Pochouse: fish served in red wine.

Waterzoï: a sweet water fish stew.

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1883

The wind whistled cheerfully as it skipped across Paris, kicking up little puffs of snow in its wake. The sun's rays weakly streamed down into the streets from its late afternoon angle, and a few clouds skittered across the icy blue sky.

On the Avenue de l'Opéra, candles flickered behind curtained windows and horses flashed by, drawing carriages with the fortunate bundled inside. The unfortunate scuffled along near the buildings, searching for warmth in the bitter cold. The gazes of many never strayed from their own boots or skirts, huddling into themselves to keep warm.

But if they did happen to look up, they might notice a young woman, her chin tucked against a violin and her eyes partly closed to the music. The woman's brown hair was swept into a simple knot at the nape of her slender neck, and her pale hands were steady on the strings and bow despite the cold. A violin case lay open on the ground before her, some francs and bank notes inside. The young woman's nose and cheeks were red from the chilly wind.

As the sun sank behind the building of the Avenue de l'Opéra, casting the young woman into shadows, she began a soulful ballad that was rather popular at the time. A man with a tattered scarf paused for a moment before her, rubbing his hands together and breathing on them, before dropping a few coins into her case and moving on.

The young woman only looked at him after her gaze rested on his patched boots and worn coat, but she gave him a small smile which he returned. He passed out of her line of vision, and she closed her eyes.

The strains of music resonated even as snow began to fall from the heavens.

---

Isabelle D'Aramitz had consciously inspected the man before looking him in the eye. His threadbare outfit made her sure he would be kind; only the poor understood the plight of their brethren, and Isabelle D'Aramitz had been given her plight on an overflowing silver platter. She knew her life was not nearly as bad as it could be, yet she could not help wishing she could return to the time before she had to perform on the cold streets of Paris.

A different street every week was graced with her presence, or so said the old fishmonger at a corner where Isabelle would get fish on Fridays. He would suggest a street, and on Saturday she would go there and play.

The old fishmonger, who was called Yohan, had told Isabelle to go to the Avenue de l'Opéra. He claimed the Palais Garnier, the Paris opera house, was being reopened; Isabelle had indeed spotted a sign over the doors, claiming the brothers Roche, Bastien and Enrick, had bought the Garnier and that it was being renovated.

However, there had been no information about the brothers Roche searching for musicians, or indeed anyone at all. And Isabelle was almost certain the brothers Roche had no interest in hiring a young inexperienced woman.

Though she was not so very inexperienced, now that she was playing her violin for a living.

A light furrow appeared between Isabelle's brows, in part from concentration, part from her unhappy thoughts, and part from the sad music. A carriage was coming towards her; she picked out two sets of hoof beats.

But the carriage stopped before it passed her. Isabelle opened her eyes a little and was startled to see a pair of elegant boots standing mere meters away from her. How strange, that she didn't hear him approach. If she hadn't been so shy, she knew she would stare at him. She was rarely surprised like that.

Isabelle found the man standing there to be strangely disconcerting. Not only because it was a challenge to impress the rich and elegant, but because night was quickly settling in, and Isabelle was usually walking home by now.

So she finished her ballad, drawing her bow agonizingly slowly across the strings one final time before giving a small bow, her eyes still on the black polished shoes. The man knelt and placed a something in her case, but Isabelle saw the flash of a wallet being tucked into the man's inside coat pocket.

Isabelle waited for the man to walk away, not wanting to seem too greedy for the money in her violin case, but he made no move. Rather, he stepped a little closer to her.

"Madamoiselle," the man said; Isabelle nearly fainted at the angelic sound. "May I ask where you learned to play so beautifully?"

Isabelle was rather surprised at the question. She swallowed and raised her eyes to the man's collar. "I learned from my father, monsieur, and from his good friend." She knelt, realizing it was foolish to stand about with her violin becoming ruined in the cold and snow.

She froze when she saw the fifty-franc note sitting under a rose on the velvet lining of her violin case. Reaching out, Isabelle took the rose and spun it between her fingers, smiling as she inhaled the scent. Such good memories came with roses.

