2019

I cannot believe what I am seeing. Several shards of broken glass all over the front of the music store. Cop cars lighting up the place. I brush past an NOPD cop who stops me with a gesture of his hand.

"Official police business," he says. "Step aside, please."

"This is my dad's piano shop," I say, my lips trembling.

"Oh," he says, nodding. "I was the one who spoke to Mr. Broussard. He said that he was going to contact you. I need to see identification, though."

I hand him my ID and he says something in his communication device. "You're free to go in."

I tiptoe around the broken glass and am shocked when I see the inside of my dad's music store. Most of the pianos are there still except for one. I see the indent in the carpet where it used to be and my heart drops. My dad's favorite Spirio model Steinway was stolen right from under our noses. It costs at least 400,000 dollars. No, no, no, no, no.

I hear another cop speaking into his communication device. "Suspect is Caucasian male. Black curly hair. Late twenties, early thirties."

No no no no no.

"Do you know who this person is?" A police officer walks up in front of me and flashes a picture of the man right in front of my face.

"Ignace," I rasp, my heart sinking further and further down.

"His name is Ignace?" the cop asks.

I shake my head as I tremble, the room spinning and swirling all around me.

"Hold on," the cop says, leading me to a piano bench. "Is that better?"

I tremble as my head shakes, and I am unable to think properly or say a thing at all.

"So what is his name again?"

"He betrayed me," I say, sobbing. "How could he betray me like this?"

"Hey, Gregory," the cop questioning me says. "Get this girl a shock blanket. She's in shock."

"So, it seems like you've come to," he says. "Can you tell me this individual's name, if you can positively identify him?"

I nod. "This guy is someone I used to know. His name is Inaki Leblanc. He's got—"

"Inaki Leblanc," the cop says, scoffing. "I knew it. He tries to make a living stealing expensive instruments. I know him well. It's hard to tell from the picture I gave you. This is something that the owner of the store next door noticed at around two in the morning. The cameras in your store were disabled and the software that we noticed was tied up to a smart security service were also deactivated. He stole a piano, from what it looks like —with a group of thieves."

"Who would steal a piano out of a store?" Nicolas asks.

"They broke down the windows to do it," the cop says. "I reckon if anything is expensive enough, they'll go for it. So how do you know this man, again, Miss Broussard?"

"He works for my dad," I say. "I admit, I got a notification from the smart app that he came into the store at midnight, but he was doing inventory work for my dad. I didn't think anything of it."

"Wait, he came to do inventory work for your dad?" the cop asks. "At midnight?"

"What my dad said, he wanted him to work at midnight. But I guess he found an excuse at midnight to steal the most expensive piano in the store and he didn't think to disable the next store's cameras."

The cop nods. "That's what my guess is. Happens more often than you think. Well, thanks for your help."

The cop walks away and I sit, ruminating on everything that has just happen. I want all of this, more than anything, to be a big dream. I pinch myself but I am still awake.

It is here. It is here.

I keep hearing it around me, like faint whispers. I try to take it out of my head by thinking of something else but the sound is constant. I walk away from the piano bench that I had been sitting on and walk toward the back room, but the noises are getting louder and louder. The whispers are becoming more like an audible voice.

It is here. It is here.

I hear it the best at the stairs that leads up to the top floor of the music store, which Dad uses as an attic. I walk up the stairs, hearing the voice become louder until they are screaming in my ear. It is dark up in the arttic, the faint light of early morning barely illuminating the space, and I nearly trip on something. I grunt in frustration and then turn the light on.

It is here.

I look down at my feet and see the box that I had remembered from my strange dream with the child bringing me all through New Orleans. My heart squeezes tight in my chest and I take it, bringing it to an old table.

I open the box and am met with the overwhelming stench of dust and old paper.

Resting in the box is a letter on top of a bunch of pages. I take the letter in my hand, careful not to grab on too tight in fear that it will break completely like a crumbly biscuit.

I squint to read the words. They are in French. My heart sinks at first, but then I notice it start to shift before my eyes, inexplicably.

Now you will know the truth.

I begin reading the words with bated breath.

The contents of this opera are my heart and soul. I hope to present this music to the French court. I have heard that Elisabeth Jacquet de la Guerre is like me, a woman who composes music in the French court. I would very much like her to look over my opera. My situation, of course, is less than perfect. I live in a tiny outpost in the middle of nowhere called La Nouvelle Orleans. It is my new home, but I grew up in Paris —in Salpetriere Prison as I was falsely accused of a crime that I did not commit, and robbed of a chance at a proper life. I had no idea that I was capable of even composing a singular musical note, that is, until I discovered that I can play perfectly everything I hear. I see colors in my mind as I listen to music and I have since learned to compose my own melodies. This music is a part of me that exists deep in my core. The opera that I am writing is called La Fleuve. This opera is for all of the women who were falsely accused of crimes that we did not commit. I do not care what you think of us, the mutinous women, for I am sure you have heard of us to some capacity. And if you reject me for it, then may it be this way, but at least you have seen my opera. All characters in this opera are women who have made themselves from nothing. I hope that if Madame de la Guerre would consider looking at my music, I would be very much honored. From woman to woman, I hope that my opera strikes a chord with you.

Marie Guidry

I gasp at what I've just read. La Fleuve was written by Marie Guidry the entire time. I put my hand over my mouth and cry the moment I finish reading the last of those words, it feels as if I am whole again. I close my eyes and once again, I feel at peace. There had always been some kind of disquiet inside me all of my life — and at first I thought it was about my struggle with my childhood growing up, but now I think I know what it is. I think I was meant to find out this truth all along. I am whole again and now I can rest. Now I can finally rest. I descend down the stairs and Nicolas greets me at the foot.

"Corrie," Nicolas says, coming up to me. "I knew it. We should have called the cops."

"It wasn't Leblanc." Tears are pouring down my cheeks. "It was never Leblanc."

"What do you mean?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "He stole the Steinway."

"La Fleuve," I say. "It was Marie Guidry's opera all along. The answer was always here. In this attic."

I hand him the paper.

"The truth needs to come out now. Ignace Leblanc has been rich for centuries off the work of another person," Nicolas says.

How many women have gone through history, composing music for others, and never once gain the respect that they deserve? I should have known, and I suppose deep down that I have always known that Marie Guidry composed the music for the opera.

All of the dreams. It was never about my ex and Francois. I thought at first it was because I had such a hard time getting over him, but now I see it was not so. It was never about Bessie Forstall, nor the woman named Bernadette Fournier. It was never about the two Nicolases, though the other Nicolas sacrificed his life for Marie's own sake during a hurricane.

It was always about Ignace Leblanc and the music. Her music coming back into the world as her own and not something that was stolen from her. She had only made the mistake of hiding her own music in Ignace Leblanc's house and because of his jealousy, he decided to steal the music and make it his own.

"I'll make it right," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I promise, Marie. Leblanc will pay for what he did to you." I exhale, letting go of a jagged breath. "And me."