A/N: Thanks, SingForMe, for the beta-reading!

Reviews are much appreciated. :)

When the Siren lost interest in me – and when I say "interest," I say that in jest, because the Siren was no more interested in me than he would in a wall – I was left alone for a long time. Months, probably.

That loneliness was abruptly disturbed tonight during another celebration. It was not the Siren passing by that I noticed initially; it was the thing he was dragging behind him. Peering into the dark as the Siren walked by, I recognize the stagehand uniform.

"Who is that?" I call out to the Siren's back.

The Siren pauses. "Joseph Buquet."

I leap to my feet. "Buquet?" I ask. I did not know the stagehand – I was familiar with his dead face, true, but not the name. "How did he die? Do the managers know?"

The Siren shrugs. "They will find him hanging in the third cellar, between a flat and a backdrop for the Roi de Lahore. The managers will not be aware of it for some time."

I frown in the darkness at his cryptic language. "But how?"

The Siren continues on his way. "Listen to the ballet rats," he says, his voice drifting further away. "It's never what you might think…"

I sit back down and sigh. For some time I remain there, not bothering to bat away the shades prancing about beside me. I am far, far too tired to do even that. It is strange, really, how tired I suddenly am. I had so much energy before, but now… Now, it seems that fatigue clouds my mind far more than do the shades. Perhaps it is simply a problem in my mind…

It is a gala night: Henri must be up there. Henri, completely oblivious to Buquet's death – but only because the Siren says so.

I sit here in the dark, hardly awake, waiting for intruders – but only because the Siren says so.

Until now, the Siren has not spoken to me in months. Yet he still expects me to follow his every command. He forgets that it is his voice that controls me, and without exposure to that voice, I will do as I wish…

Anyway, I rather want to see Henri again in the light, above the ground. Perhaps I may even see some of his patrons, or some of the other guests!

Unfortunately, despite having lived beneath the Opera House for so long, I do not know my way around the actual Opera House. I wander about rather aimlessly for quite some time, attempting to follow a crowd of loud guests. As I pass by, I look about the Opera House. I have seen it before on a few occasions, but never has it looked so grand as tonight!

Suddenly, I see a hideous apparition walking along beside me.

I stumble forwards in surprise, and look to my side again.

There is no one there. Only an ornate wall.

The crowd did not hear me stumble. I turn around warily to look behind me.

There is no one there.

Slowly, I retrace my steps – there! There it is! It is a death's head standing before me, its face so pale and ghastly and expressionless! Its nose is long and white, and as I survey the terrible figure before me, its own sunken eyes appraise me. My mouth opens slightly in shock; its mouth twists grimly in a gruesome parody.

I tear my eyes away from its face. It is wearing a black cloak… and a black, felt hat…

It is my mirror image.

Me.

I begin to laugh, and the grating sound – so much harsher above ground than below – that emits from my mouth momentarily stops me.

"Why, hello, Charlotte," I say, my voice so gruff that I can hardly tell if it is a male's or a female's voice anymore. "You've changed so much since I last saw you…"

I laugh again. Henri must have observed my transformation over the years as I ran about the cellars, but I, with no mirror, had not seen it. All those years, stowed away in an attic and then in a cellar, far from the sun – it is no wonder my face is so ghastly pale now! The dark bags under my eyes make my eyes appear far more sunken then they probably are. Yet there is no mistaking the dull, exhausted gleam – they no longer resemble Little Lotte's sparkling blue eyes.

I take off the felt hat I have worn for years, and watch in the mirror as my hair cascades. Although I have taken the liberty to steal into the dancers' dormitories to wash up, I certainly did not have the liberty to groom myself well. My hair, though clean, is a tangled mess, resembling choking weeds in a garden rather than a lady's lovely curls. It is no longer quite as golden, either – it has turned darker, resembling dirt more than sun, and…

What is that? A gray hair!

I peer closer into the mirror. Sure enough, amidst my dark hair are a few gray ones. The image of my mouth twists glumly. The gaunt figure in the mirror raises its pale, emaciated hands to pull regretfully at the gray hairs.

I sigh, and back away. I turn around to examine myself in profile. Hmmm. At least I am still thin – perhaps a little too thin. Shrugging, I gather my hair back into the hat, and continue on my way. The crowd ahead of me has almost disappeared.

Soon I find myself on one of the floors in a room full of people. There are mainly ladies in this room, both young and old. While a few are dressed as they would on the streets, most of them are wearing dance attire and tutus. Apparently, it is a meeting place for the ballet rats of this Opera.

For a celebration, it is startlingly solemn. The rather large dancer who is making some sort of farewell address right now acts as if she's speaking a morose eulogy for a deceased one. Only one young dancer is smiling and giggling, and in the midst of all the dancers, I recognize my husband and Debienne, both of whom are smiling rather blandly. The rest of them, however, appear as if someone has died. Then again, Buquet is dead, and the Siren did seem to hint that the rats would know…

Without warning, the single smiling ballet rat shrieks out in terror:

"The Phantom of the Opera!"

