Chapter 1

Olivia was only twenty-six years old, but she already felt lonely and helpless against the world and the ravages of time. She’d grown up in small-town Alberta, but had somehow managed to end up working in a smaller Ontario town office at the public library, even after all her schooling in music and art.

How on earth did I manage to get here? She wondered to herself disconsolately, as she filed books away. She had three different sections to her job: part of the time, she filed books; part of the time, she checked them out; and part of the time she went over the library’s records. It really depended what she was assigned for each day. It was the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety, but Olivia felt as if she’d lived a thousand years--as if she was one of those Palaeolithic librarians with tightly curled lilac-washed gray hair and glasses with a bead chain so they wouldn’t ever fall off instead of a young, attractive woman. In short, she was in a rut.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like the library--she did. Books were usually some of her favourite people. It was only that she felt disturbingly untethered, with no one to work for and care for. Her mother had died after years of mental illness, despite everything Olivia did to try to help her. Her father, who was eleven years her mother’s senior, had died of old age when she was just eighteen. Her younger brother, the rebellious, free spirit, had bought a sloop and had been sailing the world on and off for years while she stayed back to nurse their ailing mother. He didn’t write frequently, he didn’t call frequently, and he certainly wasn’t even in Canada frequently. He was her only remaining family and tie to her past, and it was as if HE’D all but disappeared along with her parents.

The head librarian behind the desk was playing the radio quietly. It was a scorching summer day, and the library was mostly deserted. The song, ‘Blackbird,’ came on, and Olivia closed her eyes for a moment, beginning to hum along. The song brought back some good memories.

She had been assistant to a choir director in her hometown for some years in her middle-teenage years. One of the songs they’d sung in her third year of assisting WAS ‘Blackbird,’ and they’d had a whole passel of fun with it. She remembered the kids, ten- and eleven-year-olds, mostly, lighting up when it came time to warm the vocal chords to this tune. Softly, she let herself begin to sing in the stacks, swaying slightly to the music, her voice high and clear on the soprano line, rich as coffee. She was feeling much better about life--why didn’t she remember how good music was for her? She should really join a choir here--and putting the thick volumes away as she continued to sing when suddenly another voice joined in. It was a lovely tenor voice, strong and clear, with evidently more than a smidgen of professional vocal training. Olivia turned, in delighted surprise, to find a young man behind her. He smiled, but continued to sing, and so she joined in again, louder than before, their voices rising and falling with the melody. His voice made a slightly harmony with hers.

At the end of the song Olivia simply beamed before risking a quick glance at the librarian at the desk. She hadn’t seemed to mind, thankfully, and only smiled in Olivia’s direction before turning back to her book.

‘Hello,’ Olivia said to the young man, looking up into his face--because he WAS about a good foot taller than she was. His charming smile broke through again as he offered her a strong hand to shake.

‘Hi,’ he said. He had a slight French-Canadian accent. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t help joining in. I love that song. I sang it as a child.’

‘Oh, that’s quite all right! Me, too,’ Olivia said joyfully. ‘Well, I was a teenager when I sang it, not a child, but anyway... ‘ She blushed, realizing she’d already gone on an embarrassing tangent. ‘Sorry. Can I help you with anything? You have a glorious voice.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘So do you. And yes, I would appreciate a quick hand locating a certain book.’

‘Of course.’ Olivia replaced the last volume on her cart and straightened, smiling. ‘What is it called?’

‘ ‘A Brief History of Lower Canada,’ ‘ the young man recited.

‘This way,’ Olivia instructed, beginning to lead him. ‘Is this for University?’

‘Why, yes. My most mediocre course,’ he said dryly. ‘I didn’t catch your name,’ the young man said, easily keeping up--one of his strides was three of hers.

‘Oh,’ Olivia said, pausing by the stack they needed. She smiled. ‘I’m Olivia. Sorry about that.’

‘Olivia,’ the young man repeated. A huge smile spread across his face. ‘Really. What a lovely name. I have a strange feeling we have met before, Olivia.’