August 1722

The night is long as I continue writing music. My eyes grow heavy and the lantern that I have been using is beginning to run out of oil. I hurry along, adding whatever notes that come into my head. It astonishes Nicolas that I can write music without a reference like his harpsichord. It is all in my head. It swims in my head constantly and does not stop until I write it down. I cannot think of any other way in which to write it.

But, on the other hand, I see the way in which Ignace Leblanc looms over me as I write. I admit, I do not like it, nor do I like his grunts of disapproval.

I look up for a moment and notice Nicolas at his harpsichord, playing some of what I have already written.

"This is perfect," Nicolas says, clasping his hands together. "What incredible music you have written! I admit I am aghast, Marie. You must have partaken in at least take one music lesson in your childhood?" He smiles, arching a brow as he plays another one of my flourishes, one that reminds me of the crowded streets of my neighborhood in Paris, such a stark contrast to the isolation of our current home in La Nouvelle Orleans.

"I am sure," I say, turning my attention back onto my music. "I have not had a single lesson, not until you taught me the basics of music, Nicolas. And for that I am immensely grateful."

"Here," Ignace says, pointing to something I am working on. "This is no good."

"What?" I look up at him. He is glaring at me, then turns back to the music. "It does not work with the bass clef. Look at how uninspiring it is."

My heart feels as if it has been stung with a hot poker by the hands of Leblanc.

"I do not understand what is so uninspiring about it," I say, stiffening at the table. "I have worked so long and hard on this opera, Ignace. Just telling me that it is bland is not helpful to me."

"You are a woman," he says, frowning. "Why do you think that it is bland and uninspiring? Because you do not have the qualities that it takes for an opera. You are a fool to think you can write something as complex as an opera, just because you have some skill." He scoffs and walks away, pacing from one end of the room to another in long strides.

"Ignace, you have no right to say this, you know her music is divinely inspired."

Leblanc laughs, scoffing. "Divine inspiration? That is ridiculous. God, Nico. Can't you see you're in love with her? And might I remind you, what she is?"

"How dare you." He slaps his hand on the table. "You speak of things that you do not know, Ignace. Take back everything you have just said about Marie."

"I have only spoken the truth, Nico. I can see it and everyone else can see it, clear as day. And how long can you hide this music from your poor husband, Marie? Does he not know of the secret in which you keep?"

"My personal affairs have little to do with you, Ignace. I do not know why you wish to stick around then? I thought you were going to help me with my music, but instead all you do is belittle me. I am not easily broken, Ignace. I have been through hell, more hell than yo could even imagine. Do you honestly think insinuating that my history of prostitution is going to cut me down? No, sir. I do not care about your opinion of my music, for it is only that. Opinions."

"Fine," he says, curling his lips in disgust. "I know when I am not welcome. And how dare you call me by my first name, Madame Guidry. It is Officer Leblanc to you."

Before we can both blink, Ignace takes off in a storm, leaving Nicolas and I confused and alone.

"Why the barrage of insults now, Nicolas?" I ask. "He has never been this way before with me. Is he jealous?"

"I think so," he says. "He spent many years at our music school before joining the military, Marie. He wanted more than anything to become a court composer for the King, but that never happened."

"Why not?" I ask. "I have heard him play the harpsichord in the past. He is very talented."

"Talented enough to play music, but not to compose. His peers laughed him off."

I feel a wave of pity course through me. "I suppose I should apologize to him. I did not not know that he was rejected, and here I am, writing my music and I had no idea."

"It is not your fault, Marie. You have no need to apologize for anything. He should be the one apologizing to you."

"Either way," I say with a sigh. "I should be going home now. If I am too late, my husband will not like it."

"Yes," he says, smiling. "You should go home. But before you go, how much more do you have left until you have completed your opera? What is it called again?"

I smile. "I am nearly done with it."

                                                                                                     ***

2019

I'm still waiting for that stupid knock as I wait for that knock. I even got myself dressed and put some makeup on. I cringe as I look at myself on the wall mirror — I have too much makeup on. God, I went overboard and now I look silly, like a clown. Nicolas is going to laugh at me the second he walks in my apartment.

I contemplate washing it all off when I hear a subtle knock on the door and my heart drops, my abdomen squeezing tight. Oh, God, I think I'm going to be sick. I suck in a deep breath and open the door.

But everything melts away as soon as I see his smile. He's wearing a button-down sky-blue shirt and blue jeans. He's even got a bottle of wine.

"You brought red wine?" I ask, cocking my head to the side.

"Thought you might need this," he says, with a shrug. "It is wine from Malaga. I was so happy to find it at the wine store."

I chuckle. "But it's midnight. I don't usually drink after midnight."

"Oh, oh. I forget, it is normal for us to drink wine at midnight. In Spain, we have dinner very late at night."

"Have you eaten?" I ask, gesturing for him to walk inside. "From what you've said, you're implying that you haven't eaten."

"I did," he says with a nod. "But I haven't had vino yet." He flashes a million dollar smile. "Would you like some? From the way you sounded on the phone, you need some cheering up."

"You can set it on the counter in the kitchen. I'll show you where it is."

He smiles, shuffling his feet as he clears his throat He follows me into the kitchen and drums his fingers on the granite countertop. Nicolas seems lost in thought as he stares off, then quickly walks off to the other part of the kitchen. Running a trembling hand through his hair. God, I love it when he does that. I loved it when he did it the other night at the library.

"You okay? Want me to open the bottle? I mean, we might as well. YOLO," I say, chuckling.

He smiles as he turns to look at me. "I'm all right."

I grab my wine bottle kit I got for Christmas from Dad, proud that I'm finally putting it to good use. I step towards the bottle of wine and start the process of opening it. Nicolas stands so close to me that our arms graze against one another.

