Author's note: My intention in this story is to depart quite significantly from what we learn in the musical in regards to Erik's life before he arrives at the Opera House, with the consequence that he has become a famous impresario, as opposed to the Phantom. This story is almost exclusively based on the Andrew Lloyd Webber stage musical, with some elements taken from the film version. I have also borrowed a minor character from Leroux's novel, who will become a major character in this story. I have also borrowed certain things from other versions of Phantom, such as my use of 'Carriere' as Erik's surname, which is taken from the 1990 TV movie starring Charles Dance.

A note on the timeline: Although it is generally accepted that the year that the events as depicted in Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical take place is 1881, for the purposes of this story I am going to set them a little later. In 1881, the Palais Garnier had only been open for seven years, and I wanted my Opera House to have been open a little longer than that.

I hope you enjoy this story. Thanks for reading!

The Toy Theatre

1: Upstaged by a Mechanical Elephant

Paris, 1896

It was raining again. Paris looked bleak, despite its splendour, and the man in the mask found himself longing for home.

The great impresario made his way carefully over the damp paving stones. He disliked being outside, particularly when the weather was bad. There had been several mornings, recently, when he had simply wanted to stay in bed, or lie on the couch in his sitting room and read the newspaper. But this was not an option. There was work to be done. The Opera needed him.

Erik paused at the theatre's main entrance and closed his umbrella. A billboard on the wall caught his eye. The new posters for Hannibal had been put up. He read the names of the performers, just to make sure there were no mistakes.

The Paris Opera presents Hannibal, a new opera in five acts and two ballets. Featuring Carlotta Giudicelli as Elissa and Ubaldo Piangi as Hannibal. Also featuring a magnificent elephant automaton. Music and libretto by H. Chalumeau.

Erik sighed. It was ridiculous, really, that the elephant should get a billing, and he, Erik Carriere, should not. Upstaged by a mechanical elephant! He snorted: this was Monsieur Leferve's doing, no doubt. But Erik knew he had no right to feel bitter. He had a lot to be happy about. After all, he was the impresario who had turned the fortunes of the ailing Opera House around. The last production of the season had played to capacity every evening, and the name of Carlotta Giudicelli, the principal soprano, seemed to be on everyone's lips.

Erik was a success, and he was proud of it. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he had thought he would never achieve anything. And yet here he was, the creative director of the greatest Opera House in the world, the owner of this wonderful building in all but name.

Yes, he had a lot to be happy about. He knew what his contribution had been, even though the critics refused to acknowledge the importance of his work.

Erik looked up at the façade of the building and smiled. This place belongs to me, he thought. And then, involuntarily, he shuddered.

Sometimes he dreamed about flames creeping up the walls of the theatre and engulfing the red velvet stage curtain. After a nightmare of this sort, he always had to go to the Opera House and make sure it was still standing, regardless of what time it was. He knew this was irrational behaviour, but it was something he had to do for his own peace of mind.

Erik consulted his pocket watch. Today he was holding auditions for the chorus, and it was nearly time to begin. He slipped unseen into the Opera House's entrance foyer and lingered there for a moment. He liked the entrance foyer: it was a place filled with useful shadows, perfect for hiding. At this time of day the room was pleasantly cool, and he could smell the roses in the two large vases placed at either end of the foyer. Later, filled with patrons, the foyer would smell of perfume and tobacco smoke. But by that time he would be somewhere safe.

Erik left the foyer somewhat reluctantly, and walked up the Grand Staircase. His progress went unnoticed by the few early arrivals on their way to the audition. Erik was very good at being invisible. He had cultivated this talent of merging into the background ever since it had become clear that this made life easier. He did not like to invite unwanted attention from those who might consider him ugly. But sometimes, like now, he avoided other people simply out of habit.

He would soon find himself among his employees, where he would be forced to play a different role. But for now Erik moved as silently and discreetly as a ghost through the magnificent theatre over which he had such power.

It was the most important audition of Christine's life, and she was late.

She had no one to blame but herself. For much of the previous night she had been wide awake, rehearsing her audition piece. When she had eventually retired to bed, the music was a continuous presence in her mind, playing itself over and over again, until she had given into exhaustion and had fallen asleep. It was nine 'o clock when she woke up, and she had been obliged to dress very quickly. She practically ran all the way to the Opera House, all the time thinking about her audition piece, whether the song she had chosen was too obscure, whether she was under rehearsed, whether the lack of sleep would adversely affect her voice. Christine had hardly slept for three days.

She put it down to nerves. Christine had wanted to audition for the Paris Opera for almost as long as she could remember. She knew that if she failed, all the work she had done at the conservatoire would be in vain. And her nerves were not soothed by the alarming rumours she had heard about the creative director. Apparently he was rather tyrannical.

Christine finally arrived at the Opera House, out of breath and wishing her audition was over. She ran up the Grand Staircase, almost slipping on the marble steps in her haste, and pushed open a door marked Amphitheatre.

