Author's Note: These two chapters are the result of being unable to sleep even after taking a Benadryl. Apparently it keeps me up rather than putting me out. Who knew? Anyway I thought I'd post them and get some feedback on them... but I reserve the right to change them dramatically. I've already edited the heck out of them today, but this is the basic introduction for the story I mentioned I was considering in an Author's Note during my Italy-centered fic. Let me know if you like it, and when I'm feeling well again I might just continue it, but I might also scrap the project. Not sure yet, still feeling too sick to decide.

It was early in the spring of 1885 when Anya Chekov first set foot in Paris, fresh off a train from St. Petersburg and eager for a new start. While she only intended to stay in Paris long enough to afford a ticket to America, she found herself questioning her dreams. Perhaps it was a foolish idea to arrive in Paris in the spring; the city was so beautiful, she couldn't imagine ever wanting to leave!

But life in Paris was not as beautiful as the city itself. It was nearly impossible to find work with no skills other than grace and beauty. For a month she worked as a governess for a wealthy family in the city, before the husband of said family began to make shameful advances on her and she was promptly fired by the lady of the house. For another month she went door to door, begging families to let her teach their daughters to dance; she had been a prima ballerina in Russia, she promised, and was quite an excellent teacher. In these hard times though, families were simply not purchasing tutors for their children. Food and wine were more important than art, Anya seethed quietly.

On the last day of her third month in Paris, Anya returned to her little apartment to find she had been evicted. Her few belongings were left outside the door, already having been rummaged through by the street urchins in the area. For the first time in over a year, Anya sat down and cried. How foolish it was to cry over something so trivial, after all she had been through! But all of her pitfalls had only served to remind her of how completely and utterly alone she truly was in the world.

Anya was only on the street three days when she was passing by a church as the Sunday mass let out. A pair of wealthy gentlemen strode out with their wives on their arms, already having forgotten the sermon in favor of gossip. Anya straightened her hair in a window, and wiped her face clean with her only surviving handkerchief before approaching the two couples. "What a wonderful sermon today, wasn't it?" She praised, although she had not dared set foot in a church without having bathed for three days.

One of the men smiled politely while his wife eyed her as though she were nothing more than a stray dog. "Why yes, it was Madame. I especially enjoyed the talk on charity," the man announced to the group. "Why Moncharmin and I were just discussing charity the other day."

"We were, weren't we?" Exclaimed the man who must have been Moncharmin. "How ironic, wouldn't you say?"

"I would venture so far as to call it fate," Anya suggested, and the pair looked at each other and laughed.

"What a charming notion. What was your name, Madame?"

"Chekov, Anya Chekov," she smiled, curtsying politely with a dancers grace that made both of the men glance at one another sideways.

The woman on Moncharmin's arm widened her eyes enormously. "A Russian! Oh how splendid! I've never seen a Russian before. Why, I bet under all that dirt and grim she's simply stunning."

"You're too kind, Madame," smiled Anya; smiling in the face of backhanded complements was something every ballerina perfected at a young age.

"I say, she is rather dirty isn't she Richard?"

"Quite," agreed the man who had first spoken. "Madame Chekov, what is your business?"

"Oh, nothing of importance; I am only a dancer Monsieur."

Richard's brow quirked charmingly as he looked to his companion before looking back to the woman. "What on earth is a Russian Ballerina doing in Paris? Not spying on our new ballet I hope?"

Anya's heart began to race. "I know nothing of a new ballet, Monsieur. I've only just arrived. I haven't even had time to wash, I came straight from the train to mass," she lied in a desperate attempt to explain her appearance.

"Then what brings you to Paris, Madame?" The woman on Moncharmin's arm asked brightly. "And where is your husband? I should like to see what a Russian gentleman looks like!"

"...My husband is dead, Madame," Anya explained, twisting the wedding band on her finger as she absently glanced at the floor. "That is why I am here."

"Escaping the memory of your lost love, très romantique!" The woman exclaimed. "Armand, I know you've already cast the ballet but surely you could find a place for our new friend?"

The man called Moncharmin looked to the other man, who was hesitant. "I don't know that we can recast the entire ballet, not without seeing her abilities."

"Then give me a job doing anything, I will sweep floors if I have to until the next audition. You will not be sorry to have me in your employ, Messieurs," she told them before instantly biting the inside of her cheeks; she had sounded far too desperate for employ.

"Ha!" Exclaimed the woman on Richard's arm, who had been eying her warily the whole while. "I knew I had not seen her in church! She hasn't just arrived at all, she came to the door over a week ago asking if we had any children she could teach to dance!"

