That magical night only four days earlier—the peak of her career—seemed to have taken place in another era. That night, all that was elusive was her relationship with Jenna. Wade had still been her devoted, if overly demanding, hero and husband. Within hours, nothing mattered. One baby changed her in ways she hadn’t imagined possible.

“I’ve finished ‘Flower Babies,’ ” she said.

He grinned. “Let’s hear it.”

“Lost in the cold of the night,/ In a place with no heat or light.//Flower babies die unloved,/ Reach heaven on the wings of doves.//”

He took over, and the half-notes, climbing to the higher end of the scale, twisted and turned on themselves, as in Chinese music. “How about a single flute for the repeat theme?” he asked, and called over the flutist to demonstrate.

The clear, clean high notes wove an oral vine over the gravestone of her bond with Lulu. “Fantastique,” she said, “It sounds like the song of a nightingale.”

She felt feverish with the prospect of making this song happen. How many women here had suffered the separation of babies snatched from their arms to be murdered? This would be the song not only of those babies, but also of their tormented mothers. Jean-Claude and she repeated “Flower Babies” several times. Occasionally, he brought in instruments and made corrections to the music. “It’s a great song,” he concluded, “Let it simmer. In the meantime, let’s go back to finalizing our program for tomorrow.”

“ ‘Flower Babies’ is ready,” she said.

“No time for a full orchestra rehearsal. You can’t take the chance of bombing.”

It would be an explosion, all right. Flashes of the protest rallies from her parents’ years came to mind. She remembered being awed as the huge crowd was riled up by songs of protest. The message of “Flower Babies” must reverberate around the globe, too.

“Don’t have a heart attack,” she said. “But I want to sing it in Shanghai tomorrow night.”

Bruuummmmm. Jean-Claude pounded his palm on the piano keys, and Nola jumped. The blare of notes rolled around the hall.

“Don’t you get it?” he shouted. “Our song list had to be approved by a bunch of slant-eyed bureaucrats. Last year, after inviting the Lincoln Center Festival, the Chinese withdrew their invitation because they didn’t like one piece. One piece! This is China, for Christ’s sake! We’ll be thrown into prison the moment we break regulations. And not one phone call to a lawyer, either!” He wiped the saliva at the edge of his mouth. “Shanghai is even worse than Beijing. It’s more commie, with more bureaucrats. I’ve told you before: I don’t want to get butt-fucked by some meddling government official with a political hard-on!”

The musicians and dancers pretended to be practicing. “You’ve made your point,” Nola said calmly, “but it’s my name on the marquee.”