In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

Bateau Mouche moments before. A black barge, heavy with coal,
groaned upstream. At its back, a sail of white laundry flapped in the
wind under the gloomy sky. Outside the cozy lace curtained windows a
row of scarlet geraniums lit up the river, and Penny almost forgot what
she was doing there.
Penny's worst suspicions were confirmed. Someone had
sneaked a camera into her place and was spying on her, using night
fucking vision! Had to be Ula and that little shit, no coh! She kicked an
empty Fanta can out of her way and echoing into the urine steeped
shadow of the Pont Neuf. The spires of La Sainte Chapelle and Notre
Dame shot up over the bridge. She would go to the cathedral and
collect her thoughts. She walked up the stairs and crossed to the prow
of the Isle de la Cité and down past the police buildings of the Quai des
Orfèvres. She toyed with the idea of walking in there, but nobody
would have believed her anyway.
Penny suddenly found herself on the wide square leading up to
the cathedral. Inside the church, there was no music, so far, just voices
and shuffling feet. She joined the stream of tourists down the side aisles
and around the apse and thought back to the way the sound distorted
the Bach the night before. Of course! The convolution of sound within
a space would only enhance its effects! Xenakis had exploited this in his
Polytopes at the Abbeye of Cluny in '72 and '73. There was that early
project on inharmonics. By recording the precise calibrations of simple
sound spikes traveling within a given real space, transposing the data
into a virtual space, then directing and augmenting an inharmonic series
of sounds towards a specific field, you could produce performances of
unimaginable acoustic proportions.
At that moment a priest stepped on the altar and shouted in
four languages, "Please be quiet, this is a place of worship."
The hubbub simmered down for about thirty seconds. Penny
looked up at the windows where light filtered through blue, red and
gold into this vaulted cave. She had forgotten the stories, his stories last
night as he walked with his arm in hers, but not the history of the place,
how it was a sanctuary, not just for praying, but from the darkness of
the world, and that the light came through to save us from the darkness
of the spirit. Easier to feel this without this vociferous crowd, whose
primary concerns were sore feet and an empty stomach.
This time she took the creaky elevator up, and Alessandro
opened the door before she could even knock. Inside, Maia was
sprawled on the futon, dressed in a suspiciously familiar black unitard,
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