She was late in leaving the Opera that evening, having shown her dresser where a rip in her costume for Act 3 was in the lining of her skirt. Christine wasn't expected to accompany the dresser to the wardrobe department, but she hadn't visited in quite some time and was eager to greet whoever remained that evening. She'd spent many a happy hour looking in on the goldsmiths, plasterers, and seamstresses of the Opera through the years; the various roles that went into putting on a production fascinated her.
Her reason for visiting was twofold, as she wished to catch up with the seamstresses, but she also wished to avoid any male attention from subscribers that might've tried for an audience with her after the performance was over. The Angel had made his distaste for male attention known, and Christine didn't want to upset him now.
One of the remaining concierges saw to finding a carriage for her, leaving her to linger outside upon the steps of the Garnier. Bundled in her thick cloak, scarf, and muff, Christine doubted anyone would recognize her as the same woman who'd left her very soul upon the stage that evening. Each night she felt as if she gave every bit of herself to the audience and yet, somehow, she managed to do the same the next night. The music both invigorated and drained her, having caught her so tightly in its grip that she barely recognized herself from the girl she'd been three months prior.
Christine shivered despite her many layers as she waited for the arrival of her carriage. Few remained in the shadow of the Garnier, though none that she recognized.