A/N: Thank you, everyone, who has been reading and reviewing! You are few in number but uplifting in your comments. :) This was both a very easy and very difficult chapter to write. Hope you like it, and please review. :)

Big thanks to my beta-readers, Masque de Nuit and singforme. :D

I am surrounded by such loving people! Uninformed, mistaken people, yes, but so loving!

My husband is so kind to me. I do not feel well, and some time ago, a few months, perhaps, he finally gave in and allowed me my own private room and bed at the top of the house, at least until I am well again.

Furthermore, one of our maids, Mlle. Lautrec, is so generous and charitable. She stays in the house all day and relieves me the burden of caring for Adele at all times. I do hope that my husband has raised her salary; her work deserves far more than what an average maid receives.

Yet, though the people who live here love me dearly, I do miss Adele. I hardly ever get to see her, only when Mlle. Lautrec has her in her arms and comes to check on me. Otherwise, my baby is only a ghost to me. She is growing up, I know, and it saddens me that I am not there to witness it. Should not a child's mother have the most direct influence on her own child? I only wish so.

Besides, I am afraid that Adele shall grow up unhappy. I wish to be there to guide her, to show her the way to freedom…

Moreover, though it heartens me to think that my husband loves me so much that he would give me my own private room and bed at the top of this house, I feel so lonely and stifled up here. It is dim, for there are only two small windows to let in the sunlight. The light casts shadows upon the wall and in the corners. Sometimes I watch the shadows move from one side of the room to the other as the day progresses. They appear to walk, to glide across the room, just as a real person might.

I am only grateful that Mlle. Lautrec takes care of Adele most of the time – I would hate for Adele to be confined to this dim, dark room with me all day as I recover. Such a darling baby – if only I could remember her features better!

Sometimes I wonder if I have recovered any faster since the day my husband first brought me to this room. He is very, very careful to monitor my schedule. He admonishes me to sleep more, to rest, to not spend so much time awake and thinking or looking out the windows. He also gives me tonics and medicines and all sorts of strange things to consume – this, I suppose, is meant to make me get better sooner, though I fancy that they are mere placebos. In fact, I suspect that they only put me to sleep faster.

Of course, I do not object to more sleep. It is in sleep and in my dreams that I find refuge with my Angel of Music. As I sink into slumber, I sink into myself, into the hidden shades and darkness of my mind to find freedom of thought and movement in my Angel. In my dreams, we sing. I sing as loud as I please, and when I am done, I wander far across the landscape of my mind. I explore the valleys and shades, trespass where others would advise caution. My husband cannot touch me here; he cannot control where I go. It is there in the shades that I find I am free to think and imagine what I wish. It is there that the reality of life, this boring, confining existence up in this room, ceases to exist… and it is there that I find myself free.

I say boring because there is nothing in this room to occupy my mind. There is the bed, which my husband hired someone to nail to the floor, and there are the windows and garden and buildings outside. The walls are bare, the floor, bare. There is nothing else. I do have a dresser and a closet with my clothes inside, and though it is fun to throw out my clothes and fold them again and again (what else can I do!), that becomes dull soon enough.

I wish I could simply pretend to take my tonics and instead sleep without them, but Mlle. Lautrec and my husband are terribly careful to make sure I consume what is needed to make me better. There is no hope of fooling them!

Or, if I cannot evade taking those medications, I wish I had something in here to occupy my mind. I cannot always sleep, and there is nothing to read or do while I am awake. I would like a book, perhaps. The daily newspaper, even. Anything to exercise my mind and give me something to think about. Otherwise, I daresay that it is this endless monotony that drives me mad, that drives me to return ever more to the shades of my mind.

I cannot tell that to my husband, though. Though I do try to tell him, he insists that it is only such thoughts that bring on my instability. Just a little more rest, a little more sleep, and soon I shall be well…

It is horribly lonely up here, with only Mlle. Lautrec coming upstairs to check on me periodically, and the other maids entering regularly to clean the room. Not that there is much to clean – there is nothing here to begin with.

