The romantic story of a young female pianist in cholera-ravaged Paris of 1832, whose own tragedy leaves her susceptible to the passions and scandals of the composer Franz Liszt At the height of the Romantic era in Paris, there was no bigger celebrity than the composer and pianist Franz Liszt. A fiery and gorgeous Hungarian, he made women swoon at soirees and left a trail of broken hearts behind him. Anne, a countess and talented young pianist whose mother has just died of cholera, hears Franz Liszt in concert and is swept up in his allure. The enigmatic Marie d'Agoult, a friend of Anne's late mother, takes her under her wing and introduces her to the artistic world -- despite the objections of Anne's sullen and sorrowful father. Anne soon finds herself in the midst of dangerous intrigues, discovering a family secret so shocking that her father will go to any lengths to protect it. With the ominous presence of Paris's most deadly epidemic looming over every turbulent event, Liszt's Kiss is a rich evocation of a remarkable period as seen through the eyes of a sensitive young artist. Set in Paris in 1832 during a deadly cholera outbreak, Dunlap's novel revolves around young Anne de Barbier-Chouant, who has just lost her mother to the disease. Living in solitude with her stern father, Anne is a gifted pianist who longs to make her way in the musical world her mother was so enchanted by. Opportunity knocks in the form of the elegant Marie d'Agoult, a friend of her mother's who chaperones Anne to her first concert. There Anne first lays eyes on the handsome, impassioned Franz Liszt and falls under his spell. Liszt, who has decided to pursue the married Marie, offers to teach Anne and hone her skills. Forced to work around Anne's exacting father, Marie enlists the help of a handsome young doctor who is taken with Anne to find out the secrets the girl's father is keeping. Dunlap immerses readers in the sights, smells, and feel of Romantic-era Paris, making her engrossing novel perfect escapist fare. Kristine Huntley Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Susanne Dunlap is the author of Émilie's Voice and the former director of development for Connecticut Opera. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, and Northampton, Massachusetts. One Black crape covered the windows of the house. The smells of camphor and death hung in the air. The marquise had died only a few hours ago of cholera, a disease that was supposed to attack the poor who lived in dirty, crowded, airless hovels, not the wealthy who lived in mansions in the faubourg Saint Germain. Anne was too numb to do anything but stare out the long windows of the ballroom at Thérèse, who, her face still streaked with tears, carried a basket full of linens to a corner of the courtyard and poured them in a lump onto a bonfire. Billows of black smoke curled up and merged with the flat, gray sky. It was a precaution, Dr. Magendie said. There was likely no danger to the rest of the household, if everyone took chamomile and wore a camphor sachet. Anne forced herself to turn away from the window. Just three days ago, the marquise had been seated at the pianoforte in the corner of the room. Her eyes had shone with excitement about the music she had recently heard. The foreign pianists who were in Paris, she said, were the greatest geniuses ever known -- especially Monsieur Chopin and Monsieur Liszt. Most of all Liszt, who was quite new to the city. She had promised that the next time he gave a concert, Anne would go with her, despite the marquis's rule to the contrary. When I was your age, I attended concerts every night . Her mother's voice still echoed in her ears. It had all been so sudden. One moment she was in the bloom of health. Then as they watched, she grew pale, clutched her stomach, and became violently ill. Although Anne herself had seen the passage from torment to peace in her mother's face not even a day later, when the doctor told them that she had died, Anne did not believe him. She was convinced that each time she rounded a corner or entered a room in the great house, she would see the marquise walking toward her, or sitting in a favorite chair and smiling at her, just as before. "What are you doing here?" Anne jumped. She turned to see her father leaning heavily on his cane just inside the open ballroom door. "Papa!" She ran toward him. He had retreated to the silence of his library soon after the doctor left, and she had not seen him since the moment of her mother's death. He shrank away from her, turning so that his shoulder prevented her embrace, and put his hand up to shield his eyes as if he could not bear to look at her, or bear to let her see his tears. Anne stopped a little away from him and balled her reaching hands into fists. "Leave this room at once. Don't ever come in here again." Anne knew that pain lay beneath the anger in his voice, but still his tone stung her. "Please -- ," she began. He