Chapter 1: Pissenlit

"E2 to C6," Erik repeated disbelievingly, shaking his head yet again. "Are you quite sure, Madame, that this is not another one of M. Gabriel's frequent nervous breakdowns?" The stern woman pulled her shawl tighter about her as her eyes darted from one corner to another. Satisfaction at finally amazing the Opera Ghost did nothing for the fight-or-flight reflex in the pit of her stomach. His lair had always unnerved her.

"Yes, yes, I was there myself," she snapped. "It isn't so amazing, only the regular-"

He wasn't listening. He never did, did he?

"Finally, this wretched place affords people to listen to who are superior to Guidicelli's squawking! This is the best thing to happen since I received a raise from Lefevre!" Erik, being a very physical man despite his wan physique, sprang from his perch in the stalactites of the cave and alighted silently on the smooth floor.

"A raise under threat of death, you mean," Giry muttered as the composer popped the cork on a celebratory (and ill-gained) bottle of champagne.

"Excuse me?" He turned, and the hardened lady glimpsed a hint of an arch smirk on his thin, pale lips. "I do believe, Antoinette that one is supposed to be joyful over the arrival of a new cast, and not grieving over past experiences." Mismatched eyes, the left gold and the other silver, studied their owner's ally, reading the runes of her wrinkles and frowning mouth. He had known 'Antoinette' for two years now, and she still hadn't told him her true first name. She would change the subject in three, two, one… now.

"Do try not to scare them away when I bring them here for lessons." Giry held back a self-satisfied smiled as the opera's villain spluttered and choked on his drink. "And do not disagree with me on this arrangement. Richard and Moncharmin have already submitted their admittedly forced approval and fired Carlotta. These five will impress you; only, do not impress them in the wrong way. You might lose them." With that, the old ballet mistress slid back one of the many mirrors in the lair and took the stairs five floors up to the stage.

Erik retrieved a spare handkerchief from one of his many pockets and lowered himself into one of his handmade armchairs. Merde… Giry seems to think that getting me out of trouble once gives her the right to give me trouble five times over… Gah! Students!

Perhaps Gabriel's observations were accurate for once, and these new actors did have talent. Perhaps they would disappoint him. With a heavy sigh, le fantome began a letter to the managers.

Mssrs. Moncharmin and Richard:

It has come to my attention that M. Gabriel has not been up to my easily reachable standards as of late. He is obviously unstable and needs at least a year of rehabilitation in a mental facility. I would recommend sending him to the Americas, as they have improved their mental facilities- I can only hope that both of you do as well.

As for his duties, I will gladly fill in for him as chorus director; seeing as the new cast (you know very well of whom I am writing: the five newest additions to my theatre) will doubtlessly need proper training, you will send them to me in this off season as soon as possible, and without fail.

I must repeat, as your thick skulls will not register the previous sentence: you will not fail. Please reference my earlier letters of exhortation should you need to refresh your memories of the reasons you will not fail.

Sincerely,

Le Fantome

…

"Absolutely not!" Moncharmin shouted, not caring that the following (censored) expletives greatly disturbed the whole of the chorus rehearsal. "We are not sending five of the best voices down in that hellhole to be murdered by a madman!" His slightly threadbare (hair-bare?) scalp glistened under the hydrogen lamps. Mme. Giry fixed him with a cold glare.

"It is not a matter of this 'we,' you speak of, but a matter of him. He controls this institution, not you. Otherwise, be gone with you and I will be the manager for the rest of my life." She emphasized her point with the slightly snooty jut of her chin. M. Richard eyed his partner.

"I can't say I'm entirely opposed to the Ph-"

"No! Don't say it!" the other manager hissed, glancing about as if a sandbag were about to drop on their heads at any moment.

"Very well. He has made some improvements to this establishment, and while his activities are undoubtedly criminal, we would not be receiving our generous annual income." The eldest of the three cleared her throat and hurried on before anyone could object.

"I shall begin the newcomers' regimens with the Ghost without delay, then." She ignored the startled calls of "Blast!" and "Wait!" as she strode out to the foyer. Soon, everything would be in its place, and her Meg could become Mme. la Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac… Legally!

…

Dark brown curls were carelessly pushed to one side as Christine observed the other hopefuls sitting next to her on the granite steps to the stage. The chorus was rehearsing a bit from Gomes' Il Guarany, but a Brazilian opera was the last thing on her normally scattered mind. Her color-shifting eyes crept clockwise around the large, polished room. When Papa mentioned colorful characters in the entertainment business, I never thought he meant foreigners…

To her left was a tall man, probably in his late twenties. He hadn't spoken at all, only stroked his dark brown hair, quite obviously worried about something. His features were anything but delicate- burns something akin to those of a grease fire speckled his visible right cheekbone, and his large, arched nose was crooked from being broken at least once.