But as I was saying, I see my husband less and less now. True, every night after work he comes to my attic to see me – but that is only five minutes out of our married life. He tells me that business at the Opera House is terribly busy – it is always the management, the management, the management that he excuses his absences with.

"That dratted partner of mine!" he tells me when I ask why he has returned so late. "He is so unreasonable, and insists on the most untimely auditions!"

I wonder why he simply does not stand up to such a foolish manager, or at least fire him, but I suspect it is because of one or a combination of two things:

My husband is a fool. I never realized it when I married him, but he is a fool. I found his superstitious nature charming at first, but now… Now, it is probably his superstition that makes him think that sleeping all day in the dark will make me well again.

So, my foolish husband cannot stand up to an "unreasonable" fellow manager. Poor fool, he thinks so highly of himself, too!

The second reason is: this manager does not exist. I am quite confused over exactly how many managers there are, if there are any at all. I was certain that my husband was co-manager with only one other. This one I am quite certain is real. He is said to be very helpful and supportive, and shares my husband's beliefs about the management.

But then there is the "other" manager. I am not certain if there is indeed a third one, or if my husband is speaking ill of his partner. In any case, this particular manager is deranged and inane, with unreasonable requests and frightening threats. I strongly believe that this particular manager is a mere phantom of my husband's mind, simply a figment of his imagination.

Personally, I believe that my husband should deal with his own ghosts and come home sooner. I told him that once, irritably and moodily when he came home particularly late. He only chuckled in response, called me his darling little lady, patted my head, and left the room.

If there is indeed no ghost, no other manager, then I wonder what keeps my husband so busy all the time…

I wish he would understand that it is so lonesome up here, with only the shadows to watch as they cross the room each day. True, there are the windows and the little light that enters. I believe that without those windows, I would be quite mad by now!

Outside of one window, there is an immense tree, with long branches full of beautiful green leaves. Sometimes I see little birds flitting through the leaves, and they are so lovely to watch. I long to climb out the window and climb that tree just as I did so long ago when I was young and free, but the glass is so thick, I could never dream of even breaking through.

Outside the other window there is a more dismal view of Paris. Tall, gloomy, gray buildings, people and horses plodding along dully across the muddy roads… It is a depressing sight.

I can't always spend my entire time pressed up to the windows, fogging up the glass with my breath, of course. So the rest of the time I sit on my bed and watch the shades cross the room from corner to corner.

The shades are rather like people to watch. Some of them are darker than others, depending on the time of day. Some are simply little blotches of gray, while others are deep hues of black. They creep along so oddly, darkening each portion of the wall as they pass by. Sometimes I even fancy that the shadows step out of their usual tracks and approach the bed where I sit, and I can only edge away farther and farther out of their reach. Then I leap off the bed and kick at the corners where the other shades are, hoping to discourage them in their pursuit.

Of course, it is pointless to attempt to control them. Shades cannot be controlled.

Nighttime is even better. Then, with only the stars and, once a month, the moon to cast such deep, impenetrable shades upon the wall that they seem to consume the room in darkness.

So, true, between the windows and the shadows, I really can't complain of boredom!

Still, I tell my husband that it is really far too lonely and frightening in this room.

"Oh, darling," he replies, "it is good for you to stay up there! Dear Charlotte, stay a little longer, and later we'll think of moving you, shall we?"

But I know that he will not move me, will not, unless I do something.

But what can I do? There is nothing here. Nothing.

Mlle. Lautrec – bless her kind spirit! – has taken to pity me. Every once in a while, sometimes only once a week, sometimes nearly every day, for an hour, she takes me out to walk around the house and around the city, she and me and Adele too.

Adele! Her brown hair is long and curly, and her eyes are so full of hope and innocence. She is over a year old now, and able to toddle about and stumble. I dare not let her walk alone along the streets, but keep a firm hold on her.

I am so grateful to Mlle. Lautrec, for I know my husband would hate to hear of my weekly excursions.

"You mustn't tell Henri," she told me the first time (I wondered, for a brief moment, that she should speak of my own husband so informally – but no matter! I was leaving the room!).

