But no, that was the old Diana, overthinking every little thing she’d done or was about to do in life. The new Diana was taking life by the horns and enjoying every moment of it—no regrets.

Right then, she made a decision: no more hesitation. While sightseeing and especially at the ball tomorrow, she’d own her life, make bold choices, take risks, and never back down.

CHAPTER TEN

The following day, Diana went sightseeing. She only had the morning and early afternoon to explore, since she wanted to be back by three to get ready for the ball, so she decided to explore the area of the Eleventh Arrondissement by foot. From her map, she discovered that the Bastille wasn’t far away, so she hoped she could get in a few pictures of the plaza on her way to Saint Chapelle, since Stéphane had said it was the most beautiful church in Paris, and, of course, Notre Dame, which wasn’t far away.

Unfortunately, even with her map firmly in hand, she wound up getting turned around and ended up at Père Lachaise Cemetery. A rather morbid start to your year in Europe, isn’t this, Diana? she thought with a smile. I hope this isn’t a portent of things to come.

As she went inside, she googled the website and learned the locations of all the famous people buried there: Jim Morrison, Marie Callas, Oscar Wilde, Balzac, Chopin. She walked down the cobbled path, the shade of the oak trees shielding her from the bright hot sun, and stood in front of Chopin’s grave, with the statue of a beautiful angel seated above it, head bent in despair, holding her silent harp. People had left offerings of flowers, in various stages of decay, and coins and trinkets to the great composer. Someone had left a tiny toy piano.

“Maybe you can tell me, Frédéric,” she whispered, looking around to make sure no one else was nearby, “Why it is that I keep striking out when trying to find the things I’m looking for in this city? I keep finding ghosts. Figments of things that may or may not be there.”

Silence.

Not that she expected more.

“Well,” she said, “Maybe Jim Morrison will have more to say.”

She walked along farther, marveling over the many statues and remembrances—some beautiful and sad, some grotesque, some downright horrifying. She stopped at the square headstone of one Joseph Fournier, an 18th century mathematician, according to the display on her phone. A white-faced ghoulish creature with no discernable nose peered back at her with wild wide eyes.

“That is truly terrifying,” she said aloud, as she continued on.

Maybe this was a portent of things to come. No, not that she’d end up in the ground at the end of the year—she truly hoped not, though Lily seemed to think it was a definite possibility with all the axe-murderers around. But would she always be meandering about, getting side-tracked and led off itinerary, never being able to see the things she truly wanted to see or do what she wanted to do?