Dedicated to ipromiseimnotasimp11

     I knew there would eventually come a time where I would be forced to face my grief, but for now, I was ready to put this waking nightmare behind me. And so, I took the doctor's hand, grateful for his unwavering kindness, even if I wished it had not taken the death of my father to bring us closer together. As we made our way down the grand staircase, I noticed the house was unusually quiet.

     Doctor Francois seemed to realize this as well, for he placed a finger to his lips and gestured for me to wait silently at the top of the stairs. He ventured into the foyer, then turned towards the library, taking care to soften his footsteps against the marble floor as he disappeared down the hall. Sweat began to bead on my forehead as seconds took an eternity to pass, those seconds eventually forming minutes at an agonizingly slow rate.

     As I stood at the base of the staircase, no one passed by, and the house was hushed in anticipation of something. What that was, I did not know. The thought of waiting any longer now unbearable, I tucked my father's music binder into the crook of my arm and tip-toed towards the library. Rather than going through the main entrance, I stepped into my father's music room, which was adjacent to the library.

     Pressing one ear against the thick wooden doors that connected the two spaces, I heard my stepmother's cold voice, and a chill crept down my spine.

     "I will only ask once more, Doctor," she said, her tone hostile. "Where is the little wench?"

     I heard my new guardian sigh, "As I have already told you, Madame, Miss Daaé needed some time to herself, so I left her to rest in her room. You must understand, this has been a traumatic day for the young mademoiselle."

     My stepmother sniffed, "I shall be the judge of that. Pierre, attend to the girl and see if she is truly in need of a moment alone, as Doctor Francois claims."

     There was silence, then quiet footsteps as Pierre left to make for my room. My heart pounded, and I briefly considered making a mad dash for my bedroom, but I knew I would not make it in time. And so, I was forced to wait, each moment that passed causing my nervous heart to beat faster and my frayed nerves to stand on end. When Pierre returned after several moments to confirm that I was not in my bedroom, as Madame Giudicelli had already suspected, a dangerous silence hung over the room.

     I heard my stepmother heave a dramatic sigh, and my breath caught in my throat when the unmistakable click of a revolver's hammer being cocked cut through the silence. Before I could truly process what was about to happen, a single gunshot thundered through the library, followed by the soft thud of a body hitting the floor. Without thinking of the consequences I might face, I burst through the doors.

     My eyes widened when my gaze landed upon the crumpled figure of my guardian, who was sprawled face down on the carpet, the blood spreading across the back of his white dress shirt as irreversible as the effects of a scarlet letter.

     "No!" I screamed, shrugging out of Pierre's grip when he grabbed my arm and kneeling beside the man who had brought me into this world, the same man who had once consoled my father after my mother's death, only to console me fifteen years later after my father's own death.

     "Gustave Daaé is dead, and soon, his only daughter—Christine Daaé—will succumb to the same grim fate...or so all of France will believe," Isabella Giudicelli stated, and my heart hardened as I turned to face her, the tears I had once shed out of grief now burning my skin as they fell in hatred. "Tonight, rumors of a terrible fire will spread across Paris, and soon, the country. Those rumors will quickly become fact as people visit the manor in hopes of disproving such horrible gossip, but they will find only the charred and ashen remains of this once great home. All of France will go into mourning as they come to terms with the loss of the Palais Garnier's patron, a famous musician and loving father who was unable to save his young daughter from the same flames that killed him."

     She let her words settle over those gathered in the library, which included members of the household staff and myself. Numb as I was to the events that had taken place that day, I was unable to fear for my life as one might have while listening to their stepmother explain the cause of their death.

     Once Madame Giudicelli was certain she had our attention, she continued, "But I am not a heartless woman, and because I could not bear the guilt of having the death of an innocent child on my hands—I am a mother, after all—the tragic rumor of Christine Daaé's death will be just that: Speculation. Besides, with the death of dear Gustave, the Palais Garnier is now in my possession, and I am not getting any younger, so I will need someone to help me run the opera house. After all, if a theatre as prestigious as the one I now own is to keep its grandeur, it will need to be cleaned daily, all seventeen floors scrubbed top-to-bottom and all two thousand seats dusted."

     "You're wrong," I quietly replied, unfailing in my resolve and not backing down even as my stepmother loomed over me. "The opera house belongs to me."

     Reaching into the leather binder, I produced the title to the Palais Garnier that bore my name. I suppressed a smile of satisfaction when my stepmother's eyes widened, though they quickly narrowed and she snatched both the deed and binder from my hands.

     "This piece of paper means nothing if it is incinerated in the same fire that killed its owner," she snarled, ripping the certificate in half and throwing the binder into the fireplace.

     I practically shoved my stepmother aside as I tried to save my father's music, as well as the letters that we had sent one another, only to gasp in pain when the fire brushed against my skin. I quickly moved my hands away and watched in silent despair as the last remnants of my father were destroyed. When Madame Giudicelli's painfully tight grasp clamped around my wrist, I fought against her, my resistance earning me a sharp, back-handed slap across the face. Even as my knees buckled, her grip tightened, ensuring that I remained on my feet.

