SmartGirl Internette presents...

Hi SmartGirls,

I would like to share some important news for you all! How should I say this...?

I’M GETTING PUBLISHED!!!

It’s true. Currently, my novel is being edited and I will hopefully have it back by mid-week or the end of the week. My editor is Michelle, and she’s very nice. Right now, I’m working on the cover with an artistic family member, but unfortunately, we have no ideas whatsoever to do for the cover. We have a slight idea that we would like a cobblestone street/road incorporated into the cover. The title of Corisande doesn’t exactly suit the story I decided, so I am naming it Beneath the Cobblestones. Try and see why I named the story this :)

Beneath the Cobblestones will excitedly be released no later than the end of January 2010. The book will be sold on Amazon.com and any local bookstores that wish to stock my book. I do not know the exact price, but maybe around ten to eleven dollars. I would be very happy and proud if SmartGirls bought my book. I will have an Acknowledgements page, and SmartGirl and my editor will be in it. I would also like to incorporate Camille, author of Beyond the Barn in the Acknowledgements, but only with her parents and her own permission for editing my story.

I am very thankful for all of SmartGirl’s support, as they helped me reach the publishing stage. Thank you everyone!

Corisande a. k. a. Beneath the Cobblestones is in its last stages of being posted on SmartGirl, which means no more Corisande and Florr. I am very sad...But my SmartGirl editor has agreed that I can still write for SmartGirl! A little bit about my new story...

The next story is nothing related to Corisande and her friends, but it is a fantasy. I’m trying something new, and have researched a bit about chivalry and knights, though this world I am writing about is not Earth. It is kind of a different, similar world. All else I am going to say is that the main character is Seraphina and the story shall be called The Singer.

Thank you all so much again! And if you have any slight ideas (I am open to those even without cobblestones incorporated into the cover!) please leave a comment!

Sincerely,

Erika

Corisande woke with a start. It was dark and gloomy, as the middle of the night should be. A full moon’s light fluttered into her room, casting an eerie luminosity upon the desk.

Corisande had awakened from a dream. She had dreamt about two mysterious people watching a lady. She wondered if the dream was trying to tell her something

She got out of bed, slipped off her gown, and dressed, grabbing the small packet of matches and a nearby candle. She snuck out her door into the hallway which was cold and deserted. Corisande wrapped her shawl tightly around her, then she went over to the staircase.

There were two figures at the bottom, moving around with their backs turned to Corisande. They were observing the atrium, gently touching walls and decorations. Then, as the man figure touched a pink flowered vase, behind him opened up a secret passage.

“Over here!” he whispered hoarsely to the other figure. The woman stretched her neck out to see what he was pointing at. They crept over to the gap and disappeared in the dark.

A pale Corisande still stood at the top of the staircase, breathing heavily. She felt weak with fright and her legs trembled. She was scared because she didn’t know who these people were. But she had a sinking feeling it was related to Anne and Lora’s death. Suddenly, she knew what to do. Instead of following the peculiar individuals, she ran on the balls of her feet to a back door. She was going back to the door.

*

Florr sat in a ruined but still comfortable chair in the junk-filled room. She had thought Corisande would come back to get her, but it had been hours since her friend had left.

Florr had found a scraggly moth-eaten blanket to lie under and a jar of unopened jam which she then ate. Since she had no better thing to do, Florr also explored the room. She found a broken doll with no eyes and one arm, a couple of cockroaches, a broken porcelain teacup, and the best of all, ten Francs.

Abruptly, the door shook. Florr froze against the wrecked chair she was sitting on. The door shook again, and this time a rattling sound of a key came with it. Florr curled up closer to the chair, terrified. Then the door pushed open, revealing a short figure.

“C-Corisande?” Florr said quietly in disbelief.

“I’m so sorry, and I would love to make up for my disagreeable temper, but time cannot go back. If there is any way for you to forgive me, I’d like to know,” Corisande hugged her friend tightly.

“If you could find my sister’s murderer, I would be ever thankful!” cried Florr.

“That was what I was thinking myself. Anne has been murdered, too, now,” said Corisande grimly.

“Anne? She was murdered?” Florr asked, her eyes widening in incredulity.

“Yes, but let us talk about it later. We must search,” Corisande hurriedly responded, beginning to trudge through the small path Florr had cleared. Florr followed after.

The room was much bigger than it actually seemed. Once things were spread out in an orderly way—it helped that Florr had organised part of it before—Corisande and her friend started flipping open books, pulling out drawers and examining linen for Lora’s clue.

Suddenly, a tiny metal canister fell out of a coat pocket that Florr had thrown away earlier. It was about the size of fingernail with a tiny little cap sealing the container closed.

“Florr, look! I think I might’ve found it!” Corisande yelled over to the dancer who was shaking a book upside down. Florr dropped the book to the floor—which happened to be Macbeth—and came stumbling over to Corisande. In her pale hand was a tiny metal capsule engraved with Lora’s initials.

“Open it!” Florr commanded impatiently. Corisande did as told. Inside, a minute roll of parchment fell to the ground. Florr bent down and delicately took it in her hands. She unrolled it and read:
 

Dear Corisande,

I believe you have been lucky enough to have found my clue.
The murderers are R and MB, not H.

Good luck,
Lora

“R? MB? H? What is she talking about?” Florr thought out loud.

“I know exactly what.”

That was all Corisande said before she took the paper and fingernail-sized tube and walked out of the room.

Corisande marched angrily across the courtyard, slapping her feet hard against the grass, making a satisfactory thump every time they hit the ground. Her cheeks were red with anger and annoyance, and her beautiful dark eyes were brimming with frustrated tears.

Corisande couldn’t think why Lora would make it so hard for her friends. Wouldn’t the dead girl want them to find out her murderer? Or did she just want them stuck in a never-ending challenge? Corisande didn’t care to think about Lora and the key. All she could focus on was getting to her room and throwing herself onto her bed.

When Corisande reached her building and flung open the side door, she was faced with a crowd of girls. Every girl wore a long winter coat and held a sack filled with clothes. Every girl was whispering or yelling to her friends, frowning in fright.

“What’s going on?” Corisande asked a nearby girl with black hair.

“Didn’t you hear? There’s been another murder,” whispered the girl into Corisande’s ear.

“What? Who?” Corisande hoped desperately that it wouldn’t be someone she knew, but no such luck.

“Anne DuBrouche, from Madame Turner’s piano class,” the girl hastily replied before she swished off to another corner, followed by a solemn bunch of girls.

“Oh no...” Corisande uttered under her breath. She turned out of the threshold of the side doorway and raced to another door. It would take her into Madame Turner’s classroom.

After knocking quietly on the plain, wooden door and waiting a moment, it opened and Madame Turner appeared. Her pale face looked paler than ever; her blue eyes were wet with tears.

“Yes, Mademoiselle Corisande?” the elderly lady snivelled.

“I just wanted to know what happened,” Corisande said. Madame Turner’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. She quickly added, “About Anne.”

“My Anne! She didn’t come down for lunch, which got the teachers a little worried,” Madame Turner pulled out an already dirtied handkerchief and blew into it. “Madame Percival went up and found her, dead in her bed!” Then the piano teacher burst into tears.

Not knowing what to do, Corisande awkwardly patted the old lady’s back. Madame Turner snatched up the young girl in her arms and hugged her tightly. The embrace was warm and loving despite the cruelty that surrounded them. Corisande felt a familiar love through the hug—it felt like she was hugging Emmalina or even still, her coarse mother.

*

“Will you just shut up?” an angry whisper echoed across the lawns of Madame Beauregard’s Studio of Musical Arts.

Two people were standing out in the cold, dark night, shivering with no coat or scarves. The faces and clothing of the people were unidentifiable but they were both man and woman.

“You shut up!” the man whispered back. The two strangers’ heads turned to each other—probably to glare— and then the woman tip-toed forward near the building.

“I have the key,” whispered the lady. She pulled out a shadowy object and waved it in the air. Behind them, there was movement. “Shhh!” The pair slipped behind a tree, and watched.

The movement had come from another person. The person was tall and regal-looking, stepping delicately upon the stepping stones set in one of the lawn gardens. The lady’s head darted side to side, watching for such people as the ones hiding behind the tree.

“It’s her,” the man muttered under his breath. The woman nodded.

“We better get inside soon, and then the place is ours.”

Once inside, Florr and Corisande did not know where to begin. Some doors were like the doors to their rooms – crimson – but very few. Then some were a dark navy or a bright yellow. The yellow doors looked older with the paint peeling to reveal a greyish-white colour underneath. The navy doors, however, looked freshly painted, and the scent of new paint lingered in the air.

“I suppose we will have to try every door then, Florr!” Corisande laughed bitterly.

“No, we don’t. The key looked quite old,” Florr replied. “So, I suppose the door is going to look old, as well. So we should only try the yellow doors!”

“That sounds logical,” Corisande agreed. She took the key from the delicate box in her hand and went up to the first yellow door on the left.

She slid the key in until she felt it hit something not even all the way through. The door was not the right door.

Florr and Corisande shimmied and shoved the key into every door, even the newly-painted ones. No door would open for Lora’s mysterious key. After trying the very last door, the two extremely frustrated girls slumped down on the floor.

“I don’t understand!” Corisande flung the golden key against the wooden floor, chipping a dent into it. Her temper was rising. “Why didn’t Lora just tell us where the stupid door was?” Corisande yelled.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure she wouldn’t have given you the key without knowing you could find the door on your own,” Florr stated calmly. Unlike Corisande, Florr didn’t become angry when she was frustrated.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure...” Corisande trailed off, staring up a small set of stairs opposite to where the girls were sitting and to the left. A decorative black railing led up to the second floor and a little hallway.

“Let’s try up there!” Corisande said. Without even waiting for Florr’s response, she hopped up and skipped up the stairs, her attitude immediately better. At the very end of the hallway was the outline of a door.

Once Corisande reached the white door, she stuffed the key into the lock, breaking the crusty paint off. The key turned easily in the door, and, with a satisfying click, the door flew open, leaving Corisande and Florr staring into the room.

Because of Lora’s clue, Corisande had imagined the room to be clean with a Persian carpet. To her dismay, the room was stuffed floor to ceiling with odds and ends of furniture and trinkets. It would take Florr and Corisande days to find Lora’s one little clue.

