Sonata (North Security 3)

mising. The typical Liam face. When he looks at me, I see that he’s affected after all. Green eyes burn with a poignant knowledge. That we’re here in this city. That we don’t belong—but that there is no requirement to love. No barriers in this particular city. Society’s rules have no jurisdiction here.

“Let’s go up,” he says, pointing the way to the line. What an ordinary thing to do with the man you love. That’s what I want right now. What I need. An ordinary life. Even my heartbeat thump thump thumps in a black case in my room at the chateau.

He arranges a special tour of Notre-Dame even though it’s closed to visitors, undergoing repairs. I walk beside the elaborate, colorful stained glass windows. I walk beside the confessionals.

A low bench lined with red leather and padding provides a place to pray. I light a candle and kneel. It reminds me of the time I knelt in front of Liam on the balcony on a different type of red fabric. Blasphemy, considering what I did to his body that night. What he did to mine. The same. It’s the same anyway, the prayer that I make. For his safety. For mine.

That against the odds, we can both find it together.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The earliest form of musical notation can be found in a cuneiform tablet that was created in Babylonia, where Iraq is today, in 1400 BC.

Samantha

It’s when we’re leaving Notre Dame that I spy the words Shakespeare and Company. Something about the familiarity makes me pause. That’s when I realize. “The tote bag,” I say, feeling faint. My stomach turns over. That my mother was only inches away from me. That she touched me, wiping the hot tea from my body, when I had no idea who she was, makes me feel strange. It’s like someone walking on your grave—a sensation that you should never be aware of.

Liam squeezes my hand. “Let’s go. We can visit the Louvre.”

It’s tempting. You don’t spend a lifetime pursuing classical music without also acquiring a taste for classical art. The portrayals of instruments alone would be enthralling. “What is that place?”

“A bookstore.” He pauses. “We asked around. She wasn’t seen.”

Of course they would have pursued that lead before I even thought of it. That’s how Liam and Josh work, analyzing threats and subduing them. I suppose that means my mother is a threat. “I’d like to go inside.”

Another hesitation. Longer this time. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“You won’t stop me.” Part of growing up means making my own decisions. It means walking into a place that may only cause me emotional pain. Whether as my guardian or my lover, Liam can’t protect me from that.

He looks resigned. “A short visit.”

A woman recites poetry using very sexual and explicit words to describe female anatomy. She stands in front of an upturned straw hat, collecting euros, much the way a street musician would do. An antique-looking suitcase sits open by the entrance, containing books wrapped in brown paper with descriptions. No book covers or titles to sway the buyer.

I swerve toward a shop next door that contains rare books. The scent of dust and decay assails me, but there’s something distinguished about it. Old knowledge. Hope. I touch the spine of some of the books, wondering how many came before me. A case in the far corner catches my attention. Clouds obscure the glass. My heart soars when I recognize the signature. A letter written by Claude Debussy, the paper worn and brown, the script long and smudged. An autographed program from a concert in 1913.

A musical manuscript, undated, in Debussy’s own hand.

He was a prodigy like me. He made his concert debut at age 10 here in Paris. Violin Sonata No. 1, says a placard next to the yellowed paper, along with a very high price tag.

I find myself bouncing on my toes as I peer into the case. The notes and scribbles in the margin—written in his own hand! The creases from where he might have folded it for keeping in his pocket. I’m one foot away from something he touched, only the length of the case separating us.

“Do you want it?” Liam says, his voice low beside me.

I jump and whirl, as if I’ve been caught touching something in a museum. “No.”

“You do.” He looks amused. “You can have it. You don’t need my permission. There’s money sitting in a bank account with your name on it, from the tour.”

“Really?” Of course I knew I got paid for doing the tour. Though any thoughts of practical considerations left my head since the shooting. “But I should pay you back for—”

Sternness. “No.”

“It’s only right since you—”

“Taking care of you wasn’t a loan. It was a privilege.”

It’s hard to breathe in this rare bookstore, the air crowded with dust and history and emotion. I throw my arms around Liam’s waist. It’s much like hugging a column made of marble. He doesn’t move the way someone might when being hugged. He doesn’t hug me back. That’s the way he is… it’s hard for him to accept affection. Hard for him to bear it. I make him anyway, because my joy can’t be contained.

And I think… maybe hugging him more will make him accept it easier.