"Merci," she said; Isabelle had no doubt it was this gentleman who had given her the flower. She stood after putting her violin in the case, and finally raised her eyes to those of the man before her. His eyes were yellow, and glowed from under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.

"You are very welcome, madamoiselle..."

"D'Aramitz," Isabelle answered.

The man bowed to her. "And I am Erik Destler." Isabelle fixed her grip on her violin, gave a polite smile, and turned to walk away down the Avenue de l'Opéra. "Madamoiselle?"

Isabelle turned back to M Destler, and peered through her fringe up at his chin, then at his yellow eyes. "Madame, actually, monsieur," Isabelle said. "But I must be going."

"Going where, may I ask, Madame D'Aramitz?"

"It is a mystery I have not yet solved," Isabelle said. "Good evening, monsieur."

Isabelle gave a short bow and left the gentleman Destler to his warm carriage and polished shoes, turning her mind to less disconcerting thoughts. It was Thursday; tomorrow she would go see the fishmonger. How she loved her pochouse and waterzoï! Even thinking of the dishes made her smile! Isabelle's step grew livelier, and she swung her arms a little more than she usually did.

The carriage that Isabelle presumed to be M Destler's started moving towards her once more, and Isabelle tensed slightly, wondering if the man would do anything to acknowledge her. All she really wanted was to get to the inn on the Boulevard des Italiens, since she could afford it now, at least for one night and maybe the breakfast.

But the man seemed to not care a whit for her plans, for the carriage stopped next to her, and the driver called down to her: "Madame, I've been asked to offer you a ride if you need one."

Isabelle was shocked; such kindness had become foreign to her. She was immediately suspicious, but M Destler called from inside the carriage in his angelic voice. "You may sit inside the carriage, Madame, or with the driver. I assure you, Samson is quite harmless."

Samson, the driver, smiled kindly down at Isabelle, who was torn between warmth and the open air.

"It's mighty cold outside, madame," Samson said gravely. So Isabelle relented and walked to the carriage door, which opened from the inside. M Destler came to put down the stairs for her, and helped her inside the carriage, handing her violin up to her before climbing back in himself.

"I thank you, monsieur," Isabelle started; she was not quite sure what to say.

Monsieur Destler gave a wave of his hand. "Think nothing of it. I have no desire to let another talented musician go to waste, madame." Isabelle gave a small smile. "What sort of violin is yours?"

"It is a Montagnana. It was my father's."

"It is a jewel, to be sure."

Isabelle fingered her violin case fondly. "It has been in my family for five generations, monsieur. My father was very famous while he played it."

"Who was your father, Madame D'Aramitz?"

"Antoine Romilly."

"How extraordinary. I admire his work very much."

"As do I." Isabelle was frowning. "I am so sorry, monsieur, I have forgotten to tell you where I am headed."

Monsieur Destler pressed his fingers together before taking off his hat and spinning it. "I am sure you are not headed anywhere fitting of your talents, madame." Isabelle looked at her hands, folded in her lap. "May I ask where your husband is while you play for coins in the cold?"

Isabelle flushed. "That is really not your business, monsieur."

"I have just made it my business, madame. No man should ignore his wife so, nor let her work in the cold."

"My husband died last year, monsieur. I never would have had to work on the streets if not for his death." Isabelle's voice was steely, and M Destler's yellow eyes softened slightly. "There was a cyclone in the Arabian Sea, it flooded Bombay Harbor—"

"You need not speak of it, Madame. I am terribly sorry for bringing the matter up at all."

"I would be much obliged if you would have your driver drop me at the Hôtel de la Fontaine on the Boulevard des Italiens, Monsieur D'Aramitz."

"I will do no such thing." M Destler's comment shocked Isabelle, and she was about to call for Samson to stop when M Destler said something else. "I cannot let a young widow stay in an inn where one must share a toilet with prostitutes and opium dealers. Please allow me to invite you to my home for the evening."

Isabelle had never been more torn. Monsieur Destler was offering dinner free of charge— but she knew nothing of him. He could be a lecher, maybe a criminal. Yet he knew about music, about Montagnana and violins, and he was kind. Isabelle finally let her heart dictate her response.

"I could not refuse such a generous offer, monsieur. You are an angel."

