Kalos Machina

Prologue: Paris

1882

The train was slowly pulling into the black hole that had gradually been creeping closer for the past hour. Although it attracted many excited whispers of her fellow passengers, Christine Daaé determinedly kept her eyes on the hands that were resting in her lap. Occasionally, her fingers would collect the simple blue fabric of her dress and rub it between their tips in a habit that betrayed her nervousness. But at least the motion was familiar; a faint ray of hope that dared to pierce the darkness of this strange, new life.

As the train gently veered right or left, her simple childhood in Sweden seemed an eternity ago. In this country there were vehicles as high as houses, kept cool by a steady stream of air blown into each compartment. In this country there were fancy crystal glasses filled with rainbow coloured liquids, there were children eagerly whispering about Ferris Wheel rides and animal automatons. But she knew she had to be brave, if not for her then at least for the sake of her father who –on his deathbed- had given her very clear instructions of who to contact upon his demise. She knew that he had done everything in his power to make certain she'd be well looked after, and yet she couldn't help but feel terrified of this new start that awaited in a city which loomed dark and dangerous even from afar.

As the train further decreased its speed, Christine hesitantly lifted her head again to glance outside. The scene before her hadn't changed greatly. The sky was still black; occasionally red zeppelins would push their way through the thick mass before the blackness swallowed up their twinkling lights once more. Upon first glance, Christine had believed the city to be caught in the eye of a terrible storm, but when the darkness had stayed quite the same she had realised with a sinking feeling that it was the city itself that had created this monstrosity.

Now that they were close to the heart of Paris, she could see smoke thick like tar billowing out of large factory chimneys and slick, white, six-wheeled automobiles sliding smoothly through cobble stone streets. It was all too wild and too extravagant, nothing like the tranquillity of the Swedish countryside she had grown up in. But she could not afford to think of that now, not when she was so close to reaching her destination.

The train lurched forward sharply, then slowed down considerably as it eased itself under the dome of the station. All around her, passengers jumped to their feet, wrestling their luggage out of the various compartments. The thrum of voices grew and grew until it reached a deafening volume. Christine watched them closely, as if absorbing every detail would enable her to acquire some of their happiness also.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the speakers mounted on either side of the carriage doors crackled to life.

"Ladies and Gentleman, we have now arrived at Gare de Lyon. Gare de Lyon, our final destination, all disembark!"

The voice was soft and melodic and yet Christine prayed for a bit of silence, for some peace of mind to digest everything she had witnessed so far. But everything here seemed to be moving at a much faster pace and so she reluctantly did her best to follow. Shifting into the aisle, she lowered the bag that contained her belongings with much effort and then joined the queue of people clambering down the ladder from the third level of the train. The engine belched up white steam that fogged up the windows above which had already taken a smattering of rain and finally settled on the platform below. During her descent, Christine clung on to the rungs of the ladder with one hand and to her bag with her other, not daring to look at the white mist that played around her ankles.

When at last her feet came in contact with concrete stone, she breathed a sigh of relief and then hurriedly moved on to make space for the passengers that had been following. As the people around her embraced each other in greeting or determinedly strode off to their next destination, Christine found herself a quiet spot in a corner, opened her bag and consulted the letter she had received from the conservatoire of the Palais Garnier.

The management had offered her a brief but concise list of directions and she viewed it as her first test to follow them successfully. If she should get lost, surely someone would be kind enough to point her towards the Opera, she could not imagine that her father had overestimated its popularity.

Stuffing the letter back into the depth of the bag, she hesitated one last time and glanced outside. Nothing but large, black shadows were visible through the layer of condensation, shadows that were blurred in an inky whirlpool as fresh moisture ran down the sharp windows. Christine shivered and tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, forcing herself to set one foot in front of the other lest she be permanently frozen in fear otherwise. The bright bulbs mounted around the exit signs at the station pointed the way and she followed their lead until she found herself outside on the pavement, rain matting down her hair. Remembering the instructions, she took a left down to the Seine.

It seemed impossible to find a single piece of land – or water for that matter – that wasn't occupied somehow. Steam hissed into the air and mingled with the groaning of the wind, automobiles and odd automated bicycles whizzed through the streets and fat boats propelled forwards by spiked dragon wings honked and boomed dully in passing. Nothing could have prepared her for this level of noise, nothing could have prepared her for the oppressive ugliness of the city.

All these inventions were remarkable, of course, yet they could not hide the fact that the city had been neglected otherwise. Dirt was caked on the pavement on which she walked and beggars caught hold of her skirts at regular intervals, tugging at them and pleading with her for some coin. Denying them felt dreadful, but she had hardly any money herself, let alone something extra to spare. In the end, she tilted her chin upwards and pretended not to see the human waste washed up at her feet, pretended not to feel their hands grabbing for her attention.