“ARGH!” yelled Corisande. She threw down the golden key with such force she left another dent. Out stormed the usually polite girl, knocking Florr out of her way. Florr steadied herself against a wooden dresser, listening to Corisande walk out of the building.

“Oh, dear, Lora. Why did you have to make it so hard?” Florr looked up as if she were talking to her sister in the heavens. Then, in one swift movement, the door to the crowded room closed silently and locked Florr in.

Florr came back a few days after Corisande had investigated Madame Beauregard. Naturally, every student was surprised that Florr had come back so soon from her family visit. Florr explained that the men had gone back to work and the women and children were running the house to clean up Lora’s sleeping chamber at home. It was just too hectic to stay at home.

As soon as she had arrived, Florr went to find Corisande. Corisande was sitting on a bench in a courtyard behind the school. In her hands was a glass jar which possessed a beautiful blue and black butterfly. Mikhaîl had given it to her. He had left it outside her door that morning with a note.

“Corisande! How nice it is to see you!” Florr cried when she saw her loving comrade. They hugged like sisters and sat. They talked and talked about Mikhaîl, Florr’s home, and school. Not once was Lora mentioned.

“Before I forget, dear Corisande, I found something in Mother’s room that I thought you might like.” Florr handed a small silver box to her friend and gently commanded: “Open it.”

The silver box was lifted out of Florr’s silky hands with ease. The lid was opened gently which had a hand-painted design of a ribbon intertwined into a golden key.

Inside was a small note on parchment paper and a key that resembled very much the one on the lid. The note read:

Dearest Corisande,

I write this in the infirmary, feeling as if my body is being stabbed by a thousand knives. I am dying, and I know it. When I reach my own death, this silver box will be placed beside me so you will surely receive this note some way or another.

I only knew you for an extremely short time, but I can read people like the back of my hand. If you have already thought about investigating my death, then I made a good guess. If not, well, here’s a huge chance.

The key you will find in this box is a key to a door (I forget which door, because my memory is slowly crumbling – I think it is the effects from my drink). Please figure out which door in the school. Behind, another clue is left and will let you step closer to coming upon who I can only call The Cruel One.

Sincerely yours forever,

Lora Schrieb

Corisande let the note flutter out of her hand and watched it see-saw down to the ground. Florr was stiff and frozen like a statue. Gently, as if it might dissolve into a million dust particles, Corisande lifted the golden key from inside the beautiful tiny box. It was heavy, and the end of the handle was round and engraved with the letters LS.

“We’ve got to find the door.” Then the two girls headed towards some back entry doors into the school.

Since adding Henriette the maid to her suspect list, Corisande got the idea to inquire the instructors, including Madame Beauregard and Madame Bourgeoise.

“Sit, Corisande. What is it that you want?” Madame Bourgeoise demanded when Corisande had insisted they talk privately in her office. Corisande sat.

“I was wondering if you knew anything about Lora’s passing away,” Corisande said, implying it to be a question.

“I am sorry, but I know nothing except that she died a week or so ago,” Madame Bourgeoise kindly replied. At least she was being soft about the subject. Nothing at all was suspicious about this strict teacher.

“Thank you,” Corisande said, smiling a little. She left the room and went to the office of Madame Beauregard. She knocked lightly, recalling the last time she’d knocked on the dark red door. It had been on her first day at the school, when she had just arrived. She’d had no idea what was to be held in her future ahead of her.

“Come in,” the voice of Madame Beauregard said from inside the office. Corisande entered and smiled as the kind lady looked up. There was a smile upon that face too, and for a moment Corisande wondered why on earth she would have to inquire from Madame Beauregard, practically an angel in human form.

“Salut, Corisande, and how may I be of your assistance?” Madame Beauregard questioned harmoniously, a pearl necklace – much like the one she’d been wearing the day Corisande had arrived – twinkled.

“I was wondering if I could ask a few questions about Lora’s passing away.” Corisande gave voice, forcing the words out of her mouth. She had no idea how the headmistress would react to what she had said.

“Yes, but you must be hasty. I am not in a very good mood.” Like Henriette, Madame Beauregard’s tone was sharper, and Corisande could sense the stiffness in her joints.

“Yes, Madame, anything that pleases you,” Corisande replied, looking at her black buckled shoes. Then she began the questions. She asked where Madame Beauregard had been the night Lora had been contaminated, her feelings about the situation and so on. The answers that Corisande got from Madame Beauregard were simple and in no way a use to her investigation.

“This is the last question. Who do you suspect killed or poisoned Lora?” Corisande quickly jotted down some notes on a paper.

“Corisande! I am tired of these silly questions!” Madame Beauregard angrily burst out, not answering the young girl’s inquiry. “Get out and go to bed! Lora’s death is none of your business! You are but a young lady! Leave this to the constabulary! Now! Go!” The enraged headmistress thrust her index finger towards the door as if telling a dog where to go. Corisande hurriedly managed her papers together, nodded a farewell, and left the room. Her face downcast, she reluctantly but knowingly added Madame Beauregard’s name to the list.

Corisande easily settled down once she got back to her private room at the Madame Beauregard’s Studio for Musical Arts. Her bed was nicely made with brand new silky, flowered bed sheets, and everything had been dusted. It was a nice welcome home.

Even though she knew she was in the safety of the great school, Corisande still locked her windows and doors after hours in fear that Rigallo would come back for her. She would never go anywhere without a companion. Madame Beauregard and Madame Bourgeoise made sure the distasteful man wouldn’t get her because they insisted for the police to guard the school.

Days went by at a normal pace, and Corisande forgot all about her investigations for Lora’s death. But one day, while rifling through her bedside drawer to find her journal, she came across Lora’s own journal. Instantly it struck her like a rock hitting a window, Corisande remembered her inquiries. She jumped up and ran out of her room to find Henriette, whom she needed to talk to very much.

Henriette was found sweeping the hardwood near the grand doors, whistling to a sweet tune. Corisande smiled brightly as she tapped the kind maid on the shoulder. Henriette whirled around quickly, almost knocking over a delicate Ming vase on a pedestal nearby.

“Corisande! What a pleasure to see you! Have you settled back in nicely?” Henriette said happily.

“Yes, quite, Henriette. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions concerning Lora’s sudden death. Would you care to take a seat?” Corisande asked, waving a hand to a bench positioned slightly off to the left side of the huge doors.

“Thank you, and what is it about Lora? I do send my love to the Schrieb family in mourning. Lora was so kind and polite. A real beauty within; don’t forget on the outside, too. Terrible, terrible --” Henriette chattered away sweetly, until Corisande tactfully interrupted by saying, “Yes, yes, but we must get on with the reason I’m here,” Henriette’s face was rigid, her smile stiff, like she was hiding something.

“Well, Florr and I were especially affected by Lora’s terrible mishap, and I decided to investigate who was the culprit of the girl’s demise,” Corisande answered, noticing Henriette’s sudden severity. “So, if it is not minded, I will ask some queries about what you were doing the night Lora was poisoned and how attached you were to the girl.”

“Mademoiselle, I don’t think a young lady like you should be sticking your nose into other people’s business,” Henriette snapped, her mouth set in a thin frown and her brow furrowed. Corisande was taken aback. Never had Henriette called her ‘Mademoiselle’ since the day they had first met. Corisande was getting suspicious.

“Can you at least tell me what you were doing that night?” Corisande requested kindly but firmly. She was getting annoyed and chary with Henriette’s peculiar behaviour.

“I was helping distribute dishes to the different tables. I never delivered any liquids to Lora’s table,” Henriette answered.

“Yes, you did, Henriette. You gave me some champagne. And Lora, too,” Corisande replied tightly.

“I did not. Why are you accusing me of this, anyway?” Henriette countered rudely. “I would never kill Lora!”

“I see. Thank you, Henriette, I appreciate your honesty,” Corisande quietly murmured. She picked up her papers and walked serenely back up to her room.

Henriette had claimed she would not have killed Lora, but she hadn’t claimed not to have poisoned her. Maybe she was the criminal and just had not thought that the poison she had given Lora would have been deadly. There were millions of possibilities.

Either way, Corisande now had a second suspect.

Days went by in the old, decrepit barn, though it seemed like weeks for Corisande. She was stuck in there, eating sailor’s bread and dry olives. Rigallo only ate breakfast in the barn, so Corisande was left alone. She didn’t dare think of escaping; Rigallo was an extremely fast sprinter.

“Breakfast,” one of the only words Rigallo would say to Corisande.

Corisande took the familiar, battered box to reveal the same old hardtack, olive and small glass of water. It sustained her through the day until the next morning, though her stomach frequently grumbled loudly during those long, useless hours.

“Where are you going today?” Corisande asked, though she knew the answer. Rigallo would visit his master, place unknown.

“You know where.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“It’s obvious. Now, don’t ask any more questions.”

“Fine.”

Rigallo left. Corisande finished her breakfast.

A few hours later, she heard a quiet knock sound on the barn door. Corisande sat up, her legs aching. She was only allowed to get up to go to the bathroom. Ignoring the pain, Corisande went to open the door. There, standing straight-backed and still, was Mikhaîl.

“Mikhaîl?!” Corisande cried, flinging her arms around the boy. She was ecstatic to see him, having seen no one except the terrible Rigallo for four days. “What are you doing here?”

“The entire school has been searching for you, and just yesterday the constabulary got drawn in. We’ve been sent out in groups by orders of Constable Lévesque. My group was Anne, Claire and Ella. They’re looking in the woods behind the meadow.” Mikhaîl pointed far behind him, where little people – Anne, Claire and Ella – were moving around.

“Oh, is someone else here, like a member of the constabulary?” Corisande asked, frightened at the possibility if Rigallo came and there was no safety for her classmates.

“Yes, but he is very dumb. His name is Monsieur Marchand, and he only knows how to use a baton. He is very good at hitting people on the back of the head and knocking them out. He hit a poor man thinking he had kidnapped you. Now the man has a bump on the side of his head the size of a cantaloupe,” Mikhaîl laughed. Corisande added in a weak laugh, too, but all she wanted was to get out of the dreaded barn

“Mikhaîl, we must not stay long, for Rigallo, the man who kidnapped me will come along soon,” Corisande said. She stepped off the stone threshold of the barn, breathing in deeply. She hadn’t left the barn for four days, and she really wanted to send the letter she had stuffed in her apron pocket.