     "You ungrateful wretch, I am offering you the chance to live—In the finest opera house in Paris, no less—and you fight me every step of the way," she growled before shoving me toward Pierre, who looked at me with remorseful eyes as he held my arm. "Anyone who wishes to back out of this ruse and keep their hands clean may do so. But just know, you will suffer the same fate as the Daaé's and Maurice Francois—"

     She kicked the doctor's stiffening body so he was facing upwards, and my stomach knotted at the sight of his ghostly-white face, his unblinking eyes staring off into a world free of pain and sorrow, one I desperately wished to join.

     "—who tragically died during a heroic attempt to save young Christine from her dark fate," my stepmother finished, and not one member of the staff I had grown up with as a child spoke up to refute Madame Giudicelli's scheme. "Very well, Pierre, escort Miss Daaé to the carriage waiting outside. I will join you in a moment. As for the rest of you, you will find your own transportation and meet me at the Opéra de Paris. If you suddenly have a change of heart and decide to start telling others of what actually transpired here, it will not be the gendarme who tracks you down for conspiracy, though you will wish it was."

     Without another word, she struck a match and the deed to the Palais Garnier quickly caught fire, the flames spreading to the first set of leather-bound books when she placed it on the nearest shelf.

     "Gather your belongings, but do so quickly," she said, pouring an entire bottle of brandy into the hearth before tossing the glass aside. "Any possessions left behind will be lost with the manor, and I will not be held responsible for any collateral damage caused by the fire...material or otherwise."

     As Pierre led me towards the black carriage that waited in the gravel driveway, I tried to speak, but words continued to elude me. I could only watch with wide eyes as the fire, which possessed as many forked tongues as the Lernaean Hydra, consumed the library and the many treasures it contained. As it rapidly spread into the hall, the household staff wisely chose to leave their possessions behind and scrambled toward the front door, jumping through windows where openings were available.

     Without realizing I had stopped, I stood frozen on the veranda, hypnotized by the fire's many tendrils. When Pierre tugged on my arm and urged me to continue on, I did as he asked, trying not to think about the lovingly worn violin that belonged to my father, which had always been stored in the music room. I pushed such thoughts from my mind and urged my legs to move faster, only to halt once more when I heard an unearthly moan that shook the ground beneath me, and I turned to find that half of the house I adored – the house where my father and I shared so many wonderful memories, memories filled with music and laughter – had collapsed in on itself.

     When Pierre gently tugged on my arm, my shoulders deflated and I followed him in defeat, climbing into the carriage when he opened the door for me.

     "I am sure any apology I could offer will mean nothing to you, but for what it may be worth, I am truly sorry, Miss Daaé," the steward quietly said from where he stood near the door. "I have a family to provide for, and I certainly cannot leave my wife and two children without their father."

     He winced at his choice of words, then sighed and gently closed the door before climbing onto the driver's bench at the front of the carriage, the horses pawing at the ground as they anxiously waited for the command to move. Moments later, the door opened once more and Madame Giudicelli sat beside me, the carriage setting off once my stepmother had secured the inner latch.

     For the first twenty-four hours of our three day trip, I drifted in and out of a fitful sleep poisoned by nightmares, the reanimated bodies of my father and Doctor Francois plaguing my dreams as they pursued me through a burning mansion. I woke with a start on the second day as the carriage stopped in a small village to replenish our provisions, my thin frame pale and trembling as I tried to forget the particularly frightening visions that had just forced me from sleep.

     After changing into a dark blue dress with black trim, I stored my soiled dress in the smaller of my three trunks, my brow furrowing when something fell from the pocket of the peach-colored gown. Bending down, my fingers closed around the last letter my father had attempted to send me. I quickly concealed the letter in my reticule; I could not bring myself to read it, not yet, but I knew I would eventually find comfort in my father's graceful handwriting.

     Rejoining my stepmother in the carriage, I remained silent for some time, then finally worked up the courage to ask, "Why spare my life? Why not let me perish in the fire? What service could I possibly provide, what worth do I possess, that would merit the creation of a lie to fool an entire country?"

     "You have lived comfortably your entire life, child. Your foolish father spoiled you, and you have wanted for nothing," my stepmother said. "Now, you will learn what it means to work for a living, and the prima donna of the Palais Garnier is currently in need of an assistant...or, more accurately, a lady's maid."

     "I am only fifteen!" I shouted indignantly. "And even if I had wanted to work, it would not have been possible, for you sent me to boarding school. If I had known of your wishes, I would have happily joined one of the local theatres as a chorus girl. So why all this secrecy? Why fake my death in the first place when I could offer the same benefits under my own name?"

     My stepmother scoffed, "Because, stupid girl, you are well known by the opera house and its community. Many have heard you sing, as have I, and your talent would compromise my daughter's own career. I have worked my entire life so Carlotta may prosper, but she is lazy and arrogant. Why do you think I married your father in the first place? His ties to the Palais Garnier would allow my daughter to thrive without forcing her to work her way to the top. But then your father had to go and die an untimely death due to God knows what illness, and if anyone should discover that you survived, theatres across all of France will clamor for your angelic voice, and all of my struggle will have been for nothing."

