A New Moon

The stars shown particularly bright – no competition from the Moon – the lesser light, but overwhelming when compared to the tiny gemstones of the heavens. In her new cycle, preparing new beginnings to be revealed over the next month. The darkness of this seemingly moonless sky allows the stars to be the center of the universe for a time. Unless you knew of their patterns, they appear to be a random scattering of diamonds on black velvet.

Thinking back on his studies of astrology during his time in the East, he is able to pick out the constellations – Pisces would soon become Aries – spring is coming. Lovely Venus, not a star, but shining just as bright, nonetheless. The Evening Star, the planet controlling love and romance, or so he was taught. There she is looking down on him, just a speck, star-gazing, in his hiding place atop the Palais Garnier. How many times has he ventured up here – to find some release from the pit where he spent most of his time – before she entered his life?

The sense of retreat ended abruptly, for here is where he was shattered. Nothing in his life prepared him for the rage and despair he experienced the night Christine betrayed him – making her plans with the boy – not even thinking to say farewell.

A bitter laugh rose in his throat – New Moon – new beginnings. God, how he dreads this new beginning. How he hates turning the page. How he wishes he could turn back the clock. Go back to the time before the madness overtook him. But had he not gone mad, she would not have kissed him – opened that old wound, yet, in that, finally allowed some odd healing to begin.

There were moments, when hating seems the easier route. Loving her damned him to a humanity he was not familiar with. Hard as he tries, though, he cannot envision another outcome to that night. His life has to be rebuilt and there is no place for Christine – either loving him or hating him.

When she turned to come back – for a brief moment, he thought she would stay, leave the boy. Miraculously accept his wretched self, but who knows what life would be left in him once the mob reached them in his house – his poor wrecked house. Or for her – if they did not kill her outright – she would be ruined.

No, he had to let her go, completely – that was love. He hates love. Why did he have to learn to love? Damn you, Christine Daae.

Adele told him to be prepared to leave at dawn. Cast out herself thanks to the boy – the young Vicomte. The bastard accused her of helping the Opera Ghost through all the mishaps at the Palais – befriending the murderer – even though he killed no one – not here, not now. Buquet was an accident, Piangi fainted. Yet, the mob still came for him and threatened her and little Giry.

With the money he had on hand, she arranged transport for the three of them to America, with some to spare. Somehow his violin was undamaged. A duffel filled with what books he could salvage and comfortably carry, his ivory chess pieces, a medical kit of surgical instruments, wrappings, herbs and medicinals – a buckle from Christine's shoe – found in the rubble – the only memento he has of her – were what he would use to build a new life. The Shah's jewels would be held in abeyance for the unknown future. More hiding and running, but he was not prepared to die. Somehow death eluded him yet again – what this new reprieve meant, he did not know.

Adele provided a bedroll and clothing pilfered from costume storage for him. His once pristine wardrobe of fitted suits and white shirts, exchanged for shirts of flannel and trousers of rough wool. Surprisingly, he enjoys the feel of the fabrics reminiscent of earlier times against his skin. The porcelain mask, safely tucked in his duffle with his dark wig, exchanged for a longer one the color of straw, also from the theater's store of illusion and make believe. The length of the hair covers his deformity and with a wide-brimmed felt hat, a pair of fake spectacles, he found he could walk in public with less attention – but where was he to go?

So with one more night in Paris, he watches his city from atop the opera house – his opera house. One more night to don the black woolen cloak with the intricate beading he himself designed. He would leave it behind, where would a rough beggar obtain such a fine article of apparel? Nevertheless, for a short while, he could still be the opera ghost. Then dawn would come and he would see what the new Moon would bring.

The room, appointed with elegant carved mahogany furnishings and heavy deep burgundy fabric covering the two tall windows and the double bed, was oppressive and particularly confining. The smell of mothballs pervasive and irritating, even with the addition of the vases of roses Raoul insisted on presenting to her every day.

This was a guest room – once they were wed, she would have another boudoir connected to his bedroom by a joint sitting room. The decoration and design would be totally hers – this was temporary. Was this not better than living at Mama Valerius' flat or, as he came to learn, her room below the opera house, after all?

His outrage at learning of this displayed a part of his nature unfamiliar to her. Even when he cajoled and coerced her into assisting with Erik's capture – never did his anger flare.

"You lived with him – in that…hell hole?"

"I would stay some evenings – not living there, exactly."

"Did he…?"

"No! It was not like that. You would not understand."

"I understand perfectly."

"It is over Raoul. Please. I am here with you. Is that not enough?"

At first, Erik's house did seem odd – he was so eccentric – the music room with the organ and candles. However, the actual living area was warm and comfortable – more in tune with the home she had as a child. The bedroom he provided for her was light, almost airy. The choices he made for her – furnishings, clothing, the smallest appointments, like the silver-backed hairbrush – were items she might have chosen for herself.

What was she doing here? Erik knew her. Knew her heart, her music, her dreams. He set her free to be with Raoul, but she was not happy. Was this not what she was supposed to want? Pappa would be laughing right now. "Perhaps we could make coats from those draperies." When did either of them seek comfort and money over the ability to wander at will? Harsh though it was at times, the freedom was in her blood.

Pulling the drapes open, unlatching the window to step onto the small Juliet balcony, she gazes up at the dark sky. A new Moon. The street lamps offer small interludes of light in the darkness black as pitch. Pappa would light a lantern for nights such as these – most likely, though, if outside, they would find a copse of trees or a small cave and light a small fire and not risk walking by night.

The darkness and being alone do not frighten her – daylight and people were harsher in her experience.

"I have to know if he is truly dead."

That was the rumor – a body was found in the Seine – the fish already having their way, positive identification was impossible. The passion of the rabble dimmed and the body gave them the excuse to stop a hunt they were bored with. In truth, many could not recall what all the fuss was all about. Except for Raoul, of course. She sees the fear in his eyes during times when he thinks her unaware of his gaze. Smells the fear on his breath – often carrying the scent of brandy. If the Phantom is alive – Raoul will always be in a state of waiting.

Changing from the lavender silk dressing gown – a trousseau gift from Raoul's sister, Celine – into her blue cotton print dress, she packs her few personal items in her carpet bag. Pappa's photograph, his ring and a fine gold chain, as well as her two sewing kits. The diamond ring Raoul gifted her for their engagement is tucked into the top drawer of the vanity.

Unsure of what is to come, she wants to seek Erik – free from any reminders of Raoul. If he is not to be found, she is still uncertain whether she will return. A frightening thought, but a consideration. Would Erik want her to stay – if not, where could she go? Those decisions are for later.

The mansion is dimly lit with gas lamps in the hallways – silent except for the ticking of the grandfather's clock in the lower foyer. Raoul bade her goodnight over an hour ago. Using the backstairs, she finds the breakfast nook. Unlocking the French doors, she steps outside, closing them softly behind her. Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, she makes her way to the front of the house, keeping in the shadows as she hastens down the street toward the Palais Garnier.