Page 89 of The Dragon 2
Sacred, maybe.
Historic, definitely.
I didn’t know what it was.
Not yet.
But Jean-Pierre did.
The moment his eyes fell on it, something cracked open across his face. Not fear. Not strategy, but absolute wonder.
He leaned in, breath caught halfway between inhale and prayer.
“Could it be?” Slowly, he peeled back the silk.
Underneath lay parchment—aged to a delicate amber, brittle and immaculate. A series of handwritten musical notations trailed across the page in fading black ink, the script baroque,slanted, and fine. Additional markings ran through the margins—thoughts that had once flickered inside a composer’s mind now trapped forever on this aging page.
Jean-Pierre let out a breath—ragged and low. “Mon dieu.. .”
Oh. Whatever this is. . .it is good.
His finger hovered over the parchment. “I’ve been searching for this. . .foryears.”
He didn’t look at me as he spoke. He was speaking to the artifact. To the past. “To get this tonight. . .from you. . .here. . .”
Jean-Pierre straightened slightly, fingers still tracing the air above the page. “This first edition. Sheet music by Jean-Marie Leclair before it was ever published. You already know. Eighteenth-century violinist. Genius. Innovator. The father of the French violin school.”
I had no idea who that was, but I was glad Reo did.
The Butcher leaned closer, eyes devouring the notes.
Then, softly—so softly I nearly missed it—he began to murmur the melody under his breath. Just fragments. A delicate hum of phrases and rests, the rhythm trembling through his lips like he was playing the piece with histongue.
Translating ink to breath.
His fingers followed the lines like they’d walked them before. “Sonata in D major. . .one of my favorites.”
He closed his eyes a beat—like hearing it again filled him with aching. Then he opened his eyes and looked at me, and in his gaze, I saw the moment shift.
From diplomacy to devotion.
From conversation to oath.
He sighed. “As you probably know, he was murdered in his home in Paris. Stabbed. Slumped at the foot of his own harpsichord. And no one ever solved it.”
I smiled, truly impressed with his excitement.
The Butcher continued, lost in his obsession, “I often wondered what or who could have killed him. Jealous rival? A thief? A student? His abusive brother? Some say it was the woman who loved him. Others think it was someone who envied his brilliance and hoped to take it.”
He let out a long breath. “The truth is. . . we’ll never know, but the music remains. Art. . .it always remains long after the artist is dead and gone.”
Good job, Reo.
The gifts were taken away by my man and his, handled with ceremonial care. Then the table vanished too.
A huge smile spread across Jean-Pierre's face as he turned toward the velvet curtain. "Ah, the performance will soon begin."
Below, the orchestra finished its tuning.