Anya gaped like a fish out of water while the men gave her a hard look. "…I am sorry for my lie, Messieurs. I pray you will forgive me, for it is the only lie I have told to you today. My husband is truly dead, and I truly am a dancer, but I arrived in Paris three months ago. I had expected to find work by now, but I have found nothing. I was evicted three days ago because I could not pay the rent and eat. And sir, I am a dancer! I do not eat much," she added, hoping to express the direness of her situation.

Moncharmin pulled his friend off away from their women, who looked miffed that they were not being included. They spoke in whispers for what felt like hour before returning. "In light of today's sermon on charity, and our recent discussion of that very subject, my partner and I have decided to offer you a job. Recently our night custodian had an accident and will not be rejoining us, and we suspect the boy we hired in his place is stealing. He will be fired, and you will take his place. I trust you can sweep and mop a stage?"

"I can, Messieurs," she answered eagerly. She had never tried, but she could sweep and mop in her apartment in St. Petersburg, and didn't imagine it would be any different.

"Good," announced Richard. "For your service you will be provided with a room at the Opera, and pay enough to eat. Once the next auditions come around, you will be free to audition as any of the other ballerinas. You may begin tonight at eleven in the evening, I'll let the night watch know you're coming."

Anya smiled and curtsied deeply. "You kind Messieurs! Too kind!"

So began Anya's career at the opera. It was not glorious, but it gave her a bed to sleep in and food to eat.

The evening Anya Chekov first met the Opera Ghost, she never arrived to her shift. In her explorations of the theatre, the woman had found a quiet, private little room she enjoyed using before work. Effortlessly she lifted her leg above her head, holding it in place as she lifted up onto the pointes of her toes in ratty old ballet slippers. How good it felt to stretch! Anya was infinite grateful for the opportunity to live and work for a ballet company, but for all its vastness the Palais Garnier could feel so… cramped. Living in a dormitory with several of the seamstresses who had not been able to afford their rent, she was beginning to feel claustrophobic, and wondered if anyone would notice if she took over this room instead; it was large and dusty, but it had a nice divan and a large mirror perfect for correcting her form in. After work she was done cleaning the stage, she would dance on it, spreading out like she so longed to do even if she had to dance alone for now.

Taking a breath, the woman pulled back the leg she held above her head and lean forward, attempting to remember how it felt to be perfectly parallel with the ground while still on pointe. She stayed there for a long moment, perfectly balanced before planting both feet on the ground gracefully and repeating the stretch with the other leg.

The clock struck eleven and Anya's heart sank. "Merde!" She cursed, only having been in France for half a year now but picking up the language (proper and improper) rapidly. Quickly the woman slipped out of her slippers and into her work boots before bolting out the door.

Anya fell hard as she ran into a tall, solid mass in her path. "I'm sorry Monsieur! Please forgive me! I am not usually so clumsy, you really must forgive me!" She begged, pulling herself to her feet and diverting her eyes downwards out of embarrassment. Although she could not see the figure she had run into headlong, her other senses were on fire; how fine was the quality of his shirt! And what was that smell… it reminded her of the churches in St. Petersburg, old and musty, but still sweet and familiar. But where had he gone? She must have run into someone, to have set her senses on edge so.

Suddenly Anya felt very uncomfortable… like she was being watched by someone, or something, that did not want to be seen.

"Monsieur? I didn't hurt you did I?" She ventured, though she was beginning to question her sanity; perhaps she had run into the wall, and not a man? "Monsieur?"

"You are the new street rat the managers hired, aren't you?" Demanded a voice suddenly from just behind her, condescendingly. Anya whirled around, wondering how the man had possibly managed to move past her without her noticing.

"I am, Monsieur," she answered, trying her best not to be offended by the remark. "I beg your forgiveness, Monsieur, but really, if you're all right I must go or I'll be terribly late," she explained and he voice was quiet for an uncomfortably long moment.

"…All right, you may go," it informed her like a master dismissing his slave. Anya did not take well to that, not by a man she couldn't see.

"Where are you? Why can't I see you?"

"Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to," warned the voice in such a manner that every hair on the back of Anya's neck stood straight.

This didn't stop her. "Are you the Opera Ghost the ballerinas have warned me about? You are, aren't you! Why I have half a mind to-" before she could finish her thought, she crumpled against the tall black figure she had run into earlier as he held a handkerchief dipped in chloroform over her mouth and nose.