"Of course, Mlle. Lautrec," I reassured her calmly and carefully, scrutinizing her at the same time in the wonderfully bright light. Her dark brown hair was mussed up, her cheeks flushed, her clothes hastily put on and wrinkled, and there were even a few, faint bruises that stood out rather well on her pale skin.

I pointed out her altogether scruffy appearance, and she quickly replied, not quite bringing her eyes to meet mine, that she had practically fallen out of bed that morning, so clumsy of her.

I was quite surprised, for she is usually the most graceful person I know. Her appearance that day almost reminded me of myself when I used to…

But no matter. The point remains that sometimes I am free, for an hour or so a day.

And I get to watch my own daughter too! Adele is so beautiful now, so hopeful and optimistic and happy, and I love to watch her live so happily! She trots along down Paris' streets, smiling and giggling at the people and the horses and even the muddy puddles.

How wonderful it must be to live so innocently!

So different, anyway, from the shades in my room. I am so glad that Adele is not here to see what I see. Those shades no longer simply cross the room each day – they move about as they please, crossing from one diagonal to another regardless of how the sun or moon shines. There are even shades that I am certain are not from any light source, shades that move independently and lurk in the corners.

I kick all the shades in the corners of course, and sometimes my husband runs upstairs to see what is the matter, why I have been making such a terrific racket.

"It's only the shades, darling," I say calmly, and he can only stare back, blank.

For how can he know about shades? Shades in my mind, shades in the corner, shades in the room… What can he know? And, thus, how can he control them? He may control my body, he may control where I stay… but where my mind wanders, he cannot control.

Well, it is near Christmas, or New Years' – it's the holidays – and in any case, the walks that Mlle. Lautrec, Adele, and I have usually taken have ended. It is partly because of the snow, and partly because of Mlle. Lautrec's own paranoia…

You see, one day Mlle. Lautrec stopped to speak to some friends of hers. Adele and I slipped away and approached a wonderful tree. It was bare of its leaves, for winter was practically upon us. Still, I never pass up the chance to climb a tree if I've been trapped for a long time.

But how could I leave Adele by herself to watch her mother climb up a tree?

So I grabbed Adele and began climbing up, up and up and up, till we were sitting on a very sturdy branch. Adele could only stare out, amazed, at the view, as I did.

We had only sat for a short time when Mlle. Lautrec ran frantically by, anxiously calling out my name and my daughter's name. I wanted to play for a little longer, and not alert her of our whereabouts, but she was nearly in tears, so I called out, "Mlle. Lautrec!" from up in the tree.

She glanced up and jumped, astonished at our location, I suppose. (I do not see what is so odd about climbing a tree with your daughter!)

"Charlotte!" she shouted (again, I wondered that she should address me so informally, and not as the respected "Madame"). "What are you doing up there? Come down right now!"

"But Adele is enjoying the view!" I shouted back, and indeed, Adele was giggling and smiling wonderingly at the sight.

"Charlotte!" shouted Mlle. Lautrec again. "You must stop this madness! Henri may return soon, and you can't still be in the tree…"

I sighed. Henri, always there to end my fun while he embarked on his own pleasure. "Very well. Would you like to catch Adele?" And I grabbed a hold of Adele and held her out over the branch above the maid.

"No!" Mlle. Lautrec protested vehemently. "Charlotte, no!"

I laughed. Come now, she needed to have some fun more often!

I let go of Adele and, just as I knew she would, Mlle. Lautrec caught her without trouble. I myself began climbing down swiftly and easily.

"Let me hold my child again," I said when I returned.

"Absolutely not!" said Mlle. Lautrec breathlessly, fearfully. She clutched to my child with an iron, viselike grip as she made her way home, walking so fast I could hardly keep up.

I let her continue like that. Poor thing, so easy to frighten!

Luckily, Mlle. Lautrec never brought it up to my husband – I suppose she would have gotten in trouble for bringing me outside in the first place.

