A/N:

This is a new fanfic I've decided to take on. I hope that, with renewed inspiration from seeing the live stage performance of The Phantom of the Opera last night, that I can truly stick to this story.

Also- I am in no way an expert on the French language-in fact, I'm currently stumbling my way through a second year of Spanish. If you notice anything incorrect in French phrasing throughout this story, please correct me and I will change it. Thank you!

And now, without further ado...

A Phantom's Beginning

Chapter One

1870

On the eve of Christine Daaé's sixteenth birthday, her world changed forever.

The morning of her birthday, however, was quite the mundane affair.

It had enfolded just as her fifteenth birthday had—and without complaint, Christine did as she was expected.

Because really, what else was there in her life?

By the time she rose to collect the eggs, the orange, watery sun had just begun to peer over the broad, verdant horizon. She traipsed across the lawn, feeling the residue of last night's rain seep betwixt the soles of her slippers. She gave a frown. As far as she could estimate-and from what she had heard frenetically whispered about town-rain was anticipated throughout the whole of the day and possibly into the week to come. Certainly nature could assuage the rain until the day after her birthday, couldn't it? With a shake of her head, she fetched the eggs, shooed away the insistent hens, and purged herself of a coat of alabaster feathers. She turned her heel; with the laden wicker basket tucked to her hip, she scurried as quickly as the eggs would allow her.

As she neared the house, the grass transitioned into gravel; she hastened pace. A great rivulet of sweat clambered down her back, staining the brown wool of her bodice to black. She gave the back door a tiny push of her foot and dashed inside. She faced the dilapidated wood stove as the placed the wicker basket aside.

"You're late."

With a jolt, Christine turned round to face the source of the noise.

A tall, imperious woman stood before her, an mask of wrinkles and obvious disapproval upon her face as she scrutinized the young woman. Her dark eyes darted to and fro as she assessed Christine's condition. With a tap of her cane, the aging woman gave a semblance of a smile. "However, considering today's date and the meaning it bolsters, I've decided to remiss about your folly."

As a certain, genuine smile melded across the woman's face, Christine wore one of her own to rival it. With great gusto, she flung herself into the older woman's arms and gave a squeeze. "Thank you, Madame-Thank you!" she breathlessly exclaimed.

The woman visibly stiffened, yet eventually dissolved to the saccharine nature of the girl's touch. She drew back. Holding her charge at arm's length, she gave a final smile-it was a crooked, mechanical sort of grin, as if the wearer had forgotten the means in which a smile actually functioned-guided Christine to a chair, and set about her work.

As Madame Giry went about her work, a gentle, giggling noise resounded from the stairs. The sound of swift, pattering footsteps followed suit, only to halt at the foot of the narrow staircase. The wood gave a tiny groan beneath the slippered feet, further affirming the presence of another certain young protégé-the descendant of the matriarch of the Giry flat herself.

Christine turned.

Another bout of tittering pursued the still air. Even Madame Giry, who was known to be steadfast in her work, had given pause. At once, a flaxen head emerged from the gloom, followed by the slender figure of a woman.

"Oh, Christine!" the girl called, bounding from the staircase. Her arms were folded conspicuously behind herself, and she wore a broad grin that further divulged her scheme. "I do believe I have something for you."

At once, and with a great flurry of arms and laughter, Meg approached Christine on lithe legs and presented a small, dampened cardboard box. Upon further inspection, Christine noticed several large punctures to the surface of the container. She glanced back up at Meg. "You shouldn't have."

"Oh, yes I should have!" Meg squealed, causing Madame Giry to drop her whisk with a hiss of annoyance. Meg gave her mother a sheepish smile then turned to Christine once more. "And it's a gift to trump the one you granted me on my seventeenth birthday."

"Ah, you're referring to that hideous scarf I made," Christine said. She gave an arch of her brow. "You know as well as any that I'm terrible with any sort of needle and that that gift you're referring to was an utter disaster."

Meg gnawed upon her lower lip. Indeed, Christine was as wandering and fumbling with needlework as an urban accountant is to a farmer's intricate plow. She didn't dare avow what everybody already knew. Instead, she placed the box in Christine's lap and insisted, "if you don't open my gift, Christine Daaé, I'll be sure that you dance with only the most boorish, most hideous of men at your first dance."

At this reference, Christine gave a laugh. True, at age sixteen Christine Daaé had not had her first dance. The Girys were not of lofty social standing, however, and failed to give either young ladies of the house any sort of debut. In turn, Madame Giry promised each at a very young age that, if they were wholesome and good, they could attend local dances and parties held about town. It was all for fun, no sort of social gain. Christine had scant complaint in the concept; in fact, she was a proponent of it. Since age ten, she had been counting the days-nay, minutes!-until she was of age. With a final smirk, Christine pried open the lid of the package and peeked within.

A few seconds lapsed, and nothing stirred. She gazed into the tiny, vacuous space of darkness for quite some time, about to query aloud why on earth Meg would give her an empty box when something caught her eye. She gasped.

The great, blue gaze of a kitten blinked back at her, just as stupefied as she was. Christine, with quavering hands, scooped the creature into her arms and gave a strangled cry of joy. "Oh, Meg! He's simply perfect. Thank you so very much!"

Meg gave a triumphant grin. She placed her fists against her hips, saying, "I found him outside of the barn last Tuesday morning-you should of seen him then! Such a scrawny and hapless little thing."
"However did you manage to conceal him from me?"

"It was a work of magic unto itself," Meg said. "I kept him out in the barn and visited him whenever I could. But, being that you love to frequent that very location, I had to be crafty about it."