Mikhaîl nodded as he took Corisande’s arm and walked her quickly down to the woods where Monsieur Marchand was sitting on a tree stump.

Monsieur Marchand was a big, portly man and had a small button nose. His lips were two thin lines just above his double chin, and he looked very French, indeed, by means of his moustache with the curled ends. It was small and took up only the length on his small mouth.

“Izz eese your little gur-ole you ‘ave been lookeen forr?” Monsieur Marchand asked politely, his R’s rolling easily against his tongue and his fat double chin waggling. He stroked his whiskers, smoothing them out.

“Yes, Monsieur, and we found her in that ugly old barn over there.” Mikhaîl pointed over a hill, which the red barn looked over.

“Oui, petit gars, je le vois. Je ne suis pas aveugle,” Monsieur Marchand said. His eyes narrowed menacingly at Mikhaîl.

“See what I mean?” Mikhaîl whispered to Corisande. Corisande responded with a shake of her head—she didn’t know what Monsieur Marchand had said at all!

“I’m so sorry, Corisande,” Anne said, peeking out behind Mikhaîl. “Monsieur Marchand said that he could see the barn and that he was not blind. Don’t forget he said that in a snappy tone.”

Corisande laughed. She knew Anne had added that last comment because Monsieur Marchand was not the most likable man. Now, Corisande wouldn’t have to worry about Rigallo. Mikhaîl, who was the person she had been secretly hoping for all along, had rescued her, and now she just wanted to go back to Room P7.

 

A rough hand tying a piece of dirtied cloth around Corisande’s mouth muted her scream. Still clutching her letter to her mother, Corisande tried to bite the hand. Instead, she got a slap against her left cheek; there was sure to be a red mark.

“Just be quiet, girl, and no one will come to any harm,” the hoarse, unfamiliar voice of a man grumbled into Corisande’s ear. Beneath the canvas, her eyes would’ve shown fear. Corisande writhed and wiggled, trying to sneak out of the stronghold.. She didn’t like the dark in the small, cramped space. The dark was mysterious, a thing oblivious to all that was happening right in front of her door.

“What’s your name?” growled the harsh voice again. Corisande didn’t answer – like she could.

“I said girl, what’s your name?”

Corisande replied, with immense effort, “Forffifanse.”

“Forffifanse? What kind of name is that?” Evidently, the man didn’t realize that people can’t talk when their mouth is gagged. “Well, Forffifanse, you are coming with me.” With the force of an elephant, the man picked Corisande up and clunked down the stairs.

At the bottom of the staircase, he dropped her hard on the wooden floor, forming a great bruise on Corisande’s right hip. Then he rolled her slowly across towards the grand doors. Suddenly, her head hit ….
 

***

 

Corisande blinked open her eyes slowly. The cloth around her jaw was gone and the canvas bag had been untied and pulled off. Corisande observed her surroundings, which were a muddle of hay and horse manure. She was sitting against rotting wooden walls with silvery, dewy webs spun in the corners. She was in a barn. Where was the barn? She didn’t know.

“I see you’re finally awake, m’dear. Here’s breakfast.” It was the man who had spoken roughly to Corisande. He was tall and muscular. He had brown hair, thick, dark sideburns, and black eyes like Mikhaîl’s, except these were cold.

Corisande took the small box he had given her and opened it. “Breakfast” was a small piece of hardtack and one dry olive. There was a miniscule glass half-filled with water.

While eating her feast, Corisande asked, “What is your name? Why did you kidnap me?” The man glared at her but answered her questions.

“My name is Rigallo. And you, Forffifanse, are a danger to our plans.” The man replied gruffly. His breakfast looked much tastier than Corisande’s, with cold eggs and a few leaves of lettuce.

“First of all, Rigallo, my name is Corisande. Second of all, what plans and who is ‘our’?” Corisande said sharply. This was a time when she could drop her manners.

“That, Corisande, is nothing that you should care about. I also refuse to say who my master is,” Rigallo replied. He wasn’t sharp to Corisande, but it was clear he had ended the conversation.

After his breakfast, Rigallo trudged out the big squeaky barn door and sprinted out into a big daisy meadow. Now Corisande was alone.

 

It was dusk outside, and, what was left of the sunlight, streamed through an oak tree, landing delicately on a stone bench. There was one person there. His hair was black, like pitch, and he had on a coat with the boys’ Musical Arts School logo upon his vest. Out of his view, a girl came up to him.

“Mikhaîl? Is that you?” the girl asked, walking briskly across to the bench, recognizing the boy from her piano classes. It was Corisande.

“Oh, Corisande, I was just reading Romeo and Juliet. It is quite a tragedy, n’est-ce pas?” Mikhaîl said, using the little French he knew. He was like Corisande in that they both came from foreign countries and didn’t know French.

“Yes, we are just starting to read it in class. Evanthe is also learning a dance about it.”

“Yes, you play for that girl? Don’t you find her snotty? Maybe a nice young lady like yourself can teach her some manners.” Mikhaîl commented. He slowly put his book away, without his eyes straying from Corisande, who had sat down.

“I do. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to play for her. I can handle it,” Corisande replied, smiling. She admired the fact that she wasn’t the only one who had noticed Evanthe’s terrible attitude.

“I really wish our instructors would care to notice students’ behaviors. It would solve a lot of problems..” Mikhaîl inched closer to Corisande, who didn’t notice.

“Well, yes.” Corisande seemed to be deep in thought. “I really must be going though. I have a meeting with Henriette, the maid.” She got up.

“Oh, that’s fine.” Mikhaîl’s face fell. Then, he reacted in a way Corisande never would have expected. He jumped up as fast as lightning and kissed her quick on the lips.

The two stood at the bench for a few seconds. A few quiet “goodbyes” were said, and Corisande and Mikhaîl parted opposite ways. Corisande quickly walked back to her room in the school.

She was quiet for the rest of the day and canceled her meeting with Henriette. Corisande was not up to visiting and wanted Emmalina to talk with about her awkward rendezvous with Mikhaîl.

A gentle knock at Corisande’s door startled the girl out of her reverie. Corisande didn’t move, not wanting to get up and open the door. Another rap at the door.

“Corisande, m’dear, are you in there?” the voice of the sweet Mary Todd asked behind the door. “Yes, Mary, come in,” Corisande replied softly. Surprisingly, Mary Todd heard her whisper and came in. The American sat at the edge of Corisande’s bed.

“You didn’ show up for dinner. Is anythin’ wrong?” Mary Todd asked, smiling. Her Texas tan made the whole room feel warm and sunny like Texas itself.

Corisande nodded. She thought Mary Todd was trusted enough to know about her secret with Mikhaîl. She desperately needed someone to tell since neither Florr nor Emmalina were here to talk with

“Yes, actually, something is the matter,” and Corisande told Mary Todd all about meeting Mikhaîl on the bench and how he had kissed her.

“Ah, this brings me back to the days I met Lance. Lance is my husband,” Mary Todd began. “I was confused one day while traveling with my father. We didn’t know where we were supposed to stay, and, well, Lance found us.” Mary Todd seemed to be off in her own little world for a moment, and then she came back to her normal state.

Corisande listened through ten minutes of Mary Todd’s story of meeting Lance Sherelle and how, when he got Mary and her father to their rental house, he kissed her lightly on the cheek, then on her hand. Mary described it as, “I ‘ad fallen for the swee’ charm of a Frenchman”.

“Well, little gal, why don’ you think a little abou’ this Mikhaîl before you make any moves,” advised sweet Mary Todd before she left out the room. The door closed quietly behind the Southern belle, leaving Corisande sitting on her bed.

Out of the blue, Corisande decided to write a reply letter to her mother. She chose a nice blue ink to write with on some beautiful scented stationery.
 

Dearest Mother,

          It was marvelous to hear from you. I relished reading your lovely, energetic letter about Emmalina and Franz.

          Tell Flavia that I am doing well here and I have met two girls. Unfortunately, one of the girls died in a terrible poisoning a few days ago. The one who passed was named Lora, and her sister, Florr, has gone home to mourn with her family. I am in distress for the poor girls’ family.

          On a lighter note, I am learning a plethora from my instructor. Her name is Madame Turner, though she prefers to be called Merle. I do a group class with Anne, Claire, and Mikhaîl; they are the other piano students.

          I am overjoyed to hear about Emmalina and Franz. I cannot wait to hear about when their baby will be born and I am absolutely honoured to be an inspiration in their name selection.

          I must retire now as it is quite late, and send my love to everyone.

Your daughter,

          Corisande

Corisande looked over her letter, her eyes sad about the part where she wrote about Lora, but then she let out a few quiet giggles. She had used boring, exaggerated words to impress her mother and convince her that she was getting a top-notch education. Analiese would be proud.

Corisande chose a nice manila envelope with blue herbs pressed into it to seal the letter, then she walked out of room P7 to go downstairs and drop the letter into the mailbox. When she walked out, the candlelight immediately flickered out. In the dark, she heard a creak of stairs and felt someone pull a canvas bag over her head.

 

First up on the list to query was the girl who sat beside Lora at every meal, Mademoiselle Margaret Washington de l’Angleterre. In simple English, she was from England--in fact, a very wealthy part of London.

“What a pleasure to see you , Margaret!” Corisande cheerfully said.

“You told me to meet you here, Corisande,” Margaret said dully. Margaret was quite distasteful and simple. She had mousy brown hair and muddy eyes. She never had any expression in her voice and was extremely logical, which explained her high mark in strategic problem solving.

“Yes, yes, I guess I did. Anyway, I do have some questions for you about Lora’s passing away,” Corisande said, ignoring Margaret’s annoying look.

“If you want to know, I did not poison Lora Schrieb and will you please excuse me? My friend needs me.” Then Margaret stiffly walked off to no place at all.

“Margaret Washington, check.” Corisande whispered quietly as she crossed off the name on her suspects list. Then she found the next girl: Helga Svede from Sweden.

“Hello, Helga, I would like to ask a few questions about Lora’s death,” Corisande had asked.

“Go away or you will end up with a broken wrist, Amaury,” Helga had grumbled. Helga was, apparently, very violent, both in manner and in ballet.

“Helga Svede, check.”

“Harriet Low, check.”

“Gabriela Esperanzo, check.”

“Hanako Li, check.”

“Evanthe Ballou, suspected.”

Corisande had questioned Evanthe, and the snobbish girl had blushed at each question and had entirely lost her rude approach.

“So, Evanthe…uh, were you, um…affected by Lora’s unexpected death?” Corisande had asked meekly.

“Well, um…yes, I guess so.” Evanthe had blushed at that point.

“How so?” Corisande had edged on, having noticed Evanthe’s reaction.

“I don’t know.” Evanthe had replied. The rest of her answers had been much the same, short with barely any words at all.

Determined that Evanthe was suspected, Corisande decided to make inquiries from Ella Gage, Evanthe’s best friend. It didn’t turn out so well. Unlike Evanthe, Ella was even ruder than usual and not as welcoming to interrogations.

“Ella, I’ve come to ask a few questions about Lora’s death. Did it have an effect on you in any way?” Corisande asked.

“No, I don’t think it did. Now will you please stop asking stupid questions. I need to read the fifth chapter from a French history book.” Then Ella walked away.

Day by day, Corisande’s investigation plan slowly catapulted down the drain, and the girl started to lose confidence about the whole case. Then, Corisande found a clue.

Henriette had been cleaning out Lora’s old room when she found Lora’s old journal. Corisandeasked to see it one day.

Inside were days of torturous name-calling, kicking, and hair-pulling, with Lora being the target. One thing that interested Henriette while she was reading the journal was that Lora never named the person. Instead Lora had called the person The Cruel One.

Once Corisande had acquired the journal, she began to study for clues. Lora’s handwriting was always smudged with tears, which made the writing almost illegible. But one of Lora’s entries caught Corisande’s attention. It was written the day the poor girl had been poisoned.
 

Dearest Journal,

          Today, The Cruel One did not bother me at all. Instead The Cruel One was nice to me, complimenting my dress, laughing at my jokes. It is very confusing. For once, maybe The Cruel One has decided to leave me be. I pray this is true.

          Today The Cruel One delivered my old pearl necklace back.

Yours forever and always,

Lora

One thing that caught Corisande’s attention was the sentence before Lora had put odwn her signature. The word ‘delivered’ from the sentence had been engraved deeply into her mind, and Henriette the maid was put next in line for investigation.

Florr refused to leave her room once she found out about Lora's death. She only permitted Henriette, Madame Beauregard, and Corisande to enter and console her.

First, Florr took to crying all day, then she became angry at herself, and then she fell apart. She was in no condition to attend classes or even to get out of bed. She remained in the same clothes over and over again and was served meals in bed. In a few days time, she was sent home for a few weeks to stay with her family.

With Florr now gone, Corisande was all alone. She attended her private and group classes with Merle and chatted with Anne and Claire at meals sometimes, but she did not have a day with excitement at all.

The whole school was affected by Lora Schrieb’s sudden fatality, and the entire student body was stirred by the thought of a girl dying in their own school They dressed in black out of respect for Lora, but no one even knew she had existed until Madame Beauregard had announced it. Now students were extra cautious when they drank any liquid or ate any food, so they would pour their drink themselves. Madame Beauregard had spoken at dinnertime the night Florr found out.

“Students; students; could you please calm down? I have something important to make known,” Madame Beauregard had said. On her left had been Madame Bourgeoise, who had courteously dressed in navy since she did not own any black.

The students had stared, though a few continued jabbering until Madame Bourgeoise cleared her throat, which produced an unnaturally loud noise.

“Something distressing has come across our school. A few days ago, as most of you may know, a certain Mademoiselle Lora Schrieb de l’Allemagne was poisoned by her champagne.” Madame Beauregard gazed coolly out at those few girls who would not listen. Then they had frighteningly looked right into Madame Beauregard’s black eyes.

“This early afternoon, Madame Percival found that the talented girl had stopped breathing, her heart dead. If you were the one who poisoned Mademoiselle Schrieb’s drink, please come to me; if you did not, be on the lookout for anything strange.” Then Madame Beauregard sat down and tapped her glass, which signified to start eating. The rest of dinnertime was quiet, but Corisande’s mind was whirring with an idea…

Corisande now sat in her desk chair. She had the fire going, but she was cold. She had had a good day, but she was sad. She had understood everything perfectly fine, but she was confused. She didn’t want to go home, but still she was homesick. She was a mess of emotions, and it was all because of Lora’s death. Not even the cancellation of flute lessons could make up for the death of Lora. Then, a fantastic idea came to Corisande’s mind. What if — what if she investigated the whole scenario? Then, Corisande sat down with her journal and started to plan.

The ride to the destination was silent throughout. Having your worst imaginable enemies sitting directly across from you for half-an-hour is painful, especially high-and-mighty Evanthe and Ella. When the carriage stopped, the four girls bounded out and separated immediately.

"That was awful!" cried Florr, once they were in a boutique alone. The boutique was called Vêtements Fillettes.

"It was terrible, wasn’t it? I could not stand to turn and see the pinched, superior faces of those two," Corisande agreed, running her hand down a purple satin nightdress. It was smooth, and absolutely stunning. She inspected the price: 47 ₣! Corisande only had thirty Francs on hand.

"Ooh, look at this gown!" Florr cried suddenly from behind a stack of boxes with cans for sugar and cookies on top.

Corisande followed the little squeaks of delight to find her friend swinging a dress off its pink satin hanger. The dress was extravagant. At the collar, a fine violet-coloured ribbon of velvet had been sewed on. The neck was in a ‘V’ shape, and the waist was embroidered with black pearls. The skirt ended off casually with a simple flowy feel. All in all, the dress was fit for a duchess.

"Oh my, it’s seventy Francs! This place is so expensive!" Florr cried once she’d checked the cost.

"That’s not very surprising. That other nightgown I was looking at was forty-seven!" Corisande cried. Then the girls wrapped themselves tightly – as it was cold outside – in their warm fur shawls and walked outside, gossiping about Vêtements Filletes’ prices.

"Oh, oh! Mademoiselle Florr, please wait a minute! I have something to tell you!" yelled Madame Beauregard. She was running up the streets, skirts in hand, toward the girls.

"Yes, Madame?" Florr asked politely once the lady had reached her.

"Something...something has happened back at the school that you should know." Madame Beauregard rested a hand on Florr’s shoulder. Corisande and Florr stiffened. Nothing horrible was expected aside from Lora’s health.

"What’s wrong with Lora?" Florr demanded, her whole body going limp with sadness. Corisande steadied her friend before she fell over.

"Just after you left the school, Madame Percival came out with some troubling news, which, yes, was about Lora," Madame Beauregard said. Her eyes showed pain for Florr, who was leaning against Corisande.

"Just tell me what happened!" Florr commanded, forgetting to be polite. Then she added: "Please!"

"Your sister passed away just a half hour ago. I’m so sorry, my dear!" Then Madame Beauregard hugged Florr hard. Florr didn’t care; she let her silent tears stream down her face and onto the shawl of her teacher. She would never heal.

“Girls, girls, please settle down. Madame Bourgeoise needs to take attendance before we go on our trip.” Madame Beauregard called above the hubbub of chattering girls. Madame Bourgeoise, on her right, had eyeglasses extended to the very tip of her nose and a pencil and paper held in both arms.

Every second week, girls aged eleven to fourteen were taken into Paris to explore and buy anything they wished, as long as they had money on hand. They would gain any money by teachers giving them some for any sort of congratulations on tests and essays. Sometimes their mothers would send some in care packages, too.

“Lander, Florence?” Madame Bourgeoise called out, silencing any other chatting girls. A delicate blonde, hazel-eyed beauty jumped up and yelled, “Present!” and again, and again and again a different girl would do as Florence had. Once all the girls had been marked either present, or sick, Henriette, who was stationed by the gate pulley near the private driveway, opened up the gates. The grand gates hid eight carriages, which were rich with navy velour and black satin dressed coachman.

“Corisande, come with me!” cried Florr, over near a fancier coach with a small bearded man as the coachman. Florr was wearing a dark navy blue dress, for Lora was not yet well and still in a frightening coma.

“Merci, Monsieur.” Corisande said thank you in the little French she knew to the small man who held the door open. Florr was already sitting comfortably with her little white kid gloves set aside.

“Mother sent these last week, and a pair for Lora too, but I find them quite itchy,” Florr said, holding up the gloves.

“Yes, but mine have a soft lining of satin inside, so mine aren’t quite as uncomfortable,” Corisande replied, holding up her own gloved hands. Analiese had sent them with a letter.
 

My Dear Corisande, Analiese had written.

I hope your new school is inviting and the teachers are kind. Hopefully you have met some other girls- your friend here, Flavia, misses you terribly and has been nagging Emmalina and I about news of you. I decided to write this letter to postpone Flavia’s pestering.

Emmalina is already married to that charming Franz. His parents moved away, so Emmalina and Franz now live in a nice cottage home. Also, the most exciting news: Emmalina is expecting a baby! If the baby is a boy, they shall name him Anik after Franz’s father. Shall it be a girl, they will call her Coris, after you.

Life here is dull, besides Franz and Emmalina. Your father is continuously going to Russia, then Italy, then Belgium—but I don’t mind. He does not take a liking for Franz, but I think Franz is quite charming. I hope life at Madame Beauregard’s is nice, and I trust you get to see a little bit of Paris too.

Your loving mother,

Analiese Amaury

 

Although stiff in life, Analiese was a pure angel when it came to writing letters. Corisande always loved her mother’s letters.

“I wish mine had that lining, but Mother refuses to send expensive things in case it’s lost. It’s happened to her a lot,” Florr said. Almost every girl at the Musical Arts School came from wealthy families, and it showed. Girls pranced around in silk dresses and shawls imported from India. Some shoes, though rarely, were dressed in black leather.

“When my family moved to Vienna, we did not trust the mail system, so my father created a new system, which he called the Fravienne. Only our immediate family can use it…and they have to live in Austria,” Corisande said.

“Fravienne…isn’t that France and Vienna put into one word?” Florr asked, smiling. Cleverness was one attribute that stood out in her persona. “If my father invented our own post system, we could call it the Germance; Germany and France together.” The two girls laughed.

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle Florr et Mademoiselle Corisande, but you seem to have space for two other girls,” Madame Beauregard said, her head peeking into the carriage window.

“Yes, Madame; who is going to be sitting with us?” Florr asked, hiccupping from laughing.

“I’m sure it will be fine. Mademoiselle Ballou and Mademoiselle Gage need a spot.”

Then, Evanthe and Ella stepped out behind her, smiling nastily.

When Madame Turner had closed the door and told her students to do theory work, she turned Corisande to face her. The teacher looked the girl right in the face. Corisande noticed that her instructor had pretty hazel eyes.

"Corisande, you are an amazing player! Even better than Anne, and she had years of training. I’ve decided you are too good to be in this class; you shall be taught privately by me. You will still come to class with Claire, Anne, and Mikhaîl for theory work, but the playing shall be done with me." Madame Turner had a brilliant smile smeared across her face, and Corisande was nothing but overwhelmed by her teacher’s reaction.

"You are excused from class. Come back here after dinner and we shall begin playing." And with that, Madame Turner hopped excitedly back into her classroom. Corisande beamed a smile for the first time since meeting her fellow piano students and started walking toward the staircase to go to her room. Evanthe was blocking her way.

"Think you can be our next luminary? Never! It will always be Evanthe Ballou, future dancer for the Paris Ballet School!" she said coldly. Corisande grinned; she had so many things to say back to Evanthe, but she didn’t know which remark to choose.

"Do I sense a little jealousy, Evanthe? I’m just a piano player; I don’t think I’m going to harm your stardom at the school." Corisande patted her dancer’s bony shoulder, but Evanthe jerked away.

"Just a piano player? Just? I listened to your piece, and it pleased Madame Turner. She gave no criticism, which is very rare. When Anne arrived, the school was in a flurry. Anne’s mother is a famous player. But still, Madame Turner gave her tons and tons of criticism. But no, oh no, she gives no criticism to Mademoiselle Amaury de l’Autriche, a simple, idiotic girl who’s lived in her grandfather’s manor for years." Evanthe took a big breath. "No one in your family is famous--no one--yet you become a star when you arrive in Madame Beauregard’s school. Steal the fame from her dancer, kill Ella’s teasing, and win over Madame Turner’s musical heart. What will you do next, Mademoiselle the Best?" Then Evanthe stormed off, steaming with anger.

Corisande stood frozen, thinking about what had just passed. Evanthe was clearly jealous, but there was no reason to be. Evanthe was a ballerina and Corisande was a piano player. They were supposed to work together, not against each other. Corisande finally came to a conclusion.

Evanthe wanted to be The Star, not one of many stars--the one and only leading light. Corisande vowed not to practice in front of Evanthe ever again.

After dinner, Corisande headed back up to the L floor. When she reached Madame Turner’s door, she knocked lightly. She heard footsteps, a clunk, and more footsteps; then the door opened.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Corisande. I’ve been waiting." Madame Turner’s white hair seemed almost transparent with candlelight streaming through it.

"I apologize for being late, I –" Corisande was cut off.

"Don’t apologize; I understand that you also have a social life at the dinner table. I take it you were talking with Florr about Lora?" Madame Turner stated, with a strange smile upon her face.

"What…how’d you know?" Corisande inquired quizzically.

"Even though I stay in my office and classroom every day, gossip does finally reach its way up here, Mademoiselle," said the aging teacher. Madame Turner glanced out the window, estimating the time. "Anyway, let us begin."

Madame Turner led Corisande to the same piano where Corisande had performed her breathtaking piece. Instead of letting Corisande take a seat at the piano, the woman sat down and let her hands lightly rest on the keys.

"Mademoiselle Corisande, when you play, your index finger bends in," Madame Turner let her indicator finger collapse onto a key. The key thumped down and let a ringing sharp fly around the room.

"Um, before you start, Madame; I’d prefer if you called me Corisande," Corisande muttered, her eyes positioned to the ground. The instructor smiled kindly and nodded.

"And if you don’t mind, Corisande, please address me as Merle." Madame Turner smiled, taking advantage of the subject.

"Now, let’s get started," Merle said. She continued her lesson of index-finger-collapsing.

By the end of the night, Corisande had mastered a small piece, only three lines long, but she had fed it adoringly with masses of dynamics. Merle was a fantastic piano teacher, and Corisande couldn’t wait to see her again.

Corisande awoke from her dream to the sound of a bell ringing and recognized Henriette’s voice, yelling: “Breakfast in ten minutes!” Realizing she had slept in, Corisande leapt out of bed.

To decide what to wear, Corisande headed to her trunk, which she had not yet unpacked. To her surprise, her trunk was empty. A note had been left inside:
 

Dear Corisande,

For your convenience, I have moved all of your clothes into the wardrobe. Your other belongings, such as your comb and hair ornaments, have been placed in their rightful spots in the nightstand. If you wish, there may still be room for a vanity with a mirror. Please inform me if you wish that.

Yours,

Henriette

Corisande smiled as she left the note in the chest. Henriette could make a worthy friend if it weren’t for her working all the time, but this favour was acceptabl.

---

Corisande arrived in the Dining Hall just as everyone else was arriving. Still, she stood out even though she was not late. Every girl in the Hall was wearing a mud brown frock with an apron. The only differences in their styles of dress were the pretty embroideries that mothers or grandmothers had sewed on. None the less, the room looked plain. “Why, Corisande, it’s so nice to have some variety in the mornings. Ever since Evanthe came along, the girls have copied her with her morning, day, and night dresses,” Madame Beauregard said, coming up behind Corisande.

Corisande consciously looked down at her dress. It did appear different from the boring frocks. It was a nice ivory shade with classic white buttons. Her apron was one of her many and her most favourite. It was crimson with an edge covered in white daisies. “Thank you, Madame Beauregard. You, yourself, are looking quite presentable today.” Corisande curtsied politely and hopped to her designated seat.

It was lonely at breakfast, seeing that Lora was still in the infirmary. The girls sitting diagonally and beside her were young, around seven or eight, and were very timid and shy, chattering among themselves about their day. Corisande did not like the girls’ behaviour; it made her feel as shy as they.

Though breakfast was long, it was soon time for lessons. She would be heading for Madame Turner’s room on the L floor, which meant the “Lesson Floor”. She did not know if it would be a private or a group lesson, but Corisande personally preferred private.

When she arrived, the door was open, and she could easily see three people: two girls and one boy. Corisande was surprised, having thought that the school was for girls only. Later, she found out from Madame Beauregard that he came from the boy’s dorm across the way from the main building.

“Madame Turner, la nouvelle étudiante est ici, ” one girl cried. There were footsteps, and an elderly lady peered through the door. Her hair was white, wavy, and awfully thin--so thin that you could see her scalp though it. She was small, and she was as wiry as her hair. Veins were poking out of her hands, arms, and face. A few liver spots dotted here and there, but the smile upon her angelic, old face was kind and welcoming. Corisande immediately loved her.

“Oh, oui, oui, mais cette fille ne parle pas de l’anglais. Si-vous-plaît peux-tu parler en anglais, Anne?” Madame Turner asked.

Corisande, still standing in the hallway, gave a weak smile. She felt out sorts not knowing the French language, especially when she was living in Paris at the very heart of it all.

Madame Turner saw her look and sensed her discomfort, so she said in English, “Mademoiselle Corisande, my name is Madame Turner, as you may know by now. Please come in, and my students will introduce themselves.” Corisande’s smile grew, and she entered the classroom. The three students looked at her with blank faces.

“Bonjour, my name is Claire Lamont,” said a girl with light brown hair. She was thin, white, and slightly unattractive. Then Claire turned to the boy beside her.

“I’m Mikhaîl Kovik. I’m on a scholarship from Moscow in Russia.” The boy bowed his head in courtesy to Corisande. Corisande couldn’t help but notice that his hair was black and shiny, and his eyes were as black as a raven’s. She wanted to touch his hair and feel the smoothness of it. Corisande averted her eyes when he looked back up at her.

“And I’m Anne DuBrouche. Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle Corisande.” Anne was the one who had told Madame Turner when Corisande had arrived. The French girl had dull red hair that waved down to her shoulders. Her eyes were a yellowish colour, and everything about her glowed. She appeared nice.

“Now, Corisande, play us a piece. We would like to know your style, your talent.” Madame Turner led Corisande to one of the grand pianos and sat her on the stool.

“What shall I play? I have many pieces, and I don’t know what you expect to hear,” Corisande asked lightly. She wanted to make a good first impression upon her classmates and Madame Turner.

“Play a piece that you enjoy and you spent time on practicing. I like it when my students play what they want. That is important to me,” Madame Turner said as she sat down in a red velvet armchair.

So, Corisande chose her favourite piece, a French one, called L’Étoile dans la Nuit, composer unknown. In fact, she believed her former piano teacher, Herr Antoine , who was French, had written the beautiful song. The song suited its name, being smooth and gentle, and meaning ‘The Star in the Night.’

When she started, she fumbled on her triad because she hadn’t played the piano in so long, but she continued like her old teacher had taught her to do.

“When you trip, Corisande my dear,” Herr Antoine had said, “you don’t sit still until your mother comes along, do you? You get up, brush yourself off, and continue on your journey to wherever you go, right? If you don’t, you can never finish piano or your life.” Corisande had taken heed of his wise words and continued to keep them dear.

After her slip, the rest of the piece went fine. Once, when she took a quick glance at Anne, Claire, and Mikhaîl, she saw their mouths hanging wide open in awe. She was flattered. Then she turned back quickly to begin a flowing movement of continuous triads along with a matching melody.

At the end of the song, there was silence. Not an awkward or rude silence, but a silence of amazement. The three other students had eyes as round as saucers, and Madame Turner had a small smile of joy upon her creased face. Then the silence was broken.

“In all my years of a piano teacher at this school, I have never seen such a performance. You had perfect rhythm, wonderful melody, beautiful dynamics, and the hands for this piece. I do not know the composer, but whoever it is wrote this piece fit for you. Madame Beauregard chose someone superb for this school. I hope all your performances are like this one.” Then, Madame Turner led Corisande out into the corridor.

Once out of the sickbay, Florr’s pastel face was streaming with tears. Her green eyes were paler than usual, but fright also covered her face. It could not be concealed. “Oh, Corisande, Corisande! Why again, why now?” Florr moaned, slumping into her friend’s arms. They were walking slowly, but Florr could not keep up.

