"At least there are only seventeen."

I exhaled and plopped the last swollen volume into the box with the others. It made a rather pathetic squelching sound as it fell into place. Meg grimaced.

"Exactly," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. "This is a disaster. This is beyond a disaster. Look at this!"

She looked. Her grimace deepened, but she shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance.

"But there are only seventeen ruined ones," she offered feebly, gesturing to the box of soggy books, "There could have been more."

"I know, but still, it's just…"

"Sure smells nice, though."

A bitter odor similar to one that hovers around old furniture was wafting out from the gaping hole in the ceiling. In the short span of time since it had broken open, Meg and I had done our best to camouflage the smell, but had been afforded little success: the store now smelled like old furniture and"crisp linen" air freshener.

"Poor Mom," Meg sighed, eyeing the shattered bookshelf. I could not help but think the same. Antoinette had wilted with grief when I had phoned her to break the news.

"What do you mean waterlogged?" she'd asked slowly, as if afraid of the answer.

"The roof just sagged open," I'd explained wearily, "I managed to save some, but quite a few of them are beyond repair. Antoinette, I am so sorry. I should have—"

"No, no, Christine, it is not—there is no way we could have expected this." The grieved resignation of in her voice would have been comical had I been inclined to laugh. As it was, my knees were throbbing in silent agony, so I simply listened, a migraine gathering strength behind my temples.

"You know how many times we attempted to repair the roofing," she continued, "It is…there was no avoiding it, I suppose."

"I know, but it's…it's an absolute mess. I wish I could have done something, anything else."

She'd sighed with infinite sadness. If ever there was a devoted bibliophile, it was Antoinette. Nine times out of ten, her resilient, no-nonsense attitude could put a drill sergeant to shame, but present her with a soiled Milton anthology, and she was reduced to tears.

"Never mind, never mind," she'd said, "We'll sort it all out, hmm? Just put the…"-here she paused, struggling to form the words—"…the ruined ones in a box in the storeroom. I have a meeting at five, but I'll be over there as soon as I can. Oh…wait…wasn't…wasn't there someone coming to deliver librettos today? That American?"

My headache worsened at the thought of the well-meaning yet bumbling M. Hertz. I'd told her that yes, he would be arriving shortly: unfortunately not to a quaint little storefront, but to what was in all probability a soggy biohazard.

"But I'll be sure to mop up most of the sludge before he arrives," I added.

I couldn't be sure, but I'd thought I'd heard her whimper at the word "sludge."

Several minutes later, Meg had bounded through the front door to help, bearing a fresh stack of towels, cleaning supplies, and two bottles of soda and an enormous chocolate bar "for medicinal purposes."

We each made our way over to the front desk where the "medicine" sat tantalizingly on the checkout stand. Beyond exhaustion, I grabbed the cola and slid down to the floor, my back against the counter and my legs sprawling out awkwardly in front of me. Meg followed, chocolate in hand.

"Ah, well," she said pleasantly, her fingers deftly peeling the foil back from the candy bar. "What are you gonna do, huh? They were crappy books, anyway."

I couldn't help but laugh in agreement. In all honesty, I doubted anyone would miss the damaged tomes for their content. Still…

"They were one-of-a-kinds," I reminded her, "Some of them were incredibly old, too. One, two hundred years old—"

"I know. I smelled them." The chocolate made a crisp snapping sound as she broke a piece off the bar and popped it into her mouth. "What's done is done, I guess. No sense in lamenting over it. Although Mom will, I'm sure. She'll be in agony over the books for weeks. What is it with her?"

I grabbed a square and nibbled on it contemplatively.

"I can understand it. There's a sense of…how can I say this without sounding absurd-?"

"You probably can't."

"It's just that there is a sense of history in those pages. Beyond the literal aspect, I mean. Your mother is in tune to that, to the fact that those pages…someone was holding those pages, touching them decades ago. Think of it. Someone who was living, breathing in a completely different world was seeing the same thing you're seeing. The book itself could be terribly boring, but the fact that it still exists…it's amazing, in a strange sort of way. Like you've captured a piece of time, and no one can take it away from you."

Meg cocked an eyebrow in amusement and bit into another square of chocolate.

"I think Mom is rubbing off on you," she said matter-of-factly.

"I told you I would sound absurd."

"No, no, I get it. I do. Granted, I'm not as moved by it as you two seem to be, but they are neat. Remember grandmère? Her attic, and that one box with the old dresses and hats inside of it?"

I grinned at the memory. When I was thirteen, the Girys had insisted I travel with them over the holidays to visit Antoinette's mother-in-law, who lived in an ancient wooden cottage near the German border. Meg's grandmère was prickly in nature but tender at heart, and harbored a love for all things romantic. She'd given us permission to ransack her attic, and Meg and I had spent hours oohing and aahing over the yellowed gowns and bonnets that had spent the better part of a century hidden inside trunks and boxes.

"I got that feeling with those dresses," Meg went on, "It was pretty neat to see them firsthand. They were worth their weight in entertainment, weren't they? Making the skirts poof out when you twirled in a circle…"

"Remember what happened to the white one?"

"The wedding dress?"

"No, no, the other one. It had these floaty lace sleeves—"

"Oh, the one with the blue hem?"

"Yes!" I laughed, "I wore it to breakfast one morning, and you were wearing those old boots with your pajamas-"

"Loved those things."

"The boots or the pajamas?"

"Both."

"I should've stuck with my pajamas," I continued with a sigh, "What was I thinking? Maple syrup and cranberry juice with a white dress? I was such a bubble head…"

"Christine, we were kids. All kids are bubble heads."

"I spilled juice and syrup all down the front of it." I winced at the memory. "Your poor grandmère…oh, she hated me for it!"

"Nah, she didn't. She seemed fine after she fainted. And most of the stains came out. She might have had a minor coronary, but she didn't hate you."

"I was never included in any holiday invitations after that," I pointed out.

"Don't take it personally." As if apologizing on behalf of her grandmother, Meg smiled kindly and handed me a healthy sized portion of the chocolate bar. "She stopped inviting Uncle Jean after he moved to London. Of course, that was after she'd gotten up there in years and thought that the Hundred Years' War was still in full swing—"

Meg's words were suddenly cut short by a series of frantic sounding knocks that issued from one of the display windows. Placing the chocolate on the counter, I hurried to the source of the noise, my already frazzled nerves winding up yet again. I wondered how much more of this I could take. I was long overdue for an emotional breakdown, and I could only pray that it wouldn't sneak up on me at an inopportune moment—granted, there was hardly an opportune moment for a breakdown, but weeping uncontrollably alone was infinitely preferable to doing so in front of a customer.

And I supposed the person knocking on the other side of the glass was just the customer Antoinette had been waiting for. He was a short, portly man with prickly-looking graying hair that stuck out over a large forehead. In his arms were two enormous boxes, which swayed precariously as he continued to knock, despite the heavy load. His fist peeked out from below one of the boxes, and each time he swung it towards the glass, his package teetered, inches away from flying out of his arms and through the window.

Unwilling to have another catastrophic mess to clean up after, I jerked the front door open, heedless of the merry tinkling of the bell that was tied to its handle. Sprinting towards the man, I breathlessly cried, "Monsieur, s'il vous plaît, est-ce que je peux vous aider?"

He jumped at the sound. My concerns about my disheveled appearance were immediately confirmed when his expression became one of mild shock as he studied me.

"I, ah—I'm looking for a Christine," he said slowly, and, I might add, very cautiously. I could hardly find him at fault. I must have looked utterly mad after being rained upon by decades-old dust and rainwater. He continued, however, albeit carefully. "I'm supposed to drop these off, but I think I might have the wrong address. I mean, the sign says this is La Plume D'Oie, but it doesn't—"

"You have the right address, don't worry," I said hurriedly, "I'm Christine—"

"Oh, good! We spoke over the phone," he added, as if I had somehow forgotten.

"Yes, I—"

"Phil Hertz," he said with a friendly smile, and his right hand popped out from beneath one of the two cardboard boxes he was holding. I shook it awkwardly, and opened my mouth to offer to carry one of the packages, but was cut short once again.

