve or so - I felt freedom, exhilaration, joy - the greatest joy I'd ever felt - and it made me want to become a composer. I wouldn't be here with you if it wasn't for Johann Bergmann, so it only feels right to try to bring his killer to justice." Moreau looked bored, and I soon realized why. "Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "You were there that day, weren't you?"

Moreau froze. "N-no I wasn't," he said, but it was obvious that he was lying. "Why would you think that?"

"Because you're Alice Barkley."

Moreau glared at me with a fierce intensity - I don't think I had ever seen him look quite that angry before. "I'm not Alice," he said coldly. "In fact, I don't think I ever was." There was a long silence, and then he asked, "Who told you? Was it Léa? It was Léa, wasn't it?"

I nodded and then said, "She told me a lot of things, Mr. Moreau. It's hard to say what's true and what's not."

Moreau looked around, and when he saw that we were right in front of Léa's house, he made a few left turns until we were standing in the middle of an obscure side street, where no one would hear us. "I don't know all of what Miss Valencourt told you about me..."

"She told me you're a woman."

Moreau looked visibly uncomfortable for a moment. "Maybe," he said, and after a long pause he added, "But in my heart and soul, I'm a man. I always have been."

"Does Gertie know?" I asked.

"She was supposed to be the only one who knew," Moreau explained. "I told her one day, when we were both in secondary school, that I wished I was a boy so I could enroll in a conservatory. And do you know what your sister said to me? She told me, 'You could play circles around any of the conservatory boys. Why don't you just dress as a boy and audition?' So that's what I did. I cut my hair, moved to Paris, and enrolled at the conservatory under a false name.

"But here's the thing - it didn't feel like a disguise. I liked being Felix, more than I ever liked being Alice. I felt like I could finally be myself. So even after I graduated, even after I could have gone back to my old life if I really wanted to, I didn't. Even Gertie calls me Moreau these days, because that's who I really am. Felix Moreau.

"Listen, I understand if you hate me. After Léa told the director of the conservatory about my...condition, far too many people found out, and none of them have ever truly accepted me for who I am. No one has. No one but Gertie. So if you don't want to be my friend anymore..."

When I saw the tears in his eyes, I reached out and gave him a hug. "Don't say that," I said to him. "This...this doesn't change anything. I'm still here for you. I'm still your friend, Mr. Moreau."

Moreau smiled and wiped away his tears. "Really? You mean that?"

"I mean it," I said as I backed away from Moreau. "That's not the only thing Léa told me though."

Moreau looked worried. "What else did she say?"

"She thinks you're in love with me."

"That's an exaggeration if I ever heard one," Moreau said. "You see, when I first met you in Paris, I hadn't seen you in years, and...well, you've changed a lot since I left London. But you're my best friend's sister, and I realized you didn't feel the same way about me..." I nodded, and he continued with, "So my feelings faded over time. I fell out of love, but we're still friends, aren't we?"

"Of course," I said.

"Then I don't think we have anything to worry about," Moreau said. "Come on, Miss Brackenborough. Why don't we find out what the Nightingales are up to tonight?"

Moreau smiled slightly, and I followed him back to Léa's house. By the time we got there, the party was already in full swing, but when I knocked on the door and started to whistle the opening of Brucker 7, Léa immediately let us in.

"Mattie!" she exclaimed. "Glad you could make it. Where were you yesterday?"

"Orléans," I told her.

"Oh, that's a lovely city," Léa said. "Of course, I'm not allowed within five miles of the place after almost burning down their cathedral, but that's another story for another time..."

Léa and I talked for a long time - I hardly left her side all night. Meanwhile, Moreau ran off to talk to the cellist of the Paris Opera, and although I occasionally glanced back to make sure he was doing alright, I spent most of my time with Léa, trading stories about music, about Orléans, about her many, many romantic escapades in foreign countries (nearly all of which I suspected were false), about anything at all.

A few hours later, Moreau approached me and said, "I'm going to play Fleury's new violin concerto."

"Good luck," I told him.

"I still need someone to accompany me on the piano."

I paused and then said, "I can do that for you, Moreau."

Moreau smiled and ran to the front of the room, while I sat down behind the piano bench and looked over the music. It was complex, nearly as demanding as the violin part, but I could do it. The goal of accompaniment was to make the soloist sound good, and Moreau would probably sound incredible regardless of what I did.

I looked to Moreau, and when he was ready, I pressed my fingers to the keys as his bow flew across the strings of his violin. As I pounded out a few chords, his fingers slid up and down the neck of the instrument, the sound of the violin echoing across the room, intense, rich, and beautiful. When he made it to a rest, he looked back at me, a huge smile on his face, and I looked up from the piano and smiled back at my friend.

Because there was nothing in the world that was better than being friends with Felix Moreau.