“What do you mean?” Corisande asked, curious. Florr had said “Why again, why now?” and she was confused. Had this happened before to Lora?

“A few months ago, another girl from England named Suzy McMillan fainted just like Lora tonight at the dining table. She died that very night.” Florr was quiet after that, so Corisande did not start up another conversation. All they said after was “Good night” when they parted floors.

When Corisande went into her room, she saw her yellow cotton nightgown set out with a pair of soft slippers on her bed. She ran onto the four-poster and snuggled her face into the nightdress. Oh, she missed the musty scent of home and Vienna, the flowing music, and her kind family and friends. Here, at Madame Beauregard’s School of Musical Arts, she was a complete, foreign stranger. And things were not welcoming to her because Evanthe was always sneering at her.

After she had slipped on her nightgown and slippers, she settled down into the small four-poster and reached for her journal and quill, which she had set on her bedside table before. She gently opened the decorated diary and flipped to the second page. Corisande never liked writing on the first page, right next to the hard, ugly inside of the book.

The page was clean and stiff with little specks of dried herbs pressed into the pages. It was fit to write a page of daily events.

Corisande wrote:
 

Dear Journal,

I have ended my first day at Madame Beauregard’s School of Musical Arts. It has been eventful meeting my dancer, the snotty Miss Evanthe Ballou, making friends with Florr and Lora Schrieb, and having dinner in the Dining Hall. I must say tonight was very exciting, for Lora fainted. Her champagne was poisoned – I am sure of it. I hope Lora wakes up soon because her sister, Florr, will be miserable for the whole  week if she isn’t.

Lots of teacher here are quite nice, except Madame Bourgeoise. She seems to not like anyone but the professors and Evanthe. Hopefully, we will get to understand each other more during my stay in Paris.

From the bottom of my heart,

Corisande

Corisande quickly re-read her entry, checked her spelling, but then erased out the part saying Evanthe was snotty. When she would return home in a few years, Analiese and Francois would want to check her spelling and grammar. They expected a lady to have perfect grammatical, verbal, and written skills.

Finally, done checking errors, Corisande lightly set the journal on her nightstand and switched off her light. She was tired, and wished for a dreamless sleep.

---

“And now, please welcome Mademoiselle Evanthe Ballou du France with what we call Marionette, and her accompanist, Mademoiselle Corisande Amaury de l’Autriche!” cried a man dressed in a burgundy suit and slick black hair. His accent was thick, and Corisande could not understand him.

Evanthe entered onto center stage, trotting delicately en pointe and her arms set in premiere en bas. She was wearing a long white dress with coloured ribbon tying in the back. Her hair was done up in a strict bun, done by Madame Bourgeoise. and had little pearl pins stabbed into her head in various points.

Corisande was already situated in the corner of the stage, a grand ivory piano placed in front of her. The piano stool was comfortable and furnished with navy blue velvet that had small silver buttons to hold it down. Her sheet music was placed perfectly on the music stand attached to the piano, the notes in a musical fashion on the paper.

Corisande turned her head towards the curtain. There, the majestic Madame Beauregard was motioning to start playing. Corisande squeaked the stool close to the piano and started playing. The introduction was soft, but how Madame Turner, the piano teacher, liked it. Then Evanthe started.

The music flowed, rising and falling with Evanthe’s dance, the mainstay of the show. The audience loved the beautiful ballet, but they were most awed with Corisande’s piano playing. Corisande’s triads danced with Evanthe’s pirouette and gleamed with her chaînés turns. Then, Corisande’s music became louder, emphasizing the crescendo, and Evanthe made a leap across the floor, her pointe shoes curved in a half-moon shape. The audience rose, hands burning from the clapping, they yelled, “ Encore, encore!” and that was the end.

That someone was Lora. She had taken a drink of her champagne, gone an odd colour of green, and fallen off her chair. The dining hall was a commotion, and girls were huddling close together, the food untouched. Mary Todd and Henriette raced to Corisande’s side, as well as Florr.

“Mon dieu!” cried Madame Beauregard, rushing from the head of the table. “Her champagne! Oh dear, someone check what is wrong with it!” She and Mary Todd were gently lifting Lora. Florr, worried for her sister, had a stunned look upon her face.

“Fetch Madame Percival! She will be needed immediately,” Mary Todd cried. Turning to Corisande, she explained, “Mademoiselle Amaury, pardonnez-moi, Madame Percival is the nurse.” When Mary Todd spoke the little French she knew, it sounded wrong with her Texan accent. Corisande, shocked that a girl had fainted on her first day of school, could only nod.

“Move, si-vous-plaît!” yelled a dumpy, elderly lady with silver hair tied back in a strict bun. Her clothes were tasteful in all ways for a nurse: a dirtied apron and a burgundy cotton dress that dropped to a pair of rigorously polished black buckle shoes.

“Oh, dear, it is poor Mademoiselle Schrieb de l’Allemagne! Oh, oh, oh! Madame Todd, could you please fetch a wet hand cloth with the warmest water you can find?” Mary Todd bustled out, holding her skirts. “Florr, dear, help me lift your sister.” Madame Percival’s tone was bright and heartening, though clearly forced, but it gave Florr and Corisande a sense of hope.

“Mademoiselle, would you be a dear and run to find Mademoiselle Schrieb’s pillow and blanket in room K5 on the fifth floor?” The benevolent nurse startled Corisande from her shaken state.

“Yes, Madame Percival, I will meet you in the medical wing.” Corisande turned, her straight golden-brown hair flowing behind her shoulders. With a swoop of her dress, Corisande disappeared behind the doors. After Corisande’s majestic departure, the nurse turned to Madame Beauregard and asked “Quite something, that girl. What is she here for?”

“Corisande is what she wishes to be called. She is from Austria. She is a brilliant pianist, so she shall be playing for our treasure, Mademoiselle Evanthe,” Madame Beauregard said, her voice cracking. Delicate tears brimmed below her beautiful dark eyes.

“She’s quiet, but she will be a good student; I can tell.” Madame Percival motioned for Florr to lift the plump, unconscious Lora from the floor. The small ballerina lifted Lora, then they all marched through the big dining doors toward the infirmary where Corisande was waiting quietly on a chair.

“Here you are, Madame,” Corisande said. She presented a hand-made quilt and a white pillow from Lora’s quarters. Madame Percival smile was despondent as she took the sleeping things from her. She laid them on Lora.

“You may go with Florr now. I’m afraid Lora will not be attending school tomorrow, so please tell your teacher.” Then the nurse hurried the girls out the door with a flick of her hand.

The dining hall was set up like a castle’s banquet hall. Three long tables with gold runners down the middle stood in the center of the large room. On each wall were three brightly flaming candelabras. There was no light with the exception of the candelabras.

“Mademoiselle Amaury, if you could stay there, please.” Madame Bourgeoise came up to the side of Corisande. Madame Bourgeoise was dressed more elaborately, and she had an awful smile on her face, a smile of tremendous satisfaction.

When everyone had sat down at their marked place, Madame Bourgeoise cleared her throat, the sound firm. Everyone turned their heads to look at the stern lady.

“Ladies, we have a new girl attending our school. She is to be Mademoiselle Ballou’s piano accompanist. You may call her Mademoiselle Corisande Amaury de l’Autriche.” Madame Bourgeoise said. Corisande observed the girls' dim facial expressions. Some smiled and some scowled, like Ella and Evanthe.

“Excuse me, Madame Bourgeoise,” interrupted Corisande loudly so all could hear, “but they may call me Corisande. I would appreciate that very much.” Corisande then politely looked up at Madame Bourgeoise. The girls stared in astonishment.

“Y-yes, alright t-then. Mademoiselle Amaury would appreciate to be just called C-Corisande,” Madame Bourgeoise stuttered, flustered by Corisande’s advance.

Corisande, realizing her impropriety, quietly excused herself and walked briskly to a spot at the middle table where her name card was placed.

“Wow, Corisande, you are so brave!” A girl with big, chocolate eyes patted Corisande on the back. The girl was short and stumpy with stringy blond hair. She seemed to be no dancer.

“What do you do here?” Corisande asked curiously, liking the girl at once. The girl reminded her very much of Emmalina, though in personality, not in looks.

“I play the flute. I sometimes accompany Mademoiselle Schrieb in her ballet,” the girl said. “Mademoiselle Schrieb is my sister. You may have seen her around or know her as Florr.” The girl was stiffly sitting on an empty chair beside Corisande.

“That’s nice. What’s your name?” Corisande was surprised by the way she had asked Florr’s sister, outright to the point.

“Why, yes, I didn’t introduce myself! I am –” But Florr’s sister never had a chance to finish, for a loud bell rang through the hall, echoing off the beautifully wallpapered walls. The girl did not go to her designated spot like the others did.

“Mademoiselle Lora Schrieb! Go to your seat at once!” cried Madame Bourgeoise, her voice firm. Corisande smiled kindly at Lora as the girl’s cheerful face fell into a sullen gray look, very much like the feel of the whole situation.

“Yes, Madame.” Lora sat down opposite to Corisande. The hall was quiet except for Madame Bourgeoise’s ahem’s. No girl turned to their neighbour to chat about the dayNot a sound was to be heard, not even a whisper. Suddenly, at the head of the table, a very well-manicured lady stood up. She was quite young, with dull, mousy hair and little black points for eyes. Corisande didn’t know what to make of the lady. She either had an angry air or she was an irate person.

“Ladies,” the woman announced with a Texan twang, her voice loud and ringing. “Our dinner shall be served in a prompt three minutes. Please stay seated and quiet. We are sorry for the delay.” Then the lady sat down with surprising grace.

“Who is that?” Corisande whispered across the table to Lora. Lora, who had been fiddling with a spoon, jumped in surprise. She knocked over the centerpiece between them, but she quickly set it right again.

“Oh, that is Mary Todd from Texas in America. She married a Frenchman, so she moved here. She looks really sour, but she’s a dear. She treats us like we’re her own children.” Lora smiled brightly. “Call her Madame Todd when the instructors are around, but she secretly prefers to be called Mary.” Then the girl closed off again and started fiddling with the spoon once more.