M Destler winced. "No, not an angel. I am no angel." Isabelle sensed a pain in his voice, but before she could ask about it, he cleared his throat. "I have a housekeeper, Madame Vieuxpont, who will set up a room for you. She will make you feel very much at home; she is also an excellent cook."

Isabelle relaxed; she had never met a woman who would willingly work for a cruel man, and M Destler seemed to think highly of this Mme Vieuxpont.

"Is she married? Madame Vieuxpont, I mean," Isabelle clarified.

"She was engaged, but her fiancé died before they were wed." M Destler peered at Isabelle from beneath the brim of his hat; she looked at her hands in her lap, and sighed.

"How unhappy she must be. If she loved him, that is."

"She has survived," M Destler said, rather bluntly. "It has been close to forty-five years since he died, I believe." Isabelle raised her eyebrows at his acute knowledge of the life of his housekeeper, but said nothing. "I assume you are still feeling the pains of loss."

"You assume quite correctly, monsieur, for I am still quite in love with Christophe. I have not met any man half as wonderful as he since I met him. He used to serenade me, from below my window during the afternoon. I am sure my parents were much amused by him. You only had to see him to know he loved me."

The carriage hit a bump just then, and Isabelle was jostled so that her hands flew out to keep her from falling forward. M Destler caught both her hands and helped steady her; she blushed and murmured "merci", pulling her hands from his.

"Monsieur, madame, just a few minutes until we arrive." Samson's voice drifted through the carriage walls, and Isabelle wove her fingers together.

"Are you cold?" M Destler asked.

"Why, aren't you? The wind is so chill, and even inside here I can feel the cold." M Destler made to take off his cloak, but Isabelle shook her hands and head at him. "No, no, do not do that, monsieur. It is too much, what you are doing already."

Fortunately, the carriage stopped just then, and they heard Samson clambering down from his perch. He pulled the door open for the two of them; M Destler got out first and offered his hand to Isabelle. She took it, concentrating on her footing until her feet met the ground, and then she looked up.

And gasped in awe.

Isabelle had noticed the fine quality of M Destler's clothes and shoes, and his fine speaking and manners, but she had not connected that with a grand, medieval home on the banks of the Seine. The roof was pitched very high, and the windows were tall; the front door was made of dark wood.

While Samson drove the carriage away, presumably to the stables, M Destler led Isabelle up to the front door and unlocked it, and he took Isabelle inside.

The floor was fine marble, the walls covered in paintings. Isabelle was fascinated by the artwork, and she drew away from M Destler to examine a picture depicting a beautiful young child, holding a small bunch of wildflowers and looking very small in an overgrown field.

"Who is this," Isabelle breathed, awed by the realistic quality in the portrait.

"That is no one," M Destler said.

"She is beautiful," Isabelle seemed not to hear M Destler, but she turned to him. "How could this not be a real girl? The sweep of her jaw, her nose— why, she's as real as you or I."

M Destler inclined his head as a woman came in through a doorway to his left.

"Bonjour, monsieur," the woman said, and then she caught sight of Isabelle. The older woman's eyebrows rose in shock, and she pressed her fingers to her lips.

"This is Madame D'Aramitz. Madame D'Aramitz, this is Madame Vieuxpont, my housekeeper."

Isabelle curtseyed as best she could while holding her violin. Madame Vieuxpont curtseyed as well, her small brown eyes sweeping over Isabelle. Isabelle kept her eyes fixed on Madame Vieuxpont's, and after a moment the older woman met Isabelle's eyes.

"A pleasure," Mme Vieuxpont said.

"Madame D'Aramitz shall be joining me for dinner. Please arrange one of the bedrooms upstairs for her." M Destler was taking off his hat, and Isabelle suddenly noticed the flesh-colored mask hiding most of his features. All she could see was his mouth and chin. M Destler turned his yellow eyes to her, and she stared at him, her mouth an "o" of confusion.

"Madame Vieuxpont, if you would kindly show the madame upstairs."

"Of course."

Isabelle followed Mme Vieuxpont, glancing back once to see M Destler standing in front of the picture of the little girl, tracing her features with his eyes.