I sit in my room and watch the shades and shadows crawl across the ceilings, the floor, the walls, the windows, the door. They are people unto themselves now, with a distinct form and shape. A head, shoulders, arms, torso, legs… Very shadowy, yes, but with shapes now. They go as they please, and I follow them, all across the walls and the room, encircling themselves over and over. I find them there even in my slumber, circling and draping the landscape of my dreams. They are the inhabitants of realms no rational mind can dominate…

After that, Mlle. Lautrec never let me outside again.

However, after such a wonderful time outside, did she think I would be satisfied stuck in my room anymore? I would gladly march about the house if I could, if only the door were not locked!

For my door is always locked, and the windows always unbreakable. Though it's not for not trying that I know. Just the other day I spent the entire afternoon clawing and scraping at the windows. Countless cuts marred both the smooth, flawless glass and my own hands. Mlle. Lautrec, of course, was none too pleased, and looked frankly alarmed to find the glass in such condition.

"Oh, don't worry about the glass," I informed her calmly as she stared, horrified. I absentmindedly rubbed the tops of my bloodied hands. "It's only a bit of glass, and anyway, it won't break…"

"It's not the glass… It's… It's…" But she never finished her sentence.

Odd people, maids are!

But now that I cannot escape through the glass, I spend my nights now, awake, restless, thinking of ways to unlock the door. The door can be locked from both inside and out. Inside, one needs a key. Outside, a person needs only to switch the lock and the door is stuck.

It obsesses me, my goal!

I sleep all day, of course, to please Mlle. Lautrec and my husband. They are happy to see me rest all the time, and think that I am always that way.

They are, again, mistaken, for they do not see me at night.

I do wonder what they see…

I feel better with the recent excursions still benefiting my body, and the new plans my mind has worked itself to create. They, too, think I am better.

"It is so dark in here," my husband once commented. "I am glad you have got better with this darkness!"

I quite agree. Some may think that this darkness would have obstructed my health – and it did, it used to. But now… These shades keep my mind busy, keep me company each day, dancing across the room and blinking and appearing out of nowhere. Sometimes I take out the clothes from my dresser and throw them at the shades, just to see if I can hit them, but now they are too fast, they are invincible…

Tonight is Christmas Eve.

Christmas, if you do not know, is a rather peculiar tradition that the city-dwellers observe. I myself never celebrated it in Upsala, but to each city its own, I guess?

At any rate, these days in late December and early January are full of festivities and gift exchanges. Personally, I find it a daft and silly time, an excuse for merry-making and balls. For that is what my darling husband did tonight. Without me, of course.

He has just returned home, a little earlier than usual, from the ball he and his other manager (or managers) hosted at the Opera House tonight. I hear the door open and from the corner of my eye, I see that it is my husband and Mlle. Lautrec at his side.

"Charlotte?"

I do not reply. Outside, snowflakes are drifting downwards gently. They cast rather interesting shadows upon the wall, in addition to the shades already there. I cannot pay much attention to my husband or the maid; it is far more entrancing to watch the shades move across the room, alight upon my husband's visage.

"Charlotte, are you well?" asks my husband, concerned. "Did you hear me?"

"Of course." My eyes continue to track the course of the shadows drifting down the wall. "Back so soon?"

My husband nods. "Yes, rather tiring night it was… It is a good thing you did go with me, it would have tired you out so… I left it to the other manager to oversee the rest of it… I shall return, of course, either tonight or tomorrow."

I shrug. There is another reason, I know, and I tell him so.

"Why, why yes," he stammers, surprised. "I – I wanted, of course, to – to stay home with the one I love most! It is Christmas Eve, after all, and it is my duty to be here."

I smile gently. Not only is a fool, but he is also a liar. Or one who prefers half-truths.

"Of course," I say. I turn to the maid and approach her. Even in the dim shade, I can see her stiffen and back away slightly.

"Oh, Margot," I say, using her first name as I swiftly embrace her stiff form. "You have done so much for my family. For caring for me, and for Adele! Thank you. You are so helpful to my family, and whatever you want? It is yours. I share… exchange… it with you willingly."

"Oh, do you?" she says hopefully, and weakly returns the embrace before pulling away. "I am so glad you say that, it only makes me feel so much better…"

I nod. "Anything. You have done so much, you deserve whatever we can provide you."

