Even after his reformation from smooth-talking charlatan to legitimate bandleader, Harold Hill considered it a point of pride that he never surrendered to anything. On the contrary – he chose. He chose Marian Paroo. He chose Winthrop and the boys' band. He chose River City. He chose Iowa. He chose love, respectability, and a permanent home.

But he had not chosen laryngitis. And yet, he was forced to succumb to it. Of course, this wasn't the first time he had weathered illness or injury. But with his robust constitution, silver tongue, and canny instinct for leaving town before it was too late, such peccadillos were few and far between. Harold always managed to get to a hotel room before anyone – save his trusty sidekick Marcellus Washburn – saw him at his weakest, and hole up in seclusion until the worst of his malaise passed. It had been quite awhile since he experienced such a major infection – years, even – and he had almost forgotten how it felt. As ever, the spirit was more than willing to fight this disease, but the flesh had proven spectacularly weak. It was thoroughly galling.

Or at least it would have been, if he wasn't so doggone tired. Harold slept even later the next morning, achieving only as much consciousness as was strictly required to drink his tea. The bread and butter were left entirely untouched on the breakfast tray, and he didn't even have the energy to note what Marian was wearing. Something pale pink and charcoal gray swam across his vision as she bustled about the room. But any further details were completely lost on him as he slipped back into slumber.

A minute later (or perhaps an hour, how should he know?), Harold became dimly aware of Marian's low but concerned voice hovering somewhere above him.

"He barely woke up enough to drink his tea, and he didn't eat anything at all! I'm not sure I'll be able to get him to wake up for lunch."

Harold longed to reassure his worried wife that he was just fine, but somehow, he couldn't muster up the will to so much as twitch an eyelid.

Fortunately, Dr. Pyne's no-nonsense, steady voice did the job for him. "He doesn't seem to have a fever" – Harold felt a warm, firm palm press his forehead – "but he probably pushed himself too hard yesterday and is paying the piper today."

Harold dearly wanted to protest that the piper pays him, but he wasn't allowed to talk, even if he could have found the energy to do so.

"Let him be for now," the doctor continued. "Sometimes sleep is nature's best medicine. Monitor his temperature throughout the afternoon, and call me if he worsens – or won't properly wake up for dinner."

As if waiting for this hard-won permission to finally rest, Harold's body succumbed to full unconsciousness once more.

XXX

Harold's body may have been at ease, but his mind certainly wasn't. Almost from the moment he dropped off to sleep, he was treated to a litany of all the ways he would have disgraced himself from the moment he stepped off the train into River City, if he hadn't had his charming voice.

He couldn't tell the townspeople there was trouble in River City.

He couldn't ask the aloof but fetching librarian if they'd met before.

He couldn't thrill and mesmerize everyone in the gymnasium about Seventy Six Trombones leading the Big Parade.

He couldn't conduct the quarreling school board in song or flirt with the frosty librarian in Madison Picnic Park.

He couldn't charm the suspicious Mrs. Shinn and her ladies into liking him and revealing more about Marian Paroo.

He couldn't knock Marian off balance in the library with his loud declarations of love and discover that there was a small spark of genuine attraction to him beneath her icy exterior.

He couldn't sell Mrs. Paroo a cornet for Winthrop in order to bring the sad, mute boy out of his shell.

He couldn't come to Tommy and Zaneeta's defense in the Candy Kitchen, or have his first real conversation with Marian.

He couldn't trade rumors with Marian on her front porch.

He couldn't confess to Marian on the footbridge.

He couldn't publicly defend Marian from the poisonous machinations of Miss Harper.

He couldn't defend his hard-earned teaching credentials, his boys' band, or his lovely librarian from Fred Gallup's meddling charms at the grand parade.

Of course, Harold would not have made it much farther than a few steps off the train into River City if he'd been unable to talk. And he certainly would not be where he was today if he had failed at any of these crucial junctures in his journey from swindler to music professor. But his brain was far too busy reeling at each defeat for him to realize that he was merely under the spell of the maddeningly inconsistent illogic of dreams.

And the worst was yet to come. There he was, poised to lead the boys' band in the Easter Parade. To his chagrin, they started off horribly and never recovered, because he couldn't instruct them how to improve. Fred Gallup loudly and rudely sneered at the lackluster performance, declared the previous success of the Think System a lucky fluke, and promised to destroy him. The reporter's discontent spread through the gathered crowd like a wildfire, and the voiceless music professor couldn't so much as offer the feeblest of rebuttals. Throughout this parade of humiliation, there was Marian, regarding him with expressions that ranged from amusement, to disappointment, to disdain, to downright loathing. That was bad enough, but when she disappeared completely, leaving him to the mercy of the menacing reporter and furious River City-Ziens – who were now approaching him with the dreaded tar and feathers – it was intolerable. He couldn't even scream as they descended upon him.

It was this final indignity that gave Harold the will to not only shake himself awake, but sit up abruptly in bed.

