Christèle felt that she had really come into her own more than ever before during the past nine months or so since she had graduated. Beauxbatons had allowed her to flourish in an interpersonal manner, but it was also artificial, where relationships were defined by age or by house more than a holistic basis, and where it was easy for young people to forget that everyone wasn't their age and their peer. Since graduating, she felt more than ever able to define herself by the choice of her actions. While her family's standing would always be a huge part of who she was, everything else was exactly as she chose it: her occupation, her devotion of her time (beyond required social functions), her relationships to foster or, if she wasn't careful, damage, her manner of carrying herself. And as the Deveaux family name and legacy had never been a shackle, beyond her disinclination for Ministry work like her father or Tristan's future occupation, Christèle did not mind carrying this one thing with her as a reminder of who she was and strove to be.
With that always in the back of her mind, what occupied her daily thoughts more recently was everything that she could do for the Symphonie. Christèle was extremely pleased with the reception it had had so far among the elite class. At least in France, their performances, especially the exclusive galas offered once in a while, were starting to gain traction as a place to see and be seen and even conduct a certain amount of appropriate business. That being said, it was imperative that they maintain the quality of their performances by all means possible, and a well-connected set of patrons (Leonid Kasyanov was, of course, the most important person when it came to this) needed to make the most of their resources to help the effort. Christèle had noticed lately that the dancers (with whom she practiced once in a while) and the vocalists were starting to reuse dresses designed for other productions, and found that they were in need of more costume design. The question was, who to ask, who wouldn't demand an absurd expense, and who would actually produce tasteful pieces?
The young woman was pondering the question as she walked down a street in Wizarding London, dressed in a delicate set of lavender robes. She was in Britain with her father, as they commonly were nowadays, but there were no engagements for the ambassador tonight and Christèle was free to do as she liked. She had found that she quite liked traveling and discovering new cultures, something that could be said to run in her family, if her father and Tristan were any indication, but if she was away from France too long she started to miss her home (and, for instance, her cat Amélie, who couldn't come with her on these trips). It was a wonder of magic that they could travel as quickly and easily as they did, at the least. Christèle was always thankful that she was a witch, even if she truly did not use her wand as much as others did.
Turning a blind corner and apologizing to the wizard with the hurried walk that she almost ran into, Christèle spied a café with a front that suddenly struck her very much like something she might see in wizarding Paris. A moment's illusion passed through her mind that she might see some familiar faces in a place that looked a little like home, and the young woman turned in on a whim, taking a seat on the terrace and ordering some tea, as she typically did in Britain. A moment's pause was a moment to look around and really observe those around her. After music, and sometimes even before, as a Deveaux daughter, people had always been the focus of Christèle's life, because it was around people that their society revolved. There, a pair of lovers having a disagreement; there, a man clearly concerned and in a hurry, but too uncomfortable to break out into a run; there, a man who read his Daily Prophet in what seemed like a comforting routine more than interest; there, a woman with golden hair and--Christèle paused. Suddenly, that illusion didn't seem so ridiculous. "Aimee?" she called out, just loud enough for her to hear. "Aimee Rousseau!" She had heard that the older girl, Zara's sister, was working in London, but she hadn't actually met her on this side of the English Channel. Just like that, the problem that had been in the back of the nearly nineteen-year-old's head also seemed nearly solvable. If the other girl was willing, she could help them and get some recognition among a certain social class that could help her career. She hated to think so utilitarianly about such an encounter--she really was happy to see her former Housemate, and hoped they could catch up. But it was hard to miss the potential, the kind of win-win situation that her father loved and that made people happier and the world more beautiful. Christèle loved that.