She smiles. "Thank you, Charlotte. You are so sweet. Good night." Her words are right, but she seems impatient to leave. She turns to face my husband, and in that moment, in that brief moment, I saw. I saw everything. I saw their shadows turn to face each other, saw their shadows drifting ever closer to each other, saw the way their eyes regard each other so kindly, so tenderly, so…

In a way I would never know…

But surely it is a trick of the light, a trick of the shades, the shades in this room deceiving me…

"Let us go," she says, and at once the two leave my room. The door shuts behind them, and I hear the click as one of them locks my door.

My words are meaningless, for the exchange took place long ago. So this evening I am alone, with only the softly falling snowflakes and shades for company.

It is no matter, for it is my triumph tonight.

For, tonight, while I spoke sweet, empty words to the maid and embraced her, my hand snatched her key.

I wait for the perfect moment.

Should I really use the key that I have? Should I really? I am breaking someone's trust, I am sure.

The one shade there beckons temptingly towards the door. It steals outside, then reappears a moment later. It is laughing at me!

I jump off the bed and kick at it.

"I can't do this!" I tell it. "I can't! She's always been so kind to me, I can't use what she unwittingly gave me…"

When it is late, very late as I can judge by the moon, I can take it no longer. Quietly, silently, I unlock the door and open the door. I peer outside, and when I am certain no one, besides the shade, is there, I step out.

It fills me with such joy to sneak out as I do! Such a feeling of hard-won independence!

I do not think I shall go outside. It is far too cold, and it is snowing, anyway. I laugh silently to myself; to think, after all this time of wishing to be outside, I had rather stay in!

I watch the shade as it creeps along down the stairs. It makes its way past the maids' room, Mlle. Lautrec's room.

"But wait," I say, and carefully twist the knob to Mlle. Lautrec's room. It is unlocked, to my surprise.

But even more to my surprise is that it is empty inside. Everything is folded neatly together and clean, but the bed is empty.

Where is Mlle. Lautrec?

The shade impatiently glides out of the room and down the stairs, and I follow it. It knows where it's going. It does.

I make my way down the stairs, and stop in front of a door on the second floor. My old room. The old room that I used to sleep in. I watch as the shade creeps underneath the door's frame and disappears.

I look back to the front of the door, and pause.

Grunts. Groans. Moans of ecstasy and pleasure escape from the room.

I am afraid to go in. Afraid to see what has happened, afraid to confront the exchange. But I must follow the shade; it knows where it goes.

Carefully, hand trembling so much, I push the door open, already slightly ajar.

Inside, two huddled shapes, rolling and pushing and shoving. I can see their pale, white skin gleaming in the moonlight. One of them, with long curly hair sprouting from its head, straddles the other, slides on it… They are dangerously close to the edge of the bed…

With astonishing speed, the other shape growls and rolls the long-haired form down. They tumble to the floor, limbs entangled and confused.

But they do not notice me. They laugh, breathing each others' names.

Margot. Henri. Margot. Henri.

I can only stare. Stare and stare and stare.

Stare as the shade crosses my eyes, crosses their bodies, alights upon them, dances upon them, mocks me, laughs at me…

Quietly, they do not notice me, I make my way to Henri's side of the closet. I pull out his long frock coat. Pull out his soft, felt hat. It is time for me to leave, and I shall not go as this broken wife. No, it is time for a new identity, a different shade.

Quietly, I step away from Henri's closet, and, in my indifference, the tip of my coat brushes against their sweating bodies. The two of them jerk, stop to look up at me.

"Charlotte!" Henri gasps as he pulls himself off the floor, from the tangle of arms and legs. He makes his way to me, his arms outstretched. "It's not what you think, please, Charlotte, it's not…"

And though he may have caught me yet again, and though his hands may arrest me in his grasp, and though he may lead me to horrors yet unknown, he cannot catch that one elusive matter.

For how you can you catch a shade?

A/N: I hope you guys are familiar with Leroux, because the next chapter takes a huge dive in to Leroux-canon! In any case, please tell me what you thought of this chapter. :) (hint: review!)