The Monsieur was not happy to see Celi, but apparently Cook wasn't cooking and the ladies would continue to be unhappy until he let Celi back. Being 'merciful' and 'kind,' the Monsieur welcomed Celi back personally.

   But a warm welcome did not solve Celi's heartsickness for her mother. Nothing could bring her mother back.

   The ladies and Cook decided there was but one thing left to do for the child: distract her from her grief. Sadness is all consuming only if you give it the time of day.

  However, as the ladies were often too busy to spend more than a few minutes with her, Cook took it upon herself to make the little girl feel better. And she knew just how. She had noticed that little Celi had always had a fascination with music; many a day went by with Cook listening to her speak of music, and a ballerina dancing to it. What better way was there to give the child something to do than to give her the music she so cherished?

   "Ma chere,"  said Cook, about a week after Celi had run off, "how would you like to learn a song?"

   "A song?" Celi asked, her hazel eyes wide.

   "Yes. I think I know one you'll like."

   "Oh yes! Please!" She said eagerly.

   "Alright, I'll teach you."

   Cook began to sing in the hoarse, throaty voice of an old woman.  The song was a Spanish ballad about broken hearts and two lovers. When she had finished, she carefully pronounced each word so that Celi would understand the lyrics. After that, she told Celi to sing with her. On their fourth try, Celi had memorized all the lyrics, and had indeed, stored them away to practice later.

   Cook told Celi to go to her pantry to practice, and that she would listen to the finished product tomorrow.

   "Merci beaucoup, Cook. Maman would love this song, would not she?"

    "Would she not," Cook corrected, "yes, your mother would love this song. Now go practice as if you were practicing for her."

 
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   The next day came, and it was torturous for Celi to wait until Cook had made breakfast and cleaned up after everyone. She was very eager to perform for Cook and had spent most of the night awake and humming the song to herself, going over the lyrics and the melody until she thought it was perfect.

   At last, Cook had put the last dish away and sat down in the chair Celi had pulled out for her, her old bones creaking in the process.

   Celi opened her mouth to sing, but a question suddenly popped into her head.

   "Where did you learn that song, Cook?"

    Wistfulness came over Celi's companion.

   "From a friend, a gypsy lady. But that was a long time ago... back before I was Cook."

  Celi nodded. "What were you called then?"  Celi could imagine Cook having an interesting past, though she could not see her as a young girl. Looking at the old woman across the table from her, Celi couldn't picture her not being Cook, she was too absorbed in the person she was today. Celi knew she'd been young once, but it was hard to think of Cook without wrinkles, without her gray hair, and the flour under her fingernails.

   "I was Cookie then. Cece another time. Cooks once. But I was born Catherine."

   Catherine. The name sounded so elegant. Celi was instantly able to see Cook as a young Catherine, with pitch black hair, a flowing red gown, and bright white smile.

   "Catherine's beautiful."

    "Yes, I miss that name."

   "Would you like me to call you Catherine?" Celi had completely forgotten she had stayed up most of the night, practicing the song she was supposed to be singing. She could only think of Cook and the memories that clearly held her attention. The woman in front of Celi was the product of a mysterious past and Celi wanted to know more.

   "It's been so long since anyone called me that... yes. I suppose so." Cook - Catherine, became misty eyed. To hide it, she said, "I thought you were going to sing. It is just like you to get sidetracked. Sing now, Celi, loud and clear, do the song justice."

   Celi grinned, happiness coursing through her. She felt a new reason to sing this ballad.

   She sang, filling the song with every bit of wretchedness, happiness, and heart she thought the the melody and lyrics suggested. She poured her soul, her sadness, and her broken love into every note.

   At the end of the beautiful ballad, Catherine had tears in her eyes, and the rest of the building was oddly silent.

   "Catherine? Are you alright?"

   Catherine stared at Celi in shock. What a beautiful, breathtaking voice the little girl had. It cracked in a few areas, and altered the melody in other parts, but most of it was sweet, the drizzling of honey, the melting of butter, the smoothness of a brook. The innocence, purity, and joy of a child's laugh. It was lovely, yet lovely was not the right word.

   Catherine peered behind Celi, eyes narrowing.

   Celi turned around to find the Monsieur, Felicette, and three men standing in the hall, staring at her.

