I didn't know what to do, so I fell back on what I always did when I didn't know what to do: I wrote more music. I returned home, and I experimented with the harmonies in the first movement, trying all kinds of techniques, anything that might free me from my influences, anything that might differentiate me from Bergmann.

However, originality is never something that comes easily, and no matter what I did, I always felt like I was copying off of some better composer, trying to capture whatever it was that had made their music tick, but it was never enough. I awaited some brilliant, innovative idea, some spark of genius, but it never came. As the hours ticked by, I wondered where I had gone wrong, why I couldn't come up with anything without relying on someone else's ideas, why I couldn't seem to free myself from Johann Bergmann's shadow.

I never touched the soprano solo.

Just before eleven, I put down my composition notebook, and I decided to go next door to check on Moreau. His room was silent - he'd just finished practicing - and when I knocked on the door, he shouted, "One minute! I'm still putting away my violin."

I waited for a minute or so, and then he opened the door, his violin case still half-open on the carpet, and he said, "What is it, Miss Brackenborough?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were doing alright," I said.

"I can assure that I'm perfectly fine," Moreau said. "Is there anything else?"

"Well...uhh..."

"Go on, Miss Brackenborough. You can ask me anything."

"What is it like?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What is it like falling in love?"

"I don't know," Moreau admitted. "I don't think I've ever been properly in love. Brief infatuations, for sure, but nothing serious." He then paused and asked, "Any particular reason for this line of questioning? Is there some special man in your life that I don't know about?"

I blushed, and then, after checking to make sure that no one could hear me, I whispered, "A girl, actually."

Moreau shrugged and said, "Honestly, I can't say that I'm all that surprised."

"I don't know," I said. "I've never really found any men that I've fancied, but I've also never felt this way about a woman before..."

"Let me guess," Moreau said. "It's Miss Valencourt, isn't it?" I didn't respond right away, but I turned beet red, which I'm sure gave away exactly how I felt about Léa. "Sometimes, it seems like every other woman in this city meets Léa Valencourt and then spontaneously decides that she fancies other women. I don't blame you, Miss Brackenborough - she is a nice-looking girl - but...be careful around her. She has quite the reputation for breaking hearts."

I thought about that for a moment, all of those stories about Léa and how she'd been with the entire population of Europe at one point or another, and I said, "I know, but we've been friends for so long. I'm sure she'll treat me differently because of that."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

"Mr. Moreau, have some faith in Miss Valencourt."

"I have every reason not to."

"You have to believe me. She's a good person once you get to know her," I said. I sighed and then, in an attempt to change the subject, I said, "Can you do me a quick favor?"

"What is it?" Moreau asked.

"I made some changes to the first violin part in the fourth movement of the symphony I'm working on," I said. "Could you play through it, just to make sure it's not too hard?"

"Of course."

"Thanks, Moreau. You're the best." I went into my room, found my composition book, and handed it to Moreau. "Here you go," I said.

"Thanks," he said before closing the door. Within a few minutes, I heard the sound of his violin once again, but this time, he was playing the music I'd written.

"Moreau, I didn't mean for you to play it right now!" I exclaimed, but he didn't seem to be listening.

I returned to my room, but as soon as I went inside, I heard someone singing from outside the boarding house. Curious, I opened the window slightly so that I could hear better, and I quickly identified the voice as Léa's, although I couldn't quite hear what she was saying.

I leaned back and relaxed for a few moments, the gorgeous sound of Léa's voice filling my ears. Even if I couldn't understand the words, I understood the feeling: the sadness, the sweetness, the affection, the heartbreak, the turmoil, and the deep longing in her voice. With every note, I felt it too, all of the emotions encapsulated within the music and within Léa's breathtaking performance.

And then it was all so suddenly interrupted by the sound of a rock crashing into my window.

I opened up the window further, careful not to be hit by another incoming rock, and when I peeked out, I saw Léa standing directly below my window. "What are you doing?" I asked.

"I just wanted to see you, Mattie," Léa said.

I sighed and said, "You could just come in through the front door like a normal person."

"Madame Leclerc won't let me in," Léa exclaimed. "She thinks I'm too much of a troublemaker."

"She has a point there," I said as Léa climbed up a nearby tree and then crawled into my room. As soon as she was inside, she set her purse down on the floor, and I shut the window and asked, "So what's going on, and why can't you wait until tomorrow to tell me about it?"

"The Berlin State Opera offered me a role," Léa said. "Violetta in La Traviata."

"So you're going to Berlin?" I said as I felt my heart slowly breaking. I couldn't imagine staying here without the chance to see Léa every day, to talk to one of the people I cared about most in this city. What would I do without her? Was it even worth staying in Paris if I didn't have Léa?

Léa laughed and then said, "Of course not. I turned it down."

"But why?" I asked, just as shocked as I was when I'd thought she was going to Berlin moments earlier. Singing in La Traviata would be a huge opportunity for her, and she would be a fool to turn it down.

"Because I want to stay in Paris for a little longer," Léa said. "I've met some wonderful people here, people that I'm not ready to leave behind just yet. It's like when I lived in Vienna, but even better somehow. So many great minds, all congregated in one place, and I'm not about to give that up just so I can sing Verdi night after night." Her blue eyes met mine, and as I felt butterflies fluttering in my stomach, she said, "You're one of them, Mattie, and I...I don't think I've ever had a friend quite like you."

I didn't know what to say at first, but after a few moments had passed, I said, "I've never had a friend like you either, but I...I'm glad we met. I don't regret a single moment we've spent together."

"Me neither," Léa said. "It's strange. I don't usually have friends. Enemies, lovers, but never friends."

Again, I didn't know what to tell her. There was another long silence, and then out of nowhere, I blurted out, "You look very pretty tonight."

"Oh, Mattie," Léa said with a smile. "Did no one teach you how to flirt back in London?"

"No, not really."

Léa inched closer to me and said, "Listen, I've liked you ever since that day in the bakery, when Mr. Crémieux was making fun of your beautiful accent..."

"I don't think it's particularly beautiful," I said. "It just marks me as a foreigner."

"I beg to differ," Léa said. "You really are an incredible person, Matilda Brackenborough."

I was about to respond, but all of a sudden, her lips were inches away from mine, and my instincts took over as I closed the distance between us. Her lips tasted like her favorite food - chocolate eclairs, of course - and my heart raced as she deepened the kiss. It felt wrong, like I was going against everything I'd been taught, but at the same time, everything about this moment felt completely and absolutely perfect.

All of a sudden, there was a knock on the door. "Miss Brackenborough?" Moreau said as my eyes snapped open. "I finished playing through the music you gave me - it's not too hard, although I made a few suggestions..."

"Ignore him," Léa whispered.

"I'm a little busy right now, Mr. Moreau!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, alright," Moreau said. "I'll come back another time."

"Now, where were we?" Léa said.

Just as I was about to turn back to Léa, I glanced toward her purse for a moment, and I spotted a letter sticking out. It was hard to see the words from my angle, but it was clearly addressed to someone in New Caledonia, of all places.

"New Caledonia?" I said. "Who could you be writing to in New Caledonia?"

Léa turned pale, as if I'd just stumbled upon some massive conspiracy, and all of a sudden, she backed away from me and said, "Mattie, there...there's something I need to talk to you about."