Where? A phantom? I look around, and then notice that the dancer is pointing a trembling finger at me! Me! The Phantom!

Everyone has now seen me, and I know that if I wish to speak to Henri, I must not make this sort of appearance again. He has seen me, and his eyes have widened in shock. I am not sure which is more shocking: the fact that I am above the ground or that I look rather hideous. I hastily depart from the crowd, disappearing before they know I have left.

Quickly, I make my way up the rest of the flights, to the third floor where the managers' office is. I slip in, making sure to keep my felt hat jammed firmly across my face so that my countenance is unrecognizable. I stand in one of the corners, apart from the crowd, which seems not to have noticed me. I do not recognize any one here, save for two men I remember having seen in this very office the second time I arrested the Persian.

Some time later, Henri and Debienne arrive, and they swiftly make their way to the two men from the office. I sit down at the end of one of the tables, and wait. It is terribly boring with the subdued atmosphere, and I admit that my drowsiness is all but increased by the morose dinner. I am so tired, so drained that I do not bother eating anything – I might fall asleep and choke.

Henri and Debienne are making a speech – another farewell speech, wishing the two men from the office, whose names are apparently Armand Moncharmin and Firmin Richard, luck as they became the new managers.

So! This is a farewell celebration for Henri and Debienne! They are retiring – and they hadn't told me!

I notice that two tiny keys are being passed around. One of the guests hands it to me, and several of the other guests, watching the key make its way around the room, notice me at last. Some of them I recall seeing from the dancers' lounge, and at first they smile rather benignly at me. I, however, can see nothing humorous about the situation, and simply stare back at them blankly. Soon, they turn away, and nothing more is said. The fellows sitting beside me appear rather uncomfortable.

Henri and Debienne sit down at the middle of my table. While it is clear that everyone else knows I am there, Henri does not. I snort derisively to myself. Such a blind fool my husband has turned out to be!

I do not wish to be here that much longer. The attention is getting to be too much, and I am growing weary from struggling to stay awake.

"The rats are right," I say loudly in my harsh voice so that Henri can hear me.

Startled, both Henri and Debienne look up, and are at once bewildered to find me there once again.

"The death of poor Buquet is perhaps not as one might think."

In spite of themselves, both Debienne and Henri shout out, "Buquet is dead?"

"Yes," I answer calmly, stifling a yawn. "He was found this evening hanging in the third subcellar between a flat and a backdrop for the Roi de Lahore."

With that, I fall silent. Henri seems terribly upset and agitated – of course, his deranged wife is sitting among his high-class guests. What sort of impression might I make upon the new managers? He and Debienne exchange glances, and then stare back at me, and then back to each other. Their faces are turning paler by the second, and at last Henri, Debienne, and the two new managers turn to leave.

Well. If they will leave, then I shall as well.

I return to my cellar, and for a while, I sleep. Some time later, I am abruptly awoken when Henri prods me awake, papers and lantern in hand.

"You are leaving me, Henri," I say dully before Henri can begin.

"Why, er, what makes you think that?"

"It was your farewell party. And now you are leaving me."

"Oh, no, Charlotte, the party. What were you doing wandering around up there? You are not allowed to roam the theatre, you know. And yes, I am retiring. In fact, that was what I wanted to discuss with you now – I shall not be returning here very often, if at all, and perhaps it would be better to relocate you…"

"Why didn't you discuss this before? Before when there was time?" I snap. "Where is it you wish to send me?"

"Well, er, Charlotte, don't take this the wrong way, but Paris houses quite a few nice hospitals-"

I stand up suddenly, and Henri backs away in surprise. "An asylum, Henri? You wish to ship me away to a hospital where I may die sooner?"

"Oh, no, Charlotte, not at all like that. I…"

"I want to stay here, Henri," I say. "I've never been so free down here… away from you." I pause. "I want a divorce."

To my surprise, Henri's eyes light up. "Do you, Charlotte? Why, that's… that's most unfortunate, truly, but entirely convenient. I just happen to have the divorce papers with me, and all I need is for you to sign and we shall be done with this." Henri waves the papers in his hands. "I mean, it is more convenient since we hardly ever see each other, and I'm sure that both of us have other careers we wish to pursue, and-"

"Do you have a pen?" I interrupt, reaching for the papers.

"Why, yes, here-"

And with that, we were divorced.

"Terribly sorry, Charlotte," Henri babbles even after the fact. "But, you know, if you ever need any help, or if you don't wish to stay down here anymore-"

"I condemn myself to these cellars, Henri," I cut in harshly. "I do not take orders from you…" A yawn swallows up the rest of my words.

Henri nods, then sighs. "I'll be sure to let the new managers know that… And, rest assured, Little Lotte, but they shall never divulge your presence to the public… It would be bad business for both you and me, eh? Ah, my Little Lotte, we've come such a long way, haven't we? But times are changing… Good Lord, that chorus girl, Mademoiselle Daaé – she's certainly changed, and so unexpectedly."

Daaé… The name sounded rather familiar.