She froze for a moment, gazing at the theatre in wonder. The auditorium was even grander than she remembered. Almost without noticing, Christine began to walk down the aisle between the seats, staring at the gold boxes and balconies, the immense chandelier, the painted ceiling…

The ceiling was different from how she remembered it. Only three years earlier this huge, circular canvas had been adorned with Greek gods and goddesses. But someone had painted over this mural, and the ceiling was now a riot of bright colours: yellows and blues and greens. Here and there were things which looked like buildings and human figures…was that a ballerina in a white tutu? Christine could not tell. She had never seen anything like this ceiling before. It was like looking down a kaleidoscope at a complex, colourful pattern, but without the symmetry. It made her feel dizzy.

Someone coughed. Startled, Christine looked towards the stage. There was a young woman standing there. Next to her there was a piano, with a man sitting at it. Both were looking at her pointedly. Christine felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment: she had interrupted the first audition.

She spoke without thinking: "I'm so sorry. Please excuse me."

It was a mistake to speak. Half a dozen seats on the front row were occupied, and the people turned their heads to look at Christine. Then a man stood up and strode down the aisle towards her. Christine had never seen him before, but she knew there was only one person he could possibly be: Erik Carriere, the great impresario.

Christine had heard endless gossip about him at the conservatoire. The general consensus seemed to be that he was a ruthless, intimidating individual with a spectacular temper. It was rumoured that he had once fired a singer on the spot for missing an entrance. And there were other rumours, some trivial, some serious. Depending on whom you consulted, Erik Carriere was French, English, or Scandinavian. He was an aristocrat, or he had grown up in poverty. He was uneducated, self-educated, a scholar. He had bought his way into the Opera House. He had financed the Opera House. He had designed the Opera House. He had built the Opera House.

The truth was that no one had a clue where Erik Carriere had come from. For such a famous man, he was remarkably secretive.

And then there was the mask. There were all kinds of rumours concerning what the mask concealed. But the only thing Christine could recall about the mask at that exact moment was the piece of advice her singing tutor had given her when he had learned of her approaching audition: "Never, ever stare at Erik Carriere's mask."

And that was exactly what she was doing.

Christine saw that the famous mask covered just one half of the man's face, leaving the other side visible.

The left side of his face was glaring at her.

"And who are you?" Erik Carriere's voice was quiet, but there was an unmistakable note of anger in it.

"I'm here for the auditions." Her voice shook.

The man produced a watch, which he studied intently for a moment, before slipping it back into the pocket of his velvet waistcoat.

"You are precisely six and a half minutes late," he said.

"I'm sorry," Christine repeated. "I was-"

"Please don't waste my time with your excuses," said Erik, waving a hand dismissively. "I can't abide listening to excuses."

Christine realised there were tears in her eyes. Everything about this man, every word, every gesture, spoke of power and arrogance. His lips were pressed together in a disapproving grimace. Christine noticed that they seemed to twist oddly at one corner as they disappeared beneath his mask. He was a tall man and solidly built. He was every bit as intimidating as the rumours had suggested, and the effect was heightened by the fact that he was dressed from head to toe in black. Christine looked down at the floor, as she so often did when she was nervous. She was not reassured by the sight of Erik Carriere's shoes, which were highly polished patent leathers, the shoes of a wealthy man.

"I'm so sorry I disturbed you," she said. "I was so busy looking at the ceiling that I forgot my manners. It's beautiful. The ceiling, I mean. Very silly of me…"

Christine realised she was babbling. How stupid. But as she waited for the impresario to dismiss her, something strange happened. Risking a glance upwards, she saw that Monsieur Carriere's expression had softened. The glare vanished, and his eyes seemed to light up. He had very striking eyes. They were a very pale brown, almost gold.

"What's your name, Mademoiselle?" he asked, in a gentler voice.

"Christine Daae, sir."

Without taking his eyes off Christine, Erik addressed one of the people on the front row. "Madame Giry. May I have the list, please?"

A woman rose from her chair and approached him. She was also dressed in black, and her dark hair was tied back in a neat bun. She handed Erik a sheet of paper. Christine watched as Erik's eyes followed the lines of writing.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Daae. Soprano. Twenty-one years of age. Recently graduated from the conservatoire, where she won a prize. Is that correct?"

"Yes sir."

"I assume the prize wasn't for time-keeping?"

There were chuckles in the auditorium. Christine felt herself blushing again.

"I'm sorry."

"No more apologies, please. Go and wait backstage until your name is called. Madame Giry, show Miss Daae the way."

"This way, my dear," said Madame Giry. Christine followed her up some steps at one side of the stage. The young woman whom Christine had interrupted glared at her resentfully. Christine lowered her eyes, and followed Madame Giry to a room backstage.

"Wait here, please," said Madame Giry.

Christine sat down on a wooden bench and looked around the room. It was a very plain room, intimidating in its blankness. There were around twenty other people in there. Some of them were reading musical scores. All of them looked as nervous as Christine was feeling. No one said anything.

Christine was among the last of the singers to be called. She had been waiting nearly an hour and a half, staring at the bottle green walls in silence, unable to think of anything but her music. She watched as the singers left, one by one. And then suddenly it was her turn.

