Realizing that I would make no further progress in my attempts to reclaim the Opera Ghost's affections at the present time, I gathered up my things and decided to seek out lodgings for the evening. Having already emptied my saved earnings from my short term as the Opera Populaire's new diva the day before, I would have ample coin to afford a suite of comfortable rooms.

When the money began to dwindle, which it inevitably would, I would have to seek a more modest shelter. Hopefully, when the time came, I would be an employed woman of some manner.

Exiting the dilapidated former 'palace of music', I found it to be a cold Parisian evening, the locals all hustling about in gorgeous furs as they traveled from one social event to another. I had once been of their kind. I did not look back. Instead, I observed them with a strange pity. I had escaped the constraints of their repressed hypocritical circle- a place where an individual only existing as the quality of his family name, and his bank account. One must be seen, but not heard. Though the women of the circle never sought my company; believing me a common harlot who'd made off with the great Chagny fortune in exchange for a twist in Raoul's bed, they did not invite my conversation. But, they did discuss me and my past with a certain masked man as fodder for their most salacious gossip.I had learned, even before my marriage, to pay them and their sharp, spiteful lies, no mind.

Now, I sought a quiet life, albeit not the most provincial choice of mate and home, but I believed Erik and I would eventually find some happiness together. Or at the very least, resolution.True, Raoul's handsome face and plush lifestyle had once dazzled me. I had been a confused starlet at the time, an orphan who could not understand the seemingly supernatural events that consumed her life. At the time, I had great difficulty separating dreams from nightmares, truth from fiction, my lines of reality were substantially blurred. The confused girl I was needed a guide, one who would not cause her mind to run in circles, fluctuating between ecstacy, fear, and fascination.

In short, I turned to Raoul de Chagny for the comfortable familiarity he provided. Not to say that I never loved him. In fact, in those days past, the childish adoration I felt for the handsome Vicomte was the only form of love I had allowed myself to acknowledge. I would not remain so successful in my efforts to ignore the intriguing darkness of an all-consuming passion, its eternal presence like a pulse rushing eternally through my every hour.

But children fool themselves very well. Raoul and I wove our happy ending, and half-believed it. For a little while. . .

I experienced little to no difficulty acquiring rooms close to Erik's domain. As I unpacked my modest amount of luggage, I was able to glance at the dome of the Opera Garnier from my suite's sitting room window, which afforded a lovely view of the Place de L'Opera. I felt as if I were spying from above, watching over the denizens of the theatre as they went about their daily routine, unaware of my interest in their lives. And then, it struck me as something that should be quite obvious, that Erik must have experienced the same sensation of an omnipresent overseer many times, finding solace in quiet anonymity.

I began to wonder, for the first time in my short life, what it must be like to exist in such utter solitude. For, I had always had a friend, a parent of sorts, such as Mama Valerius, or Madame Giry whom I could seek in times of need. Of course, my maestro had been my guardian, as well as my angel-tongued tutor. From his care, I had flung myself into Raoul's arms. In essence, I knew I had never really been independent, never known what it must be to rely solely on myself. It was a daunting, if not exciting, idea. I was frightened- I had left my marriage to reclaim a companion, and had failed to consider just how unprepared I actually was to once more become, simply Mademoiselle Christine Daae.

Alone.

Naive.

And, all at once, I was ashamed for my failure to plan, my lack of appreciation for all of those people in my life, past and present, who had cared for me, sheltered me. Anger at my own cowardice and indecision, unquestioningly allowing everyone else to remove all responsibilities and choices from my power.

Now, the puppet strings that had so pointedly led my every action began to sag. There was no one left to guide la mademoiselle marionette. It was time to grow up. As much as I told myself this, it was not going to be a simple or kind process, and truths about my own nature and past regrets were bound to haunt me.

I spent most of my first evening along at the hotel watching out that one window, my eyes scanning for the swift and agile movements of a tall cloaked man striding across the streets below, untouched by the gaslights which revealed every other form unskilled in the art of stealth. I had become a slave to detail; the slightest foreign noise or unexpected draft calling my attention and igniting my hope that my strange and elusive tutor would appear, eager to fold me in his arms.