Instead, she focused on the outline of a cathedral that was rising stoically through the clouds. This was Notre Dame de Paris, this was something familiar. Smiling relieved, Christine strode forward faster, her eyes feasting on every ordinary stone she could find. But it, too, seemed to have been diminished into nothing more than a cheap spectacle, a reminder of a simplistic past. Balloons lazily drifted in the air around the two proud towers, flashes of light momentarily illuminating the scene as curious tourists took photograph after photograph.

The closer she got to the Palais Garnier the larger the crowds around her became. Small men in oversized, black coats wearing top hats that exposed the metal skeleton beneath. Young women in well-crafted boots and silver corsets, the little fur coats around their shoulders hiding more than the stockings and suspender belts they wore from the waist down. It was all so peculiar and indecent, that Christine felt a blush rise to her cheeks and hurried to avert her eyes.

But it proved impossible not to bump into one another as the mass swelled and determinedly drove northwards, like cattle being herded in one direction only. Christine saw thick prosthetic arms, bare muscle revealed between unfeeling strands of metal. Curious glances followed her everywhere and she could hardly blame them, for she was an oddity, seemingly the only person wholly consistent of flesh and bone. Harsh whispers followed her all the way up the Avenue de l'Opéra, condemning her, judging her. But in an uncharacteristic move, Christine straightened her spine and continued walking without paying them the attention they craved. After all, it was hardly her fault that they had chosen to eradicate every last flaw that had made them human and cover it up with clever mechanisms and gold and gemstones instead.

The closer the grand building with its golden angels came, the easier she found it to breathe. Not only was it reminiscent of the old and the safe way of life she was accustomed to, but it also brought back fond memories of her beloved father who had praised the architectural design so fervently it bordered on obsessive. To him, this had been the one true shrine to music and even when his body had started to fail him had he held on to the belief that she would find her sanctuary there also. Beneath Apollo's lyre she would master her voice and woo the masses.

The rain had slowed down to a drizzle now and the last brave drops smacked down on the marble that surrounded her as she climbed the stairs towards the main entrance. Self-consciously, she raked a hand through her hair, smoothing down the dark curls as best as she could. She adjusted her cloak around her thin frame and, collecting all her courage, she pushed the heavy doors open.

Somehow she had expected something earth-shattering to happen, yet the hall which she entered was silent and empty, so silent in fact that her footsteps echoed eerily all around her. She turned on the spot once or twice, before steadying herself on the cool, light stone. Was this a tomb, she wondered? Had anyone caressed the marble as she was doing now? Had other hearts beaten as frantically as hers was doing at the sight of it all? It seemed unlikely when considering the pristine state of the hall.

Shaking herself out of her stupor, Christine selected one of the many stairs and climbed it to enter the next room. Large candelabras glistened on either side of an even larger staircase. Their light was reflected in the smooth, cool marble, basking the entire room in its hues. She held on to one of the rails that was at least twice the size of her hand and slowly made her ascent, taking in the masterpiece around her. She could hardly imagine how much time such detailed work must have taken.

"Are you lost, Mademoiselle?"

The cold voice seemed to resound all around her, startled her enough to drop her bag.

"I'm here to join the conservatoire?" she offered, her own voice trembling terribly as she scrambled to pick up her bag once more. In the distance, she could hear the click of heels drawing closer. "My name is Christine Daaé."

She straightened herself, extending her hand automatically as she did so but nearly flinched away once more when she found herself face to face with a woman whose dark eyes were framed by strange silver wires and a series of minuscule wheels that seemed to connect to the back of her head where they disappeared beneath a strict bun. Upon closer inspection Christine would come to learn that the eyeball itself seemed to have been manufactured from thin mirror-like glass that had been tinted at the centre to create the effect of an iris and a pupil. For now, however, the whole appearance was foreign enough to make her avert her eyes.

"Then the auditorium is hardly the place for you," the woman remarked. She seemed to be scolding her though Christine could not see what she might have done to warrant it. "Come, come now girl, use your legs and don't dawdle, we don't have the whole day."

Holding her bag close to her chest, Christine nodded diligently and followed the woman as she climbed the staircase.

"I am Madame Giry, the box keeper. And let me give you one piece of advice," she swiftly silenced her with a wave of the hand, "nobody here has time to guide you. You are expected to learn your own lessons. If you are fast and humble you will make it far, perhaps even catch the eyes of the managers or better. But if you fall behind, rest assured no-one will miss you here."

Christine swallowed against the lump in her throat and did not dare utter another word. Somehow this safe haven was beginning to look as unfriendly as the city that surrounded it, and she did not know if she was cut out for a life like this.