Her luck remaining at an even line of constant tedium, rather than becoming ill or good, was an idea she could live with for longer than seconds or minutes. She was thinking, as she stared up at nothing in particular but the taciturn sky, that if God somehow forgot that she existed and allowed her to just be, then she may just be fine. She may just be able to have a large house with vases full of passion flowers, spiraled staircases, and bustles that set off the illusion curves. Helene had watched a few women breeze past in their finest dresses - brocades, broaches, fingerless gloves made of lace (to which she looked down at her own cotton fingerless gloves.), and wondered -- as Charles Baudelaire did wonder about the Angel of Delight -- have they ever felt the way that she has, and does?
She'd hoped they didn't and never would. Their was soft and nice, just like the princesses in all the fairy tales.
In her wandering with no particular destination in mind or in her current circumstance, she found the front of the theatre (or what she thought might be a palace.) on accident through deviated glance - she'd even double-taked. Where did this place come from? She'd never seen it before! Her lips pursed as if to quietly ask the breeze 'who'? Who what? Who built it, who lived there? Even she wasn't sure.
The sound of her shoes clattering across the streets echoed, and once she stepped up onto the street she was staring up with a grin. That's when she noticed a boy, and automatically asked without fully rehearsing how it might sound, she'd asked. "Did you build this palace?"