Death and Transfiguration

Chapter 4

The next morning, I ran into Moreau moments before leaving for Bertrand Sylvestre's house. "Why hello, Miss Brackenborough," he said. "How did that meeting with Sylvestre go?"

I explained to Moreau what had happened: how Sylvestre had disapproved of my compositions, how he had offered me a position as a tutor and caretaker for his young children, how I was on my way to his house at this very moment, ready for my first day of work. Moreau, however, was displeased.

"You can't be serious," he said.

"It's the only way I'm going to learn how to compose," I said.

"But you shouldn't have to look after Sylvestre's children to learn from him. You deserve better than this."

He was right, of course, but there wasn't much I could do now. "It's my decision, Mr. Moreau," I said to him.

"Okay," Moreau said. "Are you doing anything this evening?"

"I'm free after Mr. Sylvestre comes home from work."

"Great," Moreau said with a smile. "Could I meet you at six?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?" I asked.

"It's a surprise, but I promise you'll like it."

I was still suspicious of whatever it was that Moreau had planned, but I agreed to meet him at six anyways. We said our goodbyes, and on the carriage to Sylvestre's house, I thought about my new job, Moreau's surprise, and most of all, Johann Bergmann. According to the newspaper, someone had murdered him, but I couldn't imagine anyone who would ever want to do something so awful. Bergmann had composed many strange, beautiful pieces of music, pieces that some loved and some hated, but he had never harmed anyone. I couldn't conceive of a single reason why anyone would ever want to kill Johann Bergmann.

When I arrived at Sylvestre's house, I tried to push away my thoughts of Bergmann, and I knocked on the door. Sylvestre's house was large and well-kept, nearly the exact opposite of the boarding house where I was staying, and already, I felt slightly intimidated.

I heard a high-pitched voice shout, "Papa, someone's at the door!" A few moments later, there were loud footsteps, and then Sylvestre answered the door, with a small blonde-haired girl of about seven clinging to his leg.

"Come on in, Miss Brackenborough," Sylvestre said. I entered the house, and I took a moment to look around as Sylvestre shut the door. "Jean-Luc!" Sylvestre shouted. "Come downstairs please!"

"I don't want to!" someone, presumably Jean-Luc, shouted from upstairs.

"Miss Brackenborough is here to take you to school," Sylvestre said. "You don't want to be late, do you?"

"But I'm too sick to go to school," Jean-Luc said. "My stomach hurts, and my hands are clammy, and..."

"You've said that every day for the last week, Jean-Luc," Sylvestre said. "Just get down here already."

Jean-Luc sighed loudly and dramatically, and a few minutes later, he shambled into the doorway, carrying a book bag and a violin case. He appeared to be around thirteen years old, but already, he looked much like his father. They had the same wild, brown hair, the same slanted nose, the same hazel eyes.

"Wait a second," I said when I noticed the violin case, far too professional for a mere student. "You're Jean-Luc Sylvestre. The violin prodigy."

I had heard all about him. He had won competitions, toured all across the world, played to sold-out concert halls in the world's largest cities, his skillful violin technique belying his young age. It was strange to see him now, with his father and his sister, acting like an ordinary thirteen-year-old.