Quite probably it was all thanks to my father, for there was no possibility of it being my doing. I was by no means completely unknown by the public; nevertheless, the memory of my father was still quite alive among the people. My excellent father, who – being a man of great wealth and a great heart – did whatever he could to support all those who needed help. Not once and not twice had he discovered some exceptional talent and paid for their tuition, making sure the abilities were not lost, that they would flourish and finally take the one in need out of their poverty.

I was not one of my father's discoveries. However, as his daughter I had been provided for everything; never had I ever lacked anything; and at last, it had turned out that my hard work could make me an easily recognizable person in society. I did not believe that my father had ever wanted me to become what I had become; he had greater plans for me. But I had not been made for science, biology, or mathematics. What I had in my heart and soul was music; and even though I had never considered myself exceedingly talented, I had been working hard. And so, after years and years of studying, exercising, reading and experimenting, I was there, with a reputation of a rising star.

However, I was not a star to ever rise. Yet, it was something that I did not want anyone to know. For there are certain issues which cannot be overcome even having both fame and fortune. My late father, as he had died five years prior, had left me quite a share of what he had owned. Of course, I did not inherit all of his wealth, which had always been great, nevertheless, it was enough for me to find a place to live and somehow make ends meet until I could truly make my own money. So now, at the age of almost thirty, I was making more money than I had ever believed myself able, but as a pronounced spinster who was certain to die sooner than later.

My excellent father had died of consumption; and now, I was probably in the same state, though none of the doctors – those well-known, and those whose methods were at least uncommon – had ever decided what it was. I blessed the fact my father had not lived long enough to see me in this state. Though, perhaps, I should be thankful I was not in a bad state yet. Those whom I met on my way, only thought I had been overexerting myself; that I was fatigued, that the shadows underneath my eyes, my paleness, my frail posture, were all a sign of insomnia; and I did whatever I could not to let them hear me cough or notice the blood on the handkerchief.

And now, in this state, I was invited to the Palais Garnier, where the Opéra Populaire, after a few-year pause caused by that fatal incident with the chandelier, was once again gathering for the new productions. How it had happened that one of my works had been chosen, I could only imagine; as I mentioned before, I believe that it was not my own doing; that it was the memory of my father that had convinced the owners to take the risk of premiering my spectacles instead of playing some classic opera. For certain, the latter would ensure a greater audience; but, as the owners claimed, my music would bring a breath of freshness into the walls.

"And we certainly do need a breath of freshness, Mademoiselle Bernier," Monsieur André put an emphasis on the word freshness. Apparently, despite the fact the Palais Garnier was not old at all, they wanted to cut off from the chandelier incident, and from what had happened before. "Your music is generally liked; the Parisian audience is quite fond of your works."

I was not in the power of denying. Whereas I did know there was still lots of work before me, I disapproved of any false modesty. Yes, I was aware of the fact Paris liked me and my music, and I could not negate what was true. Nevertheless, my eyes were open to all the threats such a responsibility brought: it had to be fresh and new; and yet, it had to be traditional enough for the audience not to be appalled and disgusted. It was an honour, and if my music would cause people to take umbrage, my career, my dreams, my everything would be lost forever.

"I am flattered– delighted– I shall do whatever I can to please," I promised.

You may think me strange; though, despite my being quite recognisable in society, I had never truly learnt how to mix in; usually, I would be stuck in my study, composing, writing, deciding which version of the same staff was better; and that meant I ended up not adapted to playing the role of a notable composer when I left my den.

"Do not fret, my child," added André, who seemed truly inclined to like me, though he hardly knew me at all, "we all do believe that if anyone could do that, it would be you. You emerged out of nothingness; therefore, do you really think there is anyone more suitable to awaken this place, the one that had been proclaimed doomed and done for?"

I replied with a smile, once more reassuring him that I was pleased, and soon, we proceeded to sign the agreement. That part of the meeting was the most demanding for me; I felt another coughing fit approaching, and I certainly could not allow Mr André or Mr Firmin to see me coughing up blood. They risked – they invested lots of money in me; with me, in such a state the risk was even greater, for there was quite a possibility of me not living long enough to see the production on the stage.

However, some mysterious miracle saved me, calling the two owners out of the study. And although I was just as terrified as ever as I saw the droplets of blood on the white linen, I tried to steady my trembling hands as I stuffed the handkerchief into my pocketbook. No one could know, especially the owners. Not after the moment I had seen the warmth and hope in Mr André's eyes. No; I should do whatever I could to at least see the premiere; and afterwards, come what may.