“Dinner is served!” cried the maid, Henriette, who had appeared from the kitchen doors. Suddenly, about fifty waitresses came out, each carrying a silver platter full of halibut, vegetables, fresh fruit, and deli trays. The trays were distributed evenly between the three tables, the cooked food sending a delicious aroma up each girl’s nose. Corisande craved to stab some of the aromatic fish, and Lora’s eyes widened in hunger.

“Ah, it smells divine!” Corisande cried out, piling salad onto her plate. Ripe tomatoes dotted here and there along with some expensive mandarin oranges. Lora, too, was amazed by the oranges.

“They’re just silly little oranges, Corisande and Lora. Papa always brought them home when he came back from a trip.” No one had noticed Evanthe come up behind Corisande.

“Why are you here?” Corisande demanded rudely. She didn’t care if her behaviour fell down the drain when she was around Evanthe. The girl was positively sour.

“Grabbing some mangoes, is that a problem? Why do you want to know?” Evanthe sneered, then stabbed her fork into the pungent fruit. The juice splattered all over Lora and Corisande. Corisande was sure that Evanthe had done so on purpose, and now her favourite dress was stained yellow.

“Oops, I guess they’re really ripe!” Evanthe said callously. Then she trotted off, her head thrown back in a silent laugh.

“Looks like someone hates us.” Corisande muttered rudely. Lora was glaring at Evanthe’s back, now at another table. The event quickly blew over the top of their heads though, for instantly Lora and Corisande were talking about school, friends, and music. When dinner was done, plates clean, some licked spotless, the waitresses came around, lightly sneaking the cutlery from the tables.

Everything was sweet and calm, girls chattering lightly, until someone fainted.

When Corisande had been left in front of the strange door, alone, she was unsure of what would happen in the next few minutes. But when she opened the door to room P7, she was amazed. The room held a small four-poster bed with cream sheets, a petite desk in the corner, and an armoire for clothes. A dainty window looked out over the courtyard with grass mint green and trees full of life.

What Corisande liked the most was the desk. The legs had beautiful carved knobs at the end and the top had an engraving of a blooming rose. There was a little bottle with ink, a quill, and a few sheets of parchment paper. Corisande sat in the rickety chair and fingered the parchment. Analiese usually bought expensive writing paper for Corisande, but this paper was the best of the best. Corisande guessed that probably no one used it here at the Musical Arts School since they were always focusing on music or dance. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, bringing Corisande back to the real world.

“Come in!” Corisande cheerfully said, her voice tinkling brightly. The door opened and a maid, dressed in a bonnet and apron, came in.

“Your trunks, Mademoiselle Amaury,” the maid said. Her French accent was thick and almost incomprehensible to the Austrian girl.

“Thank you, Madame.” Corisande said, dragging the trunks over to the side of the beautiful mahogany bed. She had thought the maid would have left but the girl stood still, an expression of disbelief upon her face.

“Mademoiselle Amaury, nobody ever in my well-being has ever addressed me as ‘Madame.’ The only thing we get here is lessons on how to speak properly,” the maid said. Corisande, thinking she had done wrong, walked closer to the poor maid.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know I couldn’t call every adult person ‘Madame’,” Corisande mumbled. The maid smiled.

“No! I was honoured, Mademoiselle Corisande, but, for further communication, Madame Beauregard and Madame Bourgeoise would appreciate if you called me by my first name, Henriette.” The maid smiled again, and then she dropped slightly into a small curtsy and ran out the door.

Later, when Corisande was done unpacking, Henriette returned. The maid’s hair was slipping out from its bonnet and her face flushed a deep pink.

“Dinner is in five minutes, Mademoiselle Amaury,” Henriette announced breathlessly, stiff as a floor panel. Corisande thanked the young maid, who left immediately after. Corisande wondered if Henriette was the only maid in the school. She seemed so hurried most of the time.

Corisande, too, hurried out the door to find someone to show her the dining hall. What she found were two girls huddled together at the railing. One girl turned, and Corisande saw her to be Evanthe Ballou. Then the other girl twisted around. She had long yellow hair, dull navy eyes and a sickly pallor about her. The girl seemed confident in herself, but Corisande saw her glance at Evanthe nervously.

“Why, hello, Mademoiselle Amaury. It is nice to see you here,” Evanthe smirked. “Or may we call you Corisande?” The other girl’s eyes flashed at the name and she whispered something in Evanthe’s ear.

“Did you know, Corisande, that Ella hates the name Corisande? Such a pity to go to school with a girl who possesses the name you detest,” Evanthe laughed callously. Ella laughed along, revealing abnormally large teeth.

“It is a pity, because I don’t really have a liking for the name Ella,” Corisande replied, her voice sugary and sweet like a compliment. Evanthe and Ella scowled, and then headed toward the staircase.

 

The girl looked approximately thirteen. She had pale white skin and her hair was light brown, tied up in an austere bun. The girl looked like a stick, straight and plain. Her clothing was a limp ragged dress, but underneath you could see straps of ballet couture. She was indeed a dancer.

“My name is Evanthe. I am pleased to meet your acquaintance,” The ballerina said as she bowed her head and pulled at the sides of her frayed dress. Corisande smiled faintly. She did not know if she liked Evanthe or not. She would have to get to know this dancer in the proper way: by spending time with her.

“Rather, Miss…?” Corisande trailed off, finding the girl quite intimidating.

“Ballou. Miss Ballou,” Evanthe offered. Her voice was stiff and her face intimidating. Corisande began to get an idea about Evanthe’s personality.

“Yes, thank you, Miss Ballou,” Corisande replied, staring at the ground. She did not want to look at Evanthe in fear of the dancer’s looming gaze.

“Mademoiselle Ballou will dance, and you shall accompany her with the piano. On stage, you both shall be known as Mademoiselle Evanthe Ballou du France and Mademoiselle Corisande Amaury de l’Autriche: a fantastic twosome,” Madame Beauregard said. “Now Mademoiselle Ballou must go to her lesson, and you, Mademoiselle Amaury, must follow me to your room.” After a curt goodbye with a nod and curtsy, Evanthe left out the side door. Corisande followed Madame Beauregard out the official office door bearing the golden sign.

“While you are here, you must address every instructor or elder by Madame. Every student you come in contact with will suggest either Mademoiselle or their given name. You may never speak to an elder by their first name. It is strictly forbidden. Here is your room.” Madame Beauregard stopped at a red door like hers, but with no sign. The only thing to differentiate the burgundy door from the others lining the passage was the number painted on the front.

“Take note of your room number,” said Madame Beauregard, motioning to a brass 7, “and floor letter, P.” She pointed beside the 7, where a ‘P’ was painted. Corisande’s new room was P7.

“Breakfast is at eight, classes start at nine, and we sleep at eight so we are arisen and shining by the next morning. We will announce the lunch hour at every breakfast.” And, with a simple turn of her skirt, Madame Beauregard left Corisande staring blankly at the crimson door.

"Now, Mademoiselle Corisande, you must immediately go to the room up the spiral staircase. Madame Beauregard is waiting for you there." Madame Bourgeoise said once they were inside the lobby.

The lobby was glimmering and quite extravagant. Old wooden panels lined the floor and nothing was out of place. A young girl was sitting at a typewriter and had notes set beside her. Presumably, she was writing an essay.

"Don’t dawdle, Miss Amaury!" Madame Bourgeoise said. Corisande had been staring at the young girl typing the essay.

"Yes, yes, Madame," Corisande said, and then quietly walked up the spiral staircase. At the top of the staircase there was the same wood flooring, but the walls had beautiful French lily wallpaper. Corisande was impressed. Softly, she stroked the wall and studied the intense design of the lilies. She had always wanted this wallpaper for her room, but her mother and father insisted it was needless. Wallpaper was expensive and exceedingly rare, especially the type with French lilies.

"Are you Mademoiselle Corisande Amaury de l’Autriche?" asked a pretty girl who had just come up the stairs. Corisande had not noticed anyone behind her.

"Y-yes, in fact, I am. And you are…?"Corisande replied, surprised that somehow somebody already knew her name.

"I am, as they say here at Madame Beauregard’s school, Mademoiselle Florr Schrieb de l’Allemagne," said Florr, her head held high. "But just call me Florr," the girl said, smiling.

Florr had blonde, almost white hair and light green eyes. She had a ballet figure, thin and small, so Corisande assumed immediately that this German belle was a dancer. Corisande instantaneously liked Florr.

"You must hurry, Corisande. Madame Beauregard does not like to be left waiting." Florr smiled kindly. Corisande took heed of Florr’s warning, waved goodbye, and walked down the long and door-less hallway. It was small and claustrophobic; Corisande had to take deep breaths in between steps.

At the very end of the corridor, Corisande found a crimson coloured door bearing a sign like the one outside. It read:

The Office

Of

Corisande smiled. The door was not gaudy like the tall French doors downstairs, and she liked that. She had met Madame Beauregard before, but knew little about the woman. Already, Corisande found joy in the thought that maybe Madame Beauregard was not supercilious like Madame Bourgeoise.

Corisande knocked lightly on the informal door. The soft sound echoed quietly against the walls. "Come in," a voice said from within the room. Corisande opened the door an inch, saw that it was indeed the office of Madame Beauregard, and walked in.

"A pleasure to meet you again, Madame Beauregard. You may not remember me, but I am Corisande Amaury de l’Autriche." Corisande fell into a deep curtsy. The lady, who was Madame Beauregard, smiled, and her grey eyes shimmered along.

"Of course I remember you, Mademoiselle Amaury, and that is why I have called for you to meet me up here." Madame Beauregard stood up from her red leather chair, her beige cotton dress flowing elegantly.

Madame Beauregard fit her name, beau regard, meaning ‘good look.’ Though her brown hair was greying and her skin wrinkling, Madame Beauregard was still a belle of the ball. Her hair was put up in an elegant bun with a pearl pin decorating the side. Her dress, although dull, was seemingly expensive with golden thread trim and a giant fleur de lis embroidered at the neck line. A simple silver chain hung loosely around Madame Beauregard’s wrinkled neck. Madame Beauregard was stunning.

"You may sit." Madame Beauregard waved her hand to a hard-looking wooden chair. To her surprise, when Corisande sat down, the chair was one of the most comfortable she had ever sat in.

Then, Madame Beauregard opened a side door to reveal a person in the shadows. The stranger stepped into the room.

