Claire was almost certain by now that she knew what was going on. She still refused to let it enter the conscious areas of her mind for reasons that she refuses to tell me. She thought that she might have discovered a way to write her song as well. It was all related, all the way back to the incident of the French words and the path that she had followed in investigating them. What to do about it, Claire still was not sure. It would take quite an evolutionary action on her part to follow the case through to a satisfactory conclusion. She was fairly sure about that. The whole thing was in fact beginning to make her very angry indeed. Claire suspected that

I see. Perhaps it was a little too obvious that trap. I had hoped that Claire would follow the thought through accidentally. I'm not entirely sure what she has discovered at this point. It would be interesting to know, I think. She is keeping her secrets very much to herself, far more than she ever has before. It is, I must admit, a little annoying. I can forgive a jaunt to London so long as I am informed of it afterwards, but this is something I just can not understand. I seem to be unable to get inside Claire's head and determine what she is thinking. Something is not right.

Claire smiled to herself as she strummed the chords of her song once more. The tune was really coming along very nicely now. Claire could play it easily, feel it stir something inside her heart. She felt words stirring within her soul. I'm sure that's not right. The words should come from her mind, not her soul. What the hell is Claire up to? Please tell me. I fear she is getting closer to the truth than is really safe. I mean, she might get hurt or something. I want to keep her safe from the truth. No, I mean, keep her safe. I don't know what is going on anymore. Claire glanced at the clock on the wall. It was just coming up towards the hour.

Let me tell you about Claire's clock. It was given to her by her grandfather and is one of those baby grandfather clocks, if you understand what I mean. I'm not sure what the technical term is. One of those clocks that you hang on the wall, and yet have the pendulum and chimes and so on that you would expect to discover in a full size grandfather clock that sat on the floor. The carving around the face is really quite exquisite. Symbols of time through the ages. A little hour glass, a sun dial, a depiction of an early calendar inscribed on a scroll. Lots of little images on the side that I'm not entirely sure about, though they give the clock face as a whole a pleasing look. I am very fond of it. Claire watched the hands moving towards the hour with a quizzical expression on her face. Claire's face is carved in a manner even more pleasing than the clock.

It is something about the line between her nose and mouth, I think. The perfectly triangular symmetry that exists there. You could use that line in solving geometry problems, and yet it is not a harshly drawn line. It is very soft in fact, soft as a feather, and as straight as a steel pipe. Curious that a line so straight can be yet so soft. I'm looking at Claire's face very closely now, I can't seem to draw my eyes away. She is so very beautiful. Even her hands. They are very slender and yet firm, sure footed as a brilliant guitarists fingers always are. Her hair falls in a perfectly cascading frame that serves to highlight rather than obscure the line of her neck that curves as gracefully as a swans into the line of her jaw bone. Her cheeks have the perfect high bones that surround her eyes wonderfully and draw in the onlooker almost hypnotically. Her green eyes are flashing. Flashing somewhat triumphantly in fact. Why would that be?

The clock. Ah. I have been looking so closely at Claire's face that I neglected to make the clock chime on the hour. Surely this is a minor thing, something that she would hardly notice? How on earth could she notice? Why is she looking at me like that? Looking at me? How can she look at me? What is she smiling about? How is it that she is now looking at me when minutes ago I was looking at her?

Claire nodded as if she had gained confirmation of something that she had long suspected and returned to playing her guitar. She plays as if she almost had words, better words than 'Snap, Crackle, Pop.' There is a certain lyricism to her playing that I have never noticed before. I don't know where she can have got that from. She doesn't speak French, does she? I can't see where else she could have got them. I have been carefully controlling the supply of words for some time now. I put her in Paris specifically because of this.

A paper plane flew in the window. Claire started somewhat guiltily and moved to hide it beneath a cushion on the couch. This got me interested. Why is she so concerned about the arrival of a paper plane? Surely it was thrown by a passing Parisian gutter urchin. I believe there are any number of them around and some of them must be able to find paper to construct a plane of. Why didn't she just crumple it up and toss it in the bin? Such suspicious behaviour is certainly worth extending this chapter for another couple of paragraphs. I had been on the verge of leaving Claire for a moment to move on to the next chapter. It now occurs to me that there is an instant in the transition from one chapter to the next during which Claire is beyond my reach. I wonder what she has been getting up to at those times? There is only one way to find out. I hope that this works. I would hate her to move entirely out of my control. I did not mean that.