And what is his name? I don't know anyone here… Suddenly, the thought was terrifying. She would not have her father with her to help her, nor her mother to comfort her. He had been dead for a few months now, and there had been no angel as she had foolishly believed. No Angel… Why didn't you tell me the truth, papa? Could not your last words have been something true? Or were you delirious?

Right next to him sat a redhead with eyes almost too bright and curves almost too extreme to be natural. She was definitely wearing an expensive corset, although how it allowed her lungs enough air to fuel incessant chatter in a lilting Irish brogue, Christine would never know. Black is the night, bright is the light… I only wish the light was slightly more modest.

"And what's your name, lad?" the redhead queried, wrinkling her round face with a sniffle as she turned to the next person. Said 'lad' happened to be just that, possibly younger than the young brunette who was quietly watching. His olive skin failed to hide the blush that crept up his neck out of shyness.

"Ischyros." Across from Christine, a lithe girl with a brown complexion and ink for hair scoffed, her accent thick but still unidentifiable.

"You will never make it if you are as-" she searched for the right words, then found them and continued: "As timid as a snail in the presence of salt!" the girl finished rather triumphantly, seemingly unaware of her muddy cloak and the knife at her hip. What sort of savage land did she come from, that she feels the need to carry a weapon?

A sharp tapping came from the top of the staircase as the steel tip of a cane struck stone. The five singers stood instinctively.

"Attention on me, please," Mme. Giry called at Christine, who was nervously playing with one of her tight ringlets. "And do not play with your hair. It is unbecoming." A severe stare forced the girl to drop her hair and fold her hands. "Now, all of you will enter through these double doors in single file, no talking, nor smoking, drinking, or engaging in anything disturbing while on the job or in this building. You will not disturb the composer, or his music, and you will not mention his mask on pain of death. Understood?"

The five nodded vigorously, like reprimanded children. On pain of death? Mask? Just what kind of maniac have I gotten myself involved with? Oh, papa…was this really what you wanted?

…

A sweet melody hummed in the chilly spring air of a meadow as Gustave Daae played an excerpt from The Trout. He did not care who had composed it, so long as it was playable and Christine liked it. At the moment, his surprisingly innocent daughter was oblivious to everything except the music and the crown of flowers in her slender hands. At last, he finished the excerpt and sat down next to his child.

"Don't you want to leave any of the flowers to make seeds for next spring?" She looked up at him. An eyelash was loose just at the corner of her left eye, which was a blue so bright it almost glowed.

"Of course I do, but these flowers grew and were surrounded by the frost again. They wouldn't have survived another week, so they might as well be beautiful in a different way," the girl asserted, placing the multicolored blooms atop her father's head. He smiled and stood.

"Ah, but if these little sprouts were people, wouldn't they want to live as long as they could, and be beautiful for a meadow and not a graying head?" Christine stood up, and, not bothering to brush the leftover greenery and damp from her wool coat, walked arm-in-arm with the older man back to the small cottage they'd rented for the season.

"Gracing your head is the greatest opportunity for a flower, I'm sure of it!" she laughed. "What would you like for dinner? Meatballs?" It was an old joke of theirs. They were far too poor to buy meat, much less spices, so it had become something to laugh about over the years as opposed to something to cry about. The rich who had meat on the table every day had nothing, really, except bad health and bad moods.

Gustave turned away to adjust the shutters on the one small window the shack possessed. Christine stomped her boots to rid their soles of slush. A note had been left on the door with an official-looking seal.

"Papa, I think you should come and look at this. It's for you." The prematurely old man took the note and began to read.

"Gustave Daae: You have thus far evaded military service with the excuse of caring for a daughter. It has come to my attention that she is now old enough to look after herself, and you are still young enough to fulfill the remainder of your years in our nation's army and your days in the militia. Your time is increased because of your delay to six years and forty-two days. You must report to the nearest base as soon as possible. Yours, Oscar II of Sverige."

…

Erik was, at the moment, pissing into the open, snoring mouth of his captor. The wretch had passed out still holding his bottle of vodka, and probably wouldn't notice the taste of urine on his tongue when he woke with a tremendous headache and an urge to beat something over the head. Still, Erik thought, he should thank me. Even pig slop and feces would be an improvement to his breath. And he might just fall ill, die, and never trouble me again.

"Hello?" A lamp's yellow glare interfered with the cold moonlight that was more to the prisoner's tastes. "Are you- are you still there? Are you well?" A woman, perhaps about forty years of age stepped forward from behind a Gypsy tent. Erik hurriedly refastened his pants. His eyes narrowed in the brightness.

"How can you be so unsure that a man in a cage is well? A man in a cage is most definitely unwell, thank you very much." Mme. Giry squinted past the thick, rusty bars and frowned.

"You have an odd sense of humor for one in such mean estate."

"One must have a sense of humor at all times," the undernourished body replied. "It sustains us who are not so fortunate to live on bread and water." At this, the woman pulled back her cloak to reveal the set of throwing knives she'd stolen from one of the sleeping performers.

"How would you like a feast of even more than such a luxury?"