Madame Giry appeared in the doorway. "Christine Daae. Come through, please."

When Christine found herself back on the stage, her legs started to shake. Viewed from the stage, the auditorium appeared vast. The dark figure of Erik Carriere stood in the centre of the stalls, his hands gripping the back of the seat in front of him.

"Give your music to Monsieur Reyer," said Erik, gesturing towards the man at the piano.

Like Erik, Monsieur Reyer was pale and dark-haired. Unlike Erik he was brightly dressed in a paisley-patterned jacket and cravat. Christine handed him her sheet music. Reyer looked at it and frowned.

"Is there a problem?" asked Erik.

Reyer shook his head. "No."

"Then why the delay?"

Reyer turned to Erik with a strained smile.

"I think we should take a short break," he said.

"Why, what's the matter?" Erik sounded suspicious.

"Nothing. I just need a moment to look through the music. It's new to me."

Christine felt her heart sink. So the song she had chosen was too obscure, after all. She'd suspected as much, but she could sing it so well that her tutor at the conservatoire had persuaded her to use it.

"I'd rather get on with it, Reyer, if you don't mind," said Erik. "If you don't think you can manage the piece, I'll come up and play it for you."

"No," said Reyer. "No, it's all right. I'll play it."

Reyer began to play. Christine began to sing. The conversation had made her even more nervous and her voice was not at its best. But it turned out that she did not have time to make any serious mistakes.

"Stop!"

Erik's voice seemed to echo around the auditorium. Christine stopped singing.

Erik walked towards the stage until he was standing just beneath Christine. He looked up at her, his eyes cold.

"Where did you get that music?" he asked.

"My singing teacher gave it to me," said Christine. She was still afraid, but now she was angry as well. How dare he interrupt her only half way through the first verse! Surely her voice wasn't that bad?

Erik continued to stare at her with those razor sharp eyes. "That music is childish and uninspired. I don't ever want to hear it again."

Christine thought there was something strange about the way he spoke these last words, as though he was reciting them from memory, and he didn't really believe what he was saying.

"I think it's rather beautiful," she said.

Now the visible half of Erik's face looked almost puzzled.

"Really? You think it's beautiful?"

Christine nodded. "It's one of my favourite pieces. My singing teacher said it suited my voice very well."

The corner of Erik's mouth lifted, almost imperceptibly, in a smile. But the smile vanished immediately, and his eyes grew cold again.

"Your singing teacher is a fool," he said. Then he turned to Reyer. "I think we will take a short break after all. I would like you to find something else for Miss Daae to sing. Auditions will resume in twenty minutes."

Christine looked at Reyer for help. She wanted to say that she couldn't possibly learn a new song in twenty minutes, but she didn't have the courage. Fortunately, Reyer spoke on her behalf.

"With all due respect," he said, rising from the piano stool, "I think that's unfair on Miss Daae. How can she be expected to learn a new piece in twenty minutes?"

"Any fool can learn a song in twenty minutes, Reyer," growled Erik.

"Why can't she just sing what she's rehearsed? What harm can it do?"

Erik gave the accompanist a withering stare, to which Reyer was apparently immune. At last Erik sighed.

"Very well," he said. "From the beginning of the aria, please."

Christine smiled at Erik in gratitude, but he did not acknowledge her. He returned to his chair in the middle of the stalls.

Reyer began the accompaniment again, and Christine sang. By the end of the second verse, she thought she was doing quite well, and she risked a glance in Erik's direction, just to see his reaction. What she saw would continue to puzzle her for weeks to come.

Erik's head was bowed, and he was cradling it in his hands. Christine thought she could see his shoulders shaking. It looked as though the man was crying, but of course that couldn't possibly be the case.

The song came to an end. There was polite applause from Reyer and Madame Giry. Erik did not applaud. Instead he stood up, and walked unsteadily towards the aisle.

"You'll have to excuse me," he said. "I don't feel quite myself."

Without a single glance at the baffled Christine, he hurried up the aisle and left the auditorium. The heavy door slammed shut behind him.

"Did I do something wrong?" asked Christine.

"No," said Reyer.

"You did well," Madame Giry added.

Christine wanted to ask what was wrong with Monsieur Carriere. She felt somehow responsible for his sudden departure. Madame Giry seemed to read her thoughts, because she smiled at her kindly.

"It's just his way, dear. He's rather eccentric. You'll get used to him after a while."

But Christine doubted that she would have the opportunity to grow accustomed to Erik's strange ways. He clearly disliked her, and had done so from the moment she arrived.

Christine was nearly in tears when she left the Opera House. She did not expect to return.

Author's Note: In reality, the classical design of the ceiling in the Paris Opera's auditorium remained in place until the 1960s. Then this original ceiling was covered by a false ceiling, painted by Marc Chagall. This modern ceiling is the inspiration for the ceiling in my story. I know I'm playing fast and loose with history here, but I've always like the new ceiling, and I quite like the idea that Erik himself designed parts of the Opera House in this story, including its rather modern ceiling.