"Ha, glad you shook my hand! I thought you were going to do one of those weird kissing things that you guys do. You know, like this?" He kissed the air to the right and left of him, squinting his eyes in mock affection. "It's not that I don't appreciate it, you know, cultural ticks and whatnot, but I gotta level with you, it's getting pretty creepy."

"Shall I-?"

"Maybe I just got off to a bad start with it, though, eh? See, I thought I was supposed to do it with everyone, so I tried it on the cab driver on the way here, and let's just say I was a little unprepared for getting flipped the bird so early in the morning."

"Monsieur, would you like me to-?"

"Although, looking back, I can't believe I was so stupid. I mean, the guy's forearms were the size of hams and he had this really awesome mustache, too, and let's face it, mustaches like that mean business. He probably wasn't a kissy-kissy kind of guy—"

"Let me take those for you!" I said loudly over the rambling that was becoming all too familiar. He quieted for a moment in surprise and then looked down at his heavy load, as if seeing it for the first time.

"Oh, jeez, yeah, that would help. You sure you can carry one? They're awfully heavy."

"Of course," I assured him.

"Okey dokey, then."

He plopped one of the packages into my arms so suddenly that I was utterly unprepared for its weight. I staggered forward momentarily before regaining my balance, my already sore muscles protesting anew.

"You sure you got it?" he asked.

"Yes, I've got it." Lord above, how much does this thing weigh? "Would you follow me inside?"

"Oh, okay. You know, I was worried there when I saw the shop. It looks like a warzone in there. You guys renovating?"

"Um, not exactly..."

"Pipe burst, then?"

"I suppose you could say that," I said. As we reached the store's entrance, I moved to awkwardly push the door open with my toe, but was relieved to see Meg finish the job for me. Her blonde mane swung cheerily as she poked her head out and surveyed M. Hertz with barely veiled amusement.

"Hello," she said, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Hello back!" M. Hertz chirped from behind me. My heart sank slightly. I could tell he was ready to launch into another babbling monologue. "Phil Hertz. Nice to meet you!"

"Charmed, M. Hertz," Meg said, her voice quivering as she struggled to contain an eruption of giggles, doubtless sparked by his eyewear. Crookedly perched atop his blunt, pockmarked nose were glasses at least fifty years out of style. The lenses were incredibly thick, black-rimmed, and magnified his eyes tenfold, lending him a slightly bug-eyed, cartoonish appearance. The fact that he was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet in excitement—over what, I hadn't the faintest idea—didn't exactly help. Meg's face was reddening at an alarming rate, and when she bit her finger to stifle a snort, I knew it was time for damage control.

"Excuse us, Meg," I said hurriedly as I shoved past her and into the dimly lit storefront. I should have stepped aside and allowed M. Hertz to enter before me, but the last thing I wanted was the two of them alone together, however briefly. Meg looked about to pop with mirth, and I sincerely doubted M. Hertz would have appreciated being the object of that mirth, however thrilled he seemed.

"Are these the librettos?" I asked him quickly, stepping in front of Meg.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered proudly, "Where should we put them?"

"Right here should do for now."

After both boxes had been placed on the checkout stand, M. Hertz sighed satisfactorily, turning towards Meg with a smile.

"You say your name was Meg?"

Thankfully, she'd managed to calm herself down enough to answer, "No, actually. Christine did. But yes. I'm Meg Giry."

"Giry? Hey, you're that Antoinette lady's daughter, aren't you? The one I talked to about these?" He jerked a thumb towards the boxes.

"Guilty as charged."

"You look like her. Same eyes, same hair. Minus the bun." He leaned comfortably against the counter, scratching the back of his head. "Anyway, the reason I ask is I've got a cousin named Meg. Well, her real name's Margarie, but she says that makes her sound like she should be training Corgis for the queen, so she prefers Meg. Which really isn't much better, but what're you gonna do, huh?"

"Uh huh." There was a note of profound irritation in Meg's voice. Her given name, like M. Hertz's cousin's, had always been a source of contention. "Meg," was a substitute for "Marguerite," a name that, as I'd been warned over the years, I was never to utter aloud unless I wanted to be clobbered.