"Fräulein? Fräulein, wake up, we are in Paris." Herr Bernard’s lilting accent interrupted Corisande’s deep sleep. They had traveled for a few days, and it seemed that all Corisande did was sleep during the journey. They were finally in Paris.

"Yes, Herr, I am up." Corisande said, her voice sleepy and her eyes only just open. Herr Bernard helped the girl out of the coach and steadied her against a stone wall. Corisande couldn’t help noticing a lady pass by in a carriage who looked a little like Emmalina.

Herr Bernard looked at Corisande curiously. She had a look about her that made her appear to be delicate as a china doll, her skin like porcelain.

"Thank you, Herr." Corisande muttered when the coachman had fetched her two trunks from the landau. She considered walking, and then thought against it. She felt slightly off and not exactly healthy. The two city strangers stood alongside the stone wall for a few minutes.

"Are you ready, Fräulein?" Herr Bernard finally asked. The young girl opened her eyes slowly, blinked a few times and then responded.

"Yes, Herr Bernard, let’s walk to the front." Corisande said. The wall they had been leaning against was covered in ivy and the bricks were breaking. Still, it was majestic in its own way. Herr Bernard nodded and picked up the heavy trunks. They walked along the wall until a steep staircase appeared with a pair of French doors at the top and a sign:

Madame Beauregard’s

"There it is!" Corisande announced hesitantly, pointing up at the bronze sign. Herr Bernard heaved a sigh and began the treacherous trek up the stairs. He did not want to lug Corisande’s trunks up the stairs, but it was expected of him. He staggered each step, unlike Corisande, who skipped up the staircase two at a time. She was joyous to finally have arrived, ready to sleep in a decent bed and eat good food after her tiring journey. Halfway up the flight of steps, the grand doors opened, scraping loudly against the stone landing.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Corisande Amaury de l’Autriche, we have been expecting you," a lady said. She was not Madame Beauregard, and had high eyebrows and a long face. Immediately, Corisande had an immense dislike for this lady. The woman wore a prim grey woollen dress and had small silver spectacles resting upon her nose. She was not smiling.

"How do you do?" Corisande curtsied respectfully. The lady smiled—or maybe it was a sneer. The lady stepped down the steps to Corisande.

"I am quite good, thank you, but we must not waste time with small talk. We have many introductions to do today," the high-eyebrowed lady said authoritatively.

"Yes, you by now know my name, but I know not yours." Corisande said quietly. She did not know how to ask such a question without being demanding. Somehow, the lady raised her eyebrows even higher at the question.

"I guess that is only fair, Mademoiselle Amaury. I am called Madame Bourgeoise." The lady replied, her eyebrows not raised anymore, but her voice full of surprise.

"We must not lag!" Madame Bourgeoise suddenly cried out. She ordered Herr Bernard to leave, for the maids would fetch Corisande’s trunks. Then she took Corisande by the arm and walked her up through the doors.

Corisande stared at her beloved ivory piano, sitting in the corner of the small white room. She would miss Calliope, as she had named her piano, when she left to France. She would miss Austria, the home of many famed composers.

Corisande was an accomplished piano player and she was only thirteen years old. She had played for the nobility and many orchestras. Then, a lady named Madame Beauregard had come to listen to the beautiful Corisande and asked her to come live in Paris and be a pianist in her ballet school. She would play for the dancers there and also learn more techniques to be a professional piano player.

Although Corisande was from Paris, her mother, Analiese, was not. The Amaurys moved to Vienna when Analiese’s father died, leaving the family home, Jorg Manor, in Analiese’s inheritance. Francois Amaury became a merchant, and Analiese stayed home with baby Corisande and young Emmalina. Still, though Paris was part of Corisande’s heritage and birthplace, she wasn’t interested in leaving. She had been forced to accept Madame Beauregard’s offer by Francois and Analiese, who wanted the best musical education possible for their children.

“Corisande, come down! The coach is waiting outside!” Analiese Amaury called from the manor’s entrance hallway.

“Yes, Mama!” Corisande yelled, reluctantly tearing her gaze away from the majestic piano. She shuffled out of the room and down the creaking wooden steps to the entrance hall, the walls covered in portraits of her ancestors.

“Herr Bernard has stowed your trunks in the coach already. I shall call Emmalina down to say farewell,” Analiese announced as Corisande arrived in the hall. Francois said his goodbye the night before, having left for a faraway country earlier that morning on merchant business. Emmalina was sewing upstairs. Since Francois and Analiese believed it was pointless to go enjoy oneself when one could talk with one’s future husband, Emmalina had little to do but visit her fiancé, Franz, and sew. Emmalina was very upset about it all, but she had accomplished many sewing projects lately.

When Emmalina came down, her dark curly hair wrapped round in a thick bun, she embraced Corisande so tightly, the young girl had to say breathlessly, “Emmalina, let go!”

“Oh, Corisande, I will miss you so much!” Emmalina cried, a sad smile set into her face.

“Yes, but I will send you letters as often as I can, do not worry! It will be nice to hear from you while I am gone.” Corisande replied, soaking Emmalina’s brand new gown with tears. The sisters were so attached; they felt sometimes like they were one. It was hard for them to part.

“Corisande, you must go now.” The stiff voice of Analiese interrupted the emotional farewell. Emmalina nodded and gently pushed Corisande through the door and out into the rain.

“Goodbye, Corisande. May Paris bring you fortune as a piano player,” Emmalina murmured softly into her sister’s ear before Analiese could reprimand them both. They hugged one last time before their mother said her goodbye, and Corisande pleaded softly to her sister, “Don’t send me away!” Then, Herr Bernard, the coachman, opened the door to the coach and Corisande stepped in.

“I will miss you all!” Corisande cried out the coach window as she clutched the sides of the door. Emmalina and Analiese waved goodbye, the rising sun twinkling. Emmalina shed a few tears, hidden from her sister and mother, and Corisande’s coach turned the corner, disappearing immediately into a small wood. Emmalina and Corisande would not see each other for a long time.

Later, Corisande looked out the window. They had already left Vienna and were riding down a muddy road, the grass green as a mint leaf. She was going to Paris.

Corisande by Erika is dedicated to her grandmother D. M. Turner, lover of the piano.

AUTHOR FOREWORD

Since I was six, I have wanted to be an author.

Since I was six, I have written millions of stories.

Since I was six, never have I wanted to be something other than an author.

I started to read when I was four. I read little picture books by Robert Munsch and those tiny cardboard books so babies didn’t chew on them. Either way, when I was four, I still tried.

When I was five, I read longer books, but with writing of point 36 or bigger.

When I was six, my mother got a huge surprise. Sure, I read the Junie B. Jones books she had given me, but I was always engulfed in a Harry Potter book. There was no way I would live on Junie B. Jones, where Junie B. talked like a baby. Instead I was curled up on the couch reading Harry Potter ALL BY MYSELF! Of course, my mother was amazed, and by the time I was eight, my relatives had all sent me the first three books of the Harry Potter series.

At school, I was at the same level as everyone, since I was learning French. Now, though, I get an average of 101% in grammar, verbs, and vocabulary in French. I’m not bragging! But, at library, we could choose one book in English and one book in French. Three years before school I was halfway through the Junie B. Jones series, and I was eagerly awaiting the fourth Harry Potter book and was re-reading most of the Junie B. Jones series while all my new school classmates had just started reading Junie B. Jones. Sadly, some of my classmates still read those books for fun.

To tell the truth, if any of my friends read this, I’ve been lying to them for a whole year. Don’t get mad! Sure, the Twilight Saga is okay, but seriously, it’s phony. Okay, if you like that series, it’s (a) because you really, really, REALLY, truly like it, or (b) because your friends like it and you don’t want to be different. I chose (b) a while ago. I own the books and I read them time to time and I try and find the patience to even read a page. No, really I do. Sometimes, at parts, it is good, but the rest is slow, and I get the feeling Stephenie Meyer is just famous for many people who chose (b).

What does this have to do with my foreword? Well, on a How Well Do You Know Erika quiz on Facebook, I asked, “What is my favourite all-time series?” The Harry Potter series was listed there along with the Twilight Saga. Some people thought I preferred the vampire novels to some magical dude who defeated a mutant, insane character. Wrong-o. I would much rather read about “some magical dude who defeated a mutant, insane character”, than about a vampire who “cannot stand his true love’s blood, but for her, he stays strong” and they live happily ever after. The End. Ha, life isn’t like that. Or immortality or whatever.

Before Corisande, I’d written a novel called the Guild of Trees. It is a terrible story (coming from me) and I never, ever want to have anything to do with it ever again. I wrote it when I was ten, and sometimes I go back to read it and fix up some things, but I don’t think I’ll click on that story for a long time. Maybe one day I’ll go back and re-write it, but for now, I’m going to fix up Corisande. I hope that one day, SmartGirls will see me out there on the shelf of a bookstore and say, “Wow, I read that story on the SmartGirl website!” Maybe they will buy it, maybe they won’t--depending whether they liked the story of not.

“Why did you want to write Corisande?” I have been asked so many times by my friends. First of all, I play the piano. I never really excel in it, so I dreamed up a girl who could play the piano well and was really good at it. Secondly, I speak French. I decided to incorporate the language in my story, so the location of my story ended up, naturally, in Paris, France. The name Corisande means “chorus-singer” in Greek. In the beginning of the first chapter of Corisande, it says that Corisande had named her piano Calliope. Calliope is a Greek mythology name meaning “beautiful voice”. Don’t you think a piano has a beautiful “voice”?

I’d like to thank a few people before I end this. Thanks to my friend Jennie for always supporting my stories and telling me my stories are great even if I think they are terrible. Thanks also to my good friend Laura for always supporting my stories even if she’s only read a bit of them. I would also like to show gratitude to my class teacher for helping me expand my French vocabulary. Last but not least, I would like to thank my great-grandmother for whom this book is dedicated because she is my piano inspiration. Even though she has forgotten who I am, deep down I know part of her remembers.

If you are a writer yourself, don’t copy other people to be like them; and if you are an author and copied a person to be an author, don’t do that. Be yourself and follow YOUR dreams, not others’.

Yours,
Erika

P.S. I have a secret: the name Florr in my story isn’t German at all. Do you think of ‘Flora’ when you read that name? It was actually a typo I made while typing the word ‘floor’. Funny how authors get inspiration, don’t you think? LOL