     I could only imagine the pallor of my skin and the shocked expression on my face as I searched for the words needed to respond.

     After several moments, I managed, "Does...does Carlotta know?"

     Madame Giudicelli laughed, "Do you really think I would tell my gossiping daughter? She would jeopardize my entire plan! Our little secret would slip from her lips after the consumption of one spirit in the company of her friends, who would then—without a doubt—go and tell their friends. No, she is not aware of what has happened."

     "And...and when we arrive at the Garnier? Won't she recognize me?" I questioned, and my stepmother sighed impatiently.

     "I sent Carlotta away to the opera house when she was eleven years old," she replied. "This being the case, she knows of your existence, but not of your appearance, and so, she will not recognize you."

     "And what of the others? Surely, someone at the opera house will know who I am," I said.

     "You ask a lot of questions, girl," Isabella muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I highly doubt that anyone at the Garnier will recognize you. Nonetheless, I believe in erring on the side of caution, and for now, straightening your unruly hair should prove to be a sufficient disguise...If I am not mistaken, your mother's name was Charlotte, yes?"

     Surprised by her abrupt question, I stammered, "I...Yes. My father always said I was the mirror image of my mother, which is why he called me 'Little Lottie.'"

     My stepmother hummed, "Hmm...Very well. From this point on, you will answer to the name Charlotte Laurent, and you shall address me as 'Madame'. Anyone who cares to ask will learn that you are an orphan I found begging on the side of the road. Out of the kindness of my heart, I offered you a position as my daughter's maid and provided you with room and board at the opera house."

     Nodding, I resigned myself to a bleak future void of love and happiness, knowing I should feel something – anything – but there was only the weighted emptiness that had settled in my heart. That night, we briefly stopped at a roadside inn to straighten my hair, a task that grew increasingly frustrating for my stepmother and progressively more painful for me. My auburn ringlets refused to obey the brush's command, and Madame Giudicelli eventually decided to pull my hair into a tight bun.

     She then instructed me to keep my hair in its current style until we could find a more permanent way to straighten it. After changing into the modest black dress often worn by women of the lower class, I spent the next twelve hours in a dreamless sleep, grateful for the absence of my previous night terrors. I woke when the gentle rocking of the carriage stopped and slowly sat up, blinking the sleep from my eyes and gasping when my gaze fell upon a building so splendid it took my breath away: The Palais Garnier.

     My father had shown me pictures of the famous opera house, but those grainy, black-and-white photos did not do justice to the theatre's opulence. Spanning over five hundred feet, the Palais Garnier featured seventeen stories – five of which were dedicated to theatre boxes that accommodated the wealthiest, most elite members of European nobility – could host an audience of two thousand.

     Construction on the opera house had finished five years earlier, and busts of famous musicians created by artists Chabaud and Évrard could be found tucked into alcoves above the exterior archways, their gilded bronze figures glinting in the sunlight. Golden statues – Harmony and Poetry personified – were stationed atop the Palais Garnier, standing on either corner at the front of the opera house and acting as silent sentinels while two Pegasi overlooked the back of the theatre.

     A statue of Apollo himself loomed at the top-most point of the Paris Opéra House, proudly poised at the center of the dome and triumphantly hoisting his golden lyre into the air.

     The wonder that lifted my spirit was quickly doused by my stepmother's voice, "The fifteenth and sixteenth floors have been converted into two separate living spaces: One for myself, and one for Carlotta, respectively. Once you have transferred our luggage to the apartments, I will show you to your private quarters. Now, get on with it. Indolence will not be tolerated."

     I winced and lightly touched my cheek, remembering the dull ache that had lasted long after the mark of my stepmother's hand faded from my skin.

     "Yes, Madame," I whispered, bowing my head in submission as I moved to the back of the carriage.

     After testing the weight of our luggage, I started with two of the lighter trunks belonging to my stepmother, taking one in each hand and silently proceeding to the Palais Garnier's front steps.

     Madame Giudicelli arched an eyebrow, "And just where do you think you are going? The servants' entrance is located at the back of the building. What would the French nobility think if they saw a maid walking amongst the likes of distinguished men and women, such as myself. Why, you wouldn't want to embarrass me, would you?"

     My cheeks flushed and I rapidly blinked back tears, "No, Madame, of course not."

     My stepmother smiled coldly, dismissing me with a wave of her hand, "Very well, then. Off with you."

     I quickly turned on my heel and marched around the side of the opera house, briefly stopping to dry the tears I had wished to hide from Isabella. Unfortunately, as I stepped through the servants' entrance and made my way up a wrought iron spiral staircase, I lost all control and broke down. The world around me blurred, and though I knew I should have stopped to clear my vision, I pushed on. In my distraction, I collided with the one person in the entire opera house who would be able to recognize me for who I truly was:

     The Vicomte de Chagny.