"So, yeah, cousin Meg and I are real tight," he continued, "She's got this dog, right? This big old mastiff that drools like hell. You ever seen those? The huge brown ones with the flat nose and those jowls that wobble? It's freaking disgusting. But cousin Meg's mastiff's pretty sweet, all things considered. He's a stud, too. Loves the ladies. I think they probably dig him, too, because…you know. He's anatomically gifted in certain areas. What's funny is, the first time I saw him, I'd never seen a bigger pair of—Holy crap!"

I started upon look of shock on his face. "What—?"

"This is worse than I thought! What happened in here?" he wanted to know, surveying his surroundings in distaste and amazement for the first time. "You two blow a hole through the roof or what?"

"Oh, yeah, that's it. We totally just blew the roof the smithereens with bazookas," Meg spat, obviously still irked over the name debacle.

"Bazookas? Really?"

"No, no," I interrupted, shooting a frustrated glare Meg's way, "No bazookas. Just rain. This building's very old, and that spot back there had always leaked—"

M. Hertz's mouth formed an 'o' of understanding and he nodded, "I see. Water weight was too much, huh?"

"Yes, it—"

"Wow, that really did some damage, didn't it?"

"Unfortunately—"

"Stinks like a hog in a sauna," he observed with a sniff, "There might be mold up there, you know."

I hadn't thought of that. I groaned inwardly for what had to be the millionth time that day. Yet another obstacle to wrestle.

M. Hertz must have seen my dismayed expression, for he smiled kindly and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Don't worry about it too much. You can get rid of mold easily enough. Take my house, for instance. Few years ago, Judy—she's my ex-wife. I think I told you on the phone?"

"Yes, you did." I only vaguely recalled Judy, mostly because at the time he'd mentioned her, I was having a heart attack watching the ceiling cave in.

"Yeah…left me for Gilles."

"I remember…I'm terribly sorry about that—"

"Gilles, huh?" Meg said. "Ouch."

"Right on," M. Hertz said irritably, "We were on vacation, too. The guy's, like, twenty-five or something. He's got these huge biceps that are completely unnecessary, if you ask me. Compensating. I'm telling you, he's compensating. You know why? Because he's a fisherman. A fisherman. What the hell was Judy thinking?"

"Probably that she was craving some fish—"

"Um, what were you saying about the mold, Monsieur?" I interjected hastily, elbowing Meg in the side.

The look of mingled sorrow and disgust that had started to creep over his features quickly vanished, replaced once again by one of enthusiasm.

"Oh. Right. Well, like I said, a few years ago, Judy and I found this weird green…stuff…growing around the tiles in the shower. Turns out there was an army of mold in the wall upstairs. I managed to get rid of most of it myself…I've dabbled in construction, so I knew a little bit about it. Called a company to do the rest, and they managed it fine. I guess what I'm saying is, if there's any problem mold-wise, I'll be happy to take care of it for you."

His smile was so genuinely kind that I couldn't help but do the same in gratitude.

"Thank you so much. I've had a…well, a bit of a rough week, so I truly appreciate it."

"Sure thing, little lady. But enough about mold and ceilings. You want to take a look at those librettos? Might cheer you up."

"I'd love to!" I really was excited to see them. I couldn't wait to take my time examining them, something that would likely take a few hours. If the weight of the boxes had been any indication, there must have been hundreds of pages worth of music in there.

"Now, be careful with them," M. Hertz said as I hovered over the boxes. Meg looked on in amusement.

"There's a few newer ones in there, but most of them look like they're from the turn of the century or before. I think I saw one that was dated—"

"Oh, my gosh, does that say 1825?"

He peered over his coke-bottle glasses and nodded smartly.

"Yeah, that's one of the oldest. Cool, huh?"

"That is pretty incredible," Meg agreed.

"You can take them out if you want. They won't bite, you know. Just be really careful. I almost ripped one the other day when I sat on it."

Meg and I each reached into a box and gently lifted out a small stack from the top of the piles. The parchment was yellowed and brittle, leathery and fragile beneath the weight of time.

"1902," I heard Meg say as the sheets in her arms rustled noisily, "Wow, 1902, 1905, 1898…"

"This is the one from 1825. Wow, Meg, look!"

She let out a low whistle. "Check that out! Oh, my God! Oh my-Chris! Chris, this one says 1650!"