Marian's arms were immediately around him. "It's all right, Harold."

After such an ordeal, he couldn't not talk. "Marian," he rasped. He could talk! Well, almost – the first syllable came out surprisingly strong, but on the "i" his voice cracked and fizzled out like a firecracker, rendering the "an" almost completely inaudible.

"Sssh," she soothed, handing him his pad and pencil. "Use this."

Harold stared dumbly at the writing implements, not sure where to begin. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but it would take reams of paper.

Marian thoughtfully provided an opening for him. "How are you feeling?"

Harold considered. Not great, he wrote. Bad dreams.

"Poor dear," she said sympathetically, tightening her embrace. "But they were only dreams."

She was absolutely right, and he could not have agreed with her more. But still, they nagged at him, and he wrote, Who am I, without my voice?

The librarian lovingly smoothed back a tendril of hair that had fallen over his forehead. "You are Harold Gregory Hill."

Harold's head drooped. He would never have been this persona, this man, without his voice. Hell, he would never have passed muster as an honest salesman, let alone a smooth-talking swindler who could sell ice to an Eskimo! Instead, he'd have joined the ranks of the dimwitted and uninspiring men he'd alternately pitied, disdained, and stolen from. Without his gift of gab, he'd be nothing but a witless nobody stuck in a tedious and grueling job, eking his way through life with a gnawing dissatisfaction and the inability to rise above his wretched station. He'd be ordinary. And for a man who was accustomed to living a life of distinction, being ordinary was almost as bad as being dead.

As if the librarian had heard his thoughts, she cupped his face in her hands and brought his dejected gaze up to meet hers. "I know that this must be especially unsettling for you. Losing your voice must feel like having your right arm cut off. But listen to me, Harold – you are much more than your silver tongue or your ability to sell," she said with the same spirited determination that had made him fall in love with her. "Two of your most triumphant moments did not require speech of any kind – when you first conducted the boys in Beethoven's Minuet in G in July, and when you led the grand parade down Main Street in August. Your silver tongue may have gotten you far, but it couldn't complete the job. In the end, what you achieved was through honest and diligent toil. And because of that, I have no doubt that the Easter Parade will be just as brilliant of a triumph."

Marian leaned in, as if she was going to kiss him full on the mouth. When he started to balk, out of concern for her health, she said, "You heard the doctor – I already have the same cold. I can't catch laryngitis from you. And you need this. Please, let me give it to you."

A better man than Harold would have had trouble resisting such a barefaced entreaty. And it didn't help matters that, once again, she was absolutely right. After nearly two full days with only the slenderest of caresses to soothe him, he ached for it. Even as a conman who eschewed intimacy, he'd always been a very physical man, the kind of man who needed to touch others, and be touched in return. Much of the way he had touched others had been calculated to ingratiate, bamboozle, and overwhelm, but there was a kernel of him that needed this kind of connection more than he'd wanted to admit at the time. Once he and Marian had married and were finally free to explore whatever fancy tickled their imaginations, he realized how truly starved he'd been, and he never wanted to go back to those days. Now, he readily embraced this need.

So when Marian kissed him, he let her. More than that – he surrendered.

Although they'd shared far more passionate kisses, there was something about this one that left him knocked for a loop. She kissed him softly and carefully at first, and then tenderly and deeply as he opened beneath her. As she kissed him, her fingers lightly caressed his face, sending the most electrifying tingles up and down his jawline. Sickness had rendered his body extremely sensitive – in his weakened state, the pleasure sparked by her touch was so exquisite it was almost unbearable.

When Marian finally lifted her lips from his, he was unabashedly trembling. Part of it was from desire, and part of it was from illness. But part of it was from something else, something warm and wonderful that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It warmed him to the very depths of his soul, even as he shivered. He felt that somehow, Marian had given him back himself. It didn't matter that he couldn't talk. She understood him perfectly.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "It's nearly dinnertime."

Harold realized he was famished. He nodded eagerly.

So Marian brought him his tea and soup – plus two pieces of bread and butter. His appetite having returned in spades, Harold ate heartily, and even requested a second bowl of soup. Although his nose ran from breathing in the steam of the hot liquid and he still couldn't taste much, it was the most nourishing meal he'd had in days. He was also gratified to see his wife's pleasure at his progress.

"Your color is starting to return, along with your appetite," she said happily.

Harold's keenness to sample other delights was starting to return, as well. He eyed the librarian very appreciatively as she donned an empire-waist negligee/peignoir set with short bell sleeves and a cream-colored silk ribbon sash – the fine cotton fabric trimmed with Valenciennes lace was so thin as to be nearly sheer, which gave him a tantalizing view of the curves of her breasts and thighs. But as he was not yet in tip-top enough form to express his appreciation as thoroughly as he would have liked, he simply nestled into Marian's embrace as she slid beneath the bedcovers and wrapped her arms around him.

That night, his sleep was deep and dreamless.