Her face fell. “She gave it to me.” Her voice was soft. Vague. “Such a dear thing. I left the theater, had my baby, and she came and found me. Gave me the box with the broken ballerina . . . so I’d never forget.” Her chin quivered. “What has been broken, God can fix, you know. God can always fix.” She blinked back moisture. Mitchell handed her a small square of linen and she dabbed her eyes. “Where have they gone? Where are they?” Her agitation multiplied as she searched the unfamiliar faces, dabbing harder.

Mitchell’s low voice resonated through the emptiness as he rose, straightening his frock coat. “Anna, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

She grabbed my hand like an eagle’s hold on prey, gaze flitting about.

“We’ve met,” said John Michelson, rising with effort and fingering the hem of his sleeve. He shuffled around to stand before her chair and steadied himself holding on to the back of another one. “Do you remember me, Annika?”

She lifted her eyes, searched out his face. “Philippe Rousseau,” she whispered, breathless. There were stars in her eyes, her long fingertips twitching on the chair arms. “You’re . . . Philippe Rousseau.”

I held my breath, studied the man, his gaunt old face and ragged hair and skin. We stood there, the four of us dwarfed in that room lit by my paltry candle stubs, and waited.

His face eased into the deepest pleasure. “That’s right.” The man gave a slow, intentional bow. “Might I play for you, my lady?” The clipped French accent—very slight now but becoming clearer—erased all doubt of who he was.

Anna gaped at him, her weathered cheeks glowing pink as her mouth hung open. I rose so Philippe could take my stool. Watching her face, John Michelson—Philippe—played a simple melody by Brahms, and Anna watched his hands. Then she turned her gaze to his face with wonder, and he stopped mid-ballad and watched her, longing palpable in his features. “Do you remember, Annika?”

“Philippe Rousseau,” she repeated—slow and intentional, stringing out the words like pearls on a necklace. She smiled and leaned close, a flicker of lucidity in her face. “Would you like to know a secret?” she asked. “I used to carry a bit of a torch for you, Mr. Rousseau. Back in my younger days.”

He leaned near, his face wrinkling into every possible emotion, and kissed the knuckles of her hand. “Me too, Miss Freidl. Me too.” He lavished a smile upon her, then played again, a lovely ballad from the days of old. She leaned her head against his arm, and he slowed his playing to place a gentle kiss on her matted hair, then continued on.