"That's 1950, Meg."

"Oh." She squinted at the page. "You're right. I was wondering why it looked so new."

"You see the one in red ink?" M. Hertz asked.

"No, where?" Meg was enjoying this more than I thought she would. Eagerly, she leafed through her stack of librettos.

"I think Christine has it," M. Hertz said. "It should be in the middle of the pile somewhere. I remember putting it in that box. It looks so neat, I've got to show you. See if it's in there." He waved his hand towards my librettos, bouncing on the balls of his feet again.

I couldn't help but chuckle as I gingerly flipped past sheet music dated 1896, 1895, 1890. Back further still to 1888, 1885, 1883, 1882…

"There it is!"

"Ooh, creepy! Christine, tilt it this way so I can see!"

"I've got to admit, I have no idea what any of that means—that was Judy's forte—but this one is just so killer."

"You're right...very Jekyll and Hyde, isn't it, Chris?"

"I thought the same thing! Told Judy, but she really couldn't have cared less. Gilles had gotten to her by that point."

"I wonder why it's written in red."

"Looks angry, doesn't it? And the ink is like new. Sure doesn't look that old. There's no date on it—"

"1881," I said abruptly. "It was written in 1881."

It had spilled from my mouth as if a dam had broken. I hadn't said a word since I'd pulled the libretto out. Meg and M. Hertz stopped midsentence and stared at me, the latter's jaw gaping open slightly.

A furious blush crept up my cheeks, my head spinning and my heartbeat throbbing in my ears. The score felt hot in my hands, feverish…familiar...

"Sorry. I don't…I don't know where that came from. I, um…"

"Lucky guess?" Meg suggested.

"Sure…"

"How can you even guess, though?" M. Hertz wanted to know, his magnified eyes blinking in confusion. "There's no date. I mean, you can tell it's one of the earlier ones, but there's no date."

Silence. My eyes were hot, my stomach was churning, and my heartbeat was drowning out his voice. I stared at the music in front of me, at the elegant yet frantically penned notes, the curl of the treble clef, the blank spot where the title and date should have been.

"Christine?"

"What will you title it?"

"She okay?"

"I should think that would be fairly obvious, my dear."

"Christine? What is it? What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"She's breathing really heavily…. you okay, little lady?" A hand on my shoulder. I scarcely felt it. "Listen, she's rasping…can you hear it?"

Can you hear…?

Can…

"Can you hear it?"

His voice is so familiar, and yet unlike any I have ever heard before. Sublimely rich, melodious…I involuntarily let out a sigh, something deep within me swelling at the sound.

Yet I cannot comprehend his cryptic question, and I ask, "What?"

"Listen," he breathes, his large, pale hands hovering over the keys for a moment and then diving gracefully into them yet again, sliding and flitting about with dizzying speed before gradually, achingly, slowing to a soft whisper. My eyes shut of their own accord, the sheer, untainted beauty of the song enveloping me in tender waves. I am jarred when it stops, wishing nothing more than for it to continue, to spiral into magnificent eternity.

He inhales deeply, swept away along with me, and I watch as his eyes briefly flicker towards the heavens before boring brilliantly into mine.

"Can you hear it?" he asks again.

I believe I can, although I know I cannot hear it as he does; but he elaborates before I have the chance to answer incorrectly. "Such a subtle harmony. So delicately entwined, as if held together by lace. Those chords—yes, they can exist separately. They can be paired with others, can they not? But how marvelous is that one particular union, a fragile connection that ultimately proves formidable…"

Our eyes lock, hovering together in that wisp of time; that infinitely long second etched with more emotion than is humanly possible. He is frozen, bathed in the sharp relief of the candlelight. Neither of us can possibly voice what should be said, and so he relies on the melody that waits beneath his expert fingertips, gleaming in polished black and ivory.

And as he plays the song once more, I finally hear it. Both the miracle of the harmony and the name that falls like a reverent prayer from his lips…

"Christine. It is called Christine."

I felt myself falling, tugged backwards, the roar of the blood in my ears drowning out cries that echoed distantly beside me. There was a thump as I hit the floor, another cry, and then blackness. Blackness and the Voice.