"You know," I say, "I really do appreciate the wine, but Nicolas, is everything all right? You seem... I don't know, a little anxious."

He nods, but then shakes his head after. "No, I was about to give you an entire soliloquy on how all right I am, but I have to be honest." He touches my shoulders with both of his hands, and squeezes them as breath escapes from my body. "I brought this wine for me too. Because I have something I must confess to you —and frankly I don't know how to do it."

"All right," I nod. "Let me pour these glasses then we can talk in the living room. I can even put some music on if it helps. I always find that 18th century music brings me out of a rut. Gotta love Baroque era!"

He smiles. "You and I are both the same then."

It seems like no time at all has passed. Nicolas and I are now, sipping on wine, while baroque era music gently plays in the background, a subtle whisper behind us.

"So," I say, biting my lip. "You said that you had something important to tell me."

He sets his wine glass down on the coffee table and leans back in the sofa. "You know things when you say them to others, you sound like a crazy person?"

"Well, I guess, I mean, crazy things have been happening to me lately, so if I told them to you, you'd think I was going batshit. So, tell me. I promise I won't think you're crazy."

"How do I say this," he says, pausing. "It started two years ago after I played a concert in Madrid. I fell asleep on the train and then I saw her in my sleep, or was it in my sleep? I don't know. She was there, talking to me while I was by a river. She was beautiful, I think I almost fell in love with her. I was devastated to know it was all a dream. Then, I kept seeing her in my sleep, every night. Always the same way. Dressed in clothes from a long time ago."

"Go on," I say, furrowing my brow as I take a sip of the delicious wine, letting the blackberry flavors dance on my tongue. "What next?"

"I went to bed every night hoping to see her. I started to fall in love with her. I found myself wishing she was real and that she was with me, no matter how hard I fought the feelings I had for a fiction."

"One night," he says, leaning forward to take a huge sip. "I saw her when I was least expecting. The woman I dreamed of every night for two years was there, standing in front of me. She was watching me play at Jackson Square and I almost messed up my solo."

My breath hitches. My face grows pale as my heart does flips over and over. My hands tremble and I do my best to hide them.

"You are scared," he says, his eyes pleading. "Don't be scared, please."

"Is it me?" I ask, swallowing my words as my heart jumps into my throat. "The woman you've been dreaming of?"

He closes his eyes, nodding.

"Oh." It's the only thing I can manage to say.

"You don't believe me." His shoulders sink. "Do you think I'm crazy, Corrie?"

I can't help but smile as I shake my head and graze my hand over his sleeve.

"I have a confession to make."

"Tell me," he takes my hand in his.

"I've been dreaming about you, too. Every night for the last two years."

His eyes soften and he smiles as he scoots closer to me. "You have?"

"Yes." I lean in close to him and he pulls me into his arms. I bury my face in his chest, feeling his heart rage against my ear. "So what are we going to do about it?"

"I don't know," he says, whispering in my ear. "But I want to hold you. Can I hold you?"

We pull each other into our embrace for what feels like ages, but then I feel his lips on my cheek and I pull him in closer to me. His kisses are soft and sweet like flowing honey and I begin to lose myself again.

The sweet, gentle kisses are now not enough. He groans as I deepen our kiss. God, he smells so good. Feels so good against my body.

My head spins as I am lost in my own frenzy. I kiss him harder as I dig my hands through his hair. He responds with a low grunt and tugs at my hair and it makes me cry out in pleasure.

"You like that?" he asks, breathy against my neck. He looks at me with narrowed, glazed eyes and kisses the side of my neck as he tugs at my hair again.

"Oh God! Don't stop," I moan, my body loving every second of it.

"Beautiful," he says, looking up at me. "You're so beautiful."

"You're good at this," I say.

"Oh, I haven't even started yet," he pulls me in.

He deepens our kiss again. I am lost in his touch, in our bodies so close together like this. I push him into the couch, straddling him. I unbutton the top of his collared sleeve and then the next, and the next. I graze a finger over his chest. God, he is so sexy.

I arch my back up to him, inching myself closer, whispering in his ear. "Touch me."

He puts his hand underneath my shirt, grazing his finger along the back of my spine.

"Is this okay?" he whispers, kissing my earlobe.

"God, yes." I groan, loving the feeling of his lips there.

The music in the background shifts to the overture of La Fleuve. Then, the music shifts to the overture of La Soubrette. Then again shifts to the other opera. I hear what sounds like a voice all around me. 

 You keep ignoring it. You shy away from it once you get close to the truth. Why must you be so afraid of the truth? Once you know it, you will be whole again.

Then, out of nowhere, a notification on my phone goes off, and then again. And a fifth time. Fuck. Why now? I disengage from Nicolas and give him a quick kiss.

"I have to check my phone," I groan. "It won't shut up."

He grimaces, as if wincing in pain. I know I just killed the moment, but the phone notification is still going off. How am I ever going to recover this moment?

"I'm sorry," I say. "Mood killer."

He draws his head back, sighing as he sinks into the couch. "Tell me about it."

12:45 AM Broussard's Piano Shop, front door unlocked. 

"Is everything all right, darling?" Nicolas asks, coming up to me, kissing my shoulder from behind as he wraps his arms around me. God, did he just call me darling? My heart nearly skips a beat.

My head is still spinning. "I need to go, uh, something is up at my dad's piano shop. I just got a notification on my phone that the door was opened past hours."

"It could have been your dad," he says, looking at me with concern in his eyes.

"No." I shake my head. "Dad's at a music conference in Dallas. Someone might be breaking into the shop. We need to find out what's going on."