   "That voice... that strange... it came from... Celi?" Felicette asked.

   "Yes," said Catherine.

   Celi thought she had done something wrong.

   "I'm sorry mesdames et messieurs."

    "Sorry? For what? How much for her, Maxime?" Asked one of the gentlemen.

  "I'll double his offer," said another.

   "The child is not one of us!" Felicette gasped.

   "Yet," croaked the Monsieur, in a way that made her want to recoil from him. "The mademoiselle is not one of them yet."
 
   Celi didn't like the sound of that.

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    Everyone began paying attention to Celi, and she didn't like it at all. The Monsieur gave her a real room and the ladies suddenly were overwhelming her with compliments and nice words, but their friendliness seemed forced. There was something behind their eyes when they spoke to her that was deeply concerning.

   Felicette taught her Celi an English lullaby, and the ladies were constantly asking her to sing. They wanted to paint her face like theirs, but she was too scared to let them. She realized they were trying to make her like them, when she didn't want to be. She didn't want to cry at night, like they did, when their work was over, or get that awful swelling in their stomach, and spend whole days in bed, ill. And she did not want to disappear one day, like her mother did.

   But perhaps, the one person who was worse than the ladies, was the Monsieur. He ordered her to stop visiting Catherine; Celi sensed he was afraid of her. He yelled at Celi to practice her singing, and kept saying he would make a fortune off of her. A pretty, innocent girl-child with an angel's voice.

As the days passed, Celi felt that there was a clock ticking away, and when it reached the end of an hour, one, particular hour, something bad would happen, and the ticking would stop.

   She often hid away in her old little pantry of a room, or sneak off to the kitchen when no one was watching. But three days in a row, the Monsieur  had come in, searching for her with some men who wanted to see her. She didn't like them and felt that the way they looked at her was wrong. The rapture on their faces when she sang was disturbing. On the third day this happened, she refused to sing and the Monsieur struck her.

   She laid down on the floor and cried.

  She wanted her mother. Instead, she got Catherine.

The woman looked older than ever. She creaked and groaned like a door with rusty hinges as she sat down on the floor next to Celi. She pulled the girl onto her lap. She was just strong enough, and Celi was just small enough to accomplish this. Catherine held onto her tightly as she cried.

   When Celi had stopped crying, she snuggled closer to Catherine, nestling in her bony arms. Catherine moved her hands to her shoulders and made Celi look at her. Her hands were rough and callused. Coarse, like the thick strands of gray hair on her head, but not as breakable.

   Catherine's black eyes burned into Celi's lighter ones.

   "Child," the old woman said. "I must warn you. The Monsieur has bad plans for you. He and those men will be back any minute, ma fille. They will hurt you. You must run away and never come back. They will do unspeakably evil things to you if you don't go. The worst things that can be done to a child."

   As if on cue, male voices echoed again in the hall.

   "You must go now! Felicette will try to delay them."

   "But what about you? Why will they -"

   "Do not worry about me, I have been fine for years. But go!" Catherine pushed Celi away.

A loud crash startled them both. The men's voices raised.

  Celi was terrified. She didn't understand, but she knew if Catherine was telling her to leave, she should leave, even if she didn't know where to go.

   She ran out the door, tears streaming down her face.

  Felicette and the Monsieur were arguing. When he saw her, he shoved Felicette aside, and she crashed into a table.

   "There you are, my little songstress. Come here please."

   "Run Celine!" Felicette screamed. One of the men kicked her.

  In a blind rage Celi picked up the nearest vase and threw it at the man. It hit him hard in the stomach. Celi then abruptly turned and raced back into the kitchen, only to turn out the back door.

   Again, her legs carried her as far as they could, running with fear that the men she had left would become shadows of the night, chasing her, and she almost believed if she stopped running, if she slowed, she would fall into the shadows outstretched, waiting hands and they would drag her back, into the darkness.

   Finally she collapsed against a brick wall, lungs and legs on fire.

   The night was cold and damp, and the cold wall burned against her hot skin. She longed for the soft embrace of her mother, or even Catherine's bony arms, the feel of warm blankets over her, arms that wanted to protect her. Care for her. But she was alone now, she had only herself.