As Meg went on about her tactics, Madame Giry came round the table and eyed the kitten. She opened her mouth, stopped, then said, "My gift surely is no match to Meg's."

Madame Giry retreated from the room and reappeared several moments later with a simple, oblong box beneath her arms. She gave it to Christine, who gave the cat to Meg, who deposited the cat to the floor. Christine, with a swell of trepidation, looked to Madame Giry for confirmation. After giving a nod, the older woman smiled. With slow, agonizing movements-and squawks of "hurry up, Christine!" from Meg-Christine lifted the lid of the box. Her gaze widened.

It was a simple dress of blue chiffon, yet it held the otherworldly quality of gold and jewels itself. Christine's small, pale hands traced the lace of the sweetheart neckline, down to the front panel of tiny, faux pearls. Oh, she couldn't envision the price!

Before she could speak, Madame Giry said, "I had Madame LeBeau-"

"LeBeau? That haughty seamstress?" Meg chirped. Upon realizing her mistake, she gave a quiet apology.

"Yes. The seamstress," Madame Giry grated out. "I had Madame LeBeau go about making you a dress." She didn't add the part that LeBeau had sold it to her at half price because the chiffon was old material from a former project for a traveling noble; that would just sound miserly, and that was the last image Madame Giry wanted to convey of herself. Sincerity, however, welled in her voice as she said, "Just as I gave Meg a fine gown of her own on her sixteenth birthday, I wanted you to have the same. I'd like you to know that I think of you as a daughter, Christine, and I care for you very much."

At Christine's feet, the kitten gave an indignant mew. Christine glanced down at him before giving the two woman a smile. "Thank you both for your gifts. They were truly wonderful."

With a humble wave of the hand, Madame Giry strode back to the opposing side of the tottering table and laid out the meal she had prepared-three separate plates of eggs with fine grain from the market. With the sound of the rustling of skirts, a defiant kitten, and the commonplace din of a farm in the background, the three dined. It was a simple fare, yet a mighty king's breakfast could not hold half a candle to the elation and spirit felt at the table. Christine looked across at Meg, then at Madame Giry, and smiled.

On the same day, at precisely half past ten, there came a sharp rapping at the front door. Christine sat upright in bed. She clutched her sheets about her torso, her eyes widened in bewilderment. She stilled, then listened once more. The walls of the flat were very thin indeed-almost like paper, Meg had once said-and nothing could go unheard.

Except, perhaps, in the cellar.

Christine strained to hear. Had the noise been an apparition? A trick of her overly-imaginative mind? The rain struck against the windowpane, watery fists entreating entrance. The sky gave way to a flicker of light. Through the mere seconds of illumination, Christine spied Meg; the older girl slept soundly in her cot across the way. A great crack of thunder roiled across the welkin, causing Christine to jump. She was about to return to a restless sleep when she heard it.

The pounding.

It came in a quick, adamant succession. It was commanding, riveting, frightening-yet enthralling.

Christine, out of her own volition, drew her robe about her and tiptoed out onto the top of the stairs. Swathed in shadow, she waited.

As a third round of rapping broke out, Christine spied Madame Giry scuttle from the kitchen and out into the dim room that served as the foyer. From her perch overlooking the home's entrance, and with bated breath, Christine watched her destiny unfold.

"Attendez! I'm coming!" Madame Giry shouted. She lifted a single, flickering lantern before her; it cast an ochre glow across the carpet, which gave birth to twisting, sinister shadows. Madame Giry placed the lantern upon a peg on the wall and unlocked the door.

It swung wide, bringing forth a cold spray of rain and leaves. Madame Giry placed a hand atop her brow and peered into the gloom. "Qui est là?"

The deep, resonating voice that slithered into the foyer stopped the churning blood in Christine's veins. "It's me, Madame."

Almost instantaneously, Madame Giry beckoned the figure inside. Beneath the cloak which concealed his face, Christine noticed the graceful, almost methodical way in which he moved. His feet, although large, moved about silently, a stark contrast to Madame Giry's own sluggish, drowsy steps. He hovered above the matriarch, neither of them moving.

"It's been five years," Madame Giry whispered. "I hear not a word from you in five years, and yet you appear at my doorstep begging that I offer lodging?

There was a supercilious way in which he spoke. "Madame, I had believed we were something similar to friends."

At this, Madame Giry gave a pause. She shook her head, as if clearing it. "We are, monsieur- but conventional friends do not arrive in the dead of night, without any prior notice, demanding a place to sleep."

His next words stopped Christine's heart. "I am not a conventional man."

A moment lapsed. Then another. With hesitation, Madame Giry led the man down the foyer, toward the kitchen. With a weighted voice, she said, "It's not much, but the cellar can be of use to you."

"Thank you, Madame," the man said. There was a self-assured way in which he spoke, yet the quavering of his gratitude betrayed some sort of masked fear.

A shuffling of paws behind her wrested Christine from her reverie. She turned round to glimpse Aldric- that is what she had decided to name her cat-plodding across the floor toward her. She gathered him into her arms. He gave a surprised meow. She froze.

Both Madame Giry and the stranger halted in their tracks, their eyes floating up toward the stairs. Christine shrunk back into the shadows, waiting an eternity until Madame Giry at last lost interest.

The man, however, did not waver.

"Come," Madame Giry said, taking the man by the arm. She wound about the foyer, almost leading-because he appeared to be a man that could never be lead- the stranger into the kitchen.

Christine stayed in her hunched position for minutes, possibly hours. It wasn't until the first slanted fingers of dawn shoved their way into the foyer window did she rise, collected Aldric, and steal away to the bedroom. She drew the covers about her small frame and waited.

Sleep would not come.

A/N:

Reviews are greatly appreciated! (: