Prologue

1866

Deep below the stacks of marble pillars and stone bricks which would one day become the site of the Paris Opera House, frantic organ music was playing in the darkness. Its complex melodies overlaid one another, creating an endless tapestry of music that unfurled in the damp air across the misty lake. It was as beautiful as it was effortless, but the only audience to it was the odd rat that scuttled along the moldy stone embankment, twitching its wiry whiskers.

One of the rats ventured further down into the labyrinth, its nimble feet easily avoiding the traps laid to deter visitors. Raising up on its hind legs for a moment, the rat looked around. It sniffed the air quickly, then hurried along on its way. Racing along the slender strip of stone that surrounded the lake, it easily avoided the silky, grasping waters and slipped between the bars of the iron gate which appeared before it.

Beyond the bars was a house, small but somehow entrancing to the tiny creature. Instinct told the rat that there would be food in the house, food which was a precious commodity here in the tomb-like depths of the earth. Without hesitation, the rat found a hole in the meticulously constructed house and entered.

To the rat's sensitive ears, the music was loud…almost irritating, but the notes formed themselves into strange, alluring melodies which drew the rat closer to the source of the music. Food forgotten, the rat made his way into a room where a figure sat at a huge barrel organ, working at his music as if the outside world didn't even exist. The rat moved ever closer, his color-blind eyes taking in a coffin…a canopy…a huge sheet of paper which bore strange shapes on the wall.

All at once, the music stopped as the figure sensed a presence in his home. As the figure turned, it became evident that it was a man. His face looked as if it had been twisted, though not by human hands, and his eyes found the creature easily in the darkness. The man and the rat regarded one another. Having no eye for beauty or for ugliness, the rat did not run away. Instead, it raised up on its hind legs and sniffed the air. The man laughed loudly, his deep voice ringing through the house and out over the lake.

"So, you've found your way into my home, have you?" Reaching down, the man picked up the rat, not feeling the wiry slickness of its fur. "You've ventured further than others have dared. How amusing that even a disgusting creature such as yourself could find beauty in my music." Shaking his head, he looked closer at the rat. "Ah, but who am I to talk of beauty?" For a moment, he fell silent. In that moment, a sound came to his keen ears. An odd sound, that he hadn't heard for many a year.

Dropping the rat onto the floor, he hurried out into the darkness which surrounded his house. As he did, the rat cleaned its whiskers and scurried off to find the food it had come in search of.

The sound was coming from the Rue Scribe, and the man fastened a flowing cape around his shoulders as he quickly made his way across the river. As he approached the Rue Scribe entrance, the sound became louder and louder. Arriving at last, he docked the small boat and departed it to follow the sound. Rounding a corner, he saw it at last. His ears had not deceived him; it was a child, crying.

Face twisting in disgust, the man began to turn away. He had no patience for children, but the baby's lusty cry grated on his nerves. Even if he returned to his home, the sound would follow him. He had to do something about this child.

As he knelt down to pick up the baby, he realized that it was very young indeed…perhaps only a few days old. Its face was still red from the birth, eyes squeezed shut as it wailed. Hesitating for a moment, the man reached down to touch the child, to pick it up and try to comfort it. Having no practice at picking up or holding such a small child, the man struggled to find a way to pick it up before awkwardly settling the red-faced infant into his hands and looking at it. The baby did not recoil, but instead stopped crying at once as the man picked it up. After much shifting, he cradled the child into his strong arms as he had seen women do before. On closer inspection, he saw that the child's skin was nearly transparent, tiny networks of purple veins standing out like lightning through its skin. Opening its eyes, the baby revealed that its eyes were a brilliant blue, though still unfocused. Yes, this was a very young baby. For a single moment the child's eyes seemed to look directly into his, and the man was surprised.

Amused, he wondered who would throw away such a new child. Obviously, someone wouldn't have just left the child unless they didn't want it, and he looked towards the entrance at the Rue Scribe. He could feel without a doubt that this child was unwanted, unloved, just as he was. In his arms the child was already asleep, having tired itself of crying, and the man nodded solemnly before turning back to the boat.

He had made up his mind.

The baby slept.

1881

"Mother? Who is the Phantom of the Opera?" The girl reading the paper looked up at her mother quizzically. The woman was busy sewing the hem of the girl's dress and she looked up at her.

"Darling, you shouldn't read about such things. They'll only frighten you." Going back to her sewing, the woman shook her head. Wherever that girl had learned to read was a mystery to her, but then again, much about the girl was a mystery. The girl continued to read.

"It says he's killed two people at the Opera Populaire. Is he really a ghost?" Not waiting for an answer, she continued to read. She sighed softly. The woman who she knew to be her mother was kind and loving, but sometimes she was irritating.

Of course, she knew the woman wasn't her real mother; many times her mother and father had told her that they were unable to have a child of their own, and that one night they had awoken to find her sitting on their step. According to their tale, she had been wearing a black mourning dress and was holding a piece of paper. On the paper was a short note, written in red ink, stating that the child's name was Angelique and that although she was very intelligent, they could no longer care for her properly. It had been painfully obvious that she was trying not to cry as the woman led her into the house, and she kept turning to glance behind her into the shadows…as if she were looking for someone. She was two years old.

Angelique had grown to love her mother and father dearly, but sometimes she wondered where she had been before she lived with them, before the night they found her on the step. Sometimes she stared for long hours at the piece of paper, pressing it to her face, trying to remember something…anything about who had brought her there, who had left her. And although she often wondered why whoever it was had left her, she knew that they had cared for her because they had brought her to such wonderful people.

The paper was spread out before her, and her blue eyes raced over the words. Phantom of the Opera. Apparently he had been involved in not only the death of a stagehand, but also the disappearance of a lovely diva named Christine Daae. This was interesting to her, and she thought she might like to see an opera someday. But girls her age didn't go to operas, and they certainly didn't ask prying questions about Phantoms.

Folding the paper and placing it beside her father's place at the table, she hummed a soft tune as she went about her chores. Angelique wasn't sure where she'd heard the tune before, but it played over and over in her head as she prepared the breakfast and set it out for her father.

As she poured him a glass of wine, she looked out the window over the city. Surete were crowded all around the Opera Populaire, which just happened to be down the street from her home. Perhaps if she finished her chores early, she could go see what was going on, and ask them a thing or two about this Phantom fellow.

Unfortunately, when she finally made it down the street to see what was going on, all the Surete would tell her was that it was under investigation. Annoyed, Angelique waited until they turned their backs to sneak into the theatre.

The moment she stepped into the theatre, she held her breath. It was even grander than she had first thought it would be. Everywhere she turned her eyes she saw more and more finery than she ever thought possible: velvet, marble, crystal…and gold. Awed, she dropped her head back to look up at the ceiling of the Opera House. Angels danced in rainbow hues around a domed ceiling, their wings seeming to reach across the entire ceiling, offering their protection as they enfolded the theatre and everyone in it.

In the center of the dome was the most magnificent chandelier she had ever seen. It was accented with gold, but what made it a true work of art were the thousands and thousands of perfect crystal beads that were draped luxuriously over the whole of the chandelier. Glass globes placed around the frame contained candles, whose light caught the edges of the beads and created innumerable tiny rainbows inside each bead, and giving them the appearance of being alight with color.

Angelique was struck with wonderment at this sight, and didn't notice the three very anxious men come in the side door of the theatre. However, they noticed her at once.

"You there! What are you doing in here?" The older one pointed at her, and Angelique froze. A younger man with sandy hair smiled at her.

"It's simply a child, gentlemen!"

"She should not be in here, Monsieur de Chagny!" The middle-aged man who stood next to him shook his head firmly. "It doesn't matter if she's an old woman!" The sandy-haired man ignored this and looked towards the girl.

"There's no need for alarm, Mademoiselle. What is your name?" He looked kind enough but he was dressed as finely as an inspector, and Angelique had no intention of going to jail. "I'm not going to hurt you." Deciding that it was probably better not to annoy an inspector, she tried to smile at him.

"It's Angelique. Angelique DuBain." Her voice was soft and shaky, and she cursed herself silently for sounding so afraid.

"Well, Mlle DuBain, it is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Raoul de Chagny, and I am quite pleased to see that someone isn't afraid to come in this theatre." M. de Chagny tossed a pointed glance at the other two men. Angelique giggled nervously as the men looked offended. The older one was puffing up like an angry cat.

"Now, really, Monsieur!"

"Do you like the opera, Mlle DuBain?" Once again he was ignoring the men, and Angelique nodded with a smile. This young man smelled quite nice.

"I have never seen an opera, Monsieur, but I believe that I would like to see one someday." Angelique had decided that she liked this man, and hoped that he wouldn't stop talking to her. The other two men were looking very cross, and she didn't want to be left alone with them.

"Well, I'm sure you shall see one soon. But for now, we must take care of some business to insure that there will be an opera for you to see. Will you excuse us, Mademoiselle?" M. de Chagny smiled again at her, and Angelique noticed that he had very white teeth. She nodded.

"Of course, Messieurs. I didn't mean to keep you!" Hurrying towards the doors, she looked back at the three men. "Au revoir, Monsieur de Chagny!"

"Au revoir, Mademoiselle DuBain." Raoul smiled as she left, then turned back to the two men. "Was it really necessary for you to be so rude to the girl?"

"We have more important things to attend to than pandering to some brat who wanders in here," the older man grumbled, and M. de Chagny followed them towards the theatre office.

The moment they were gone, a small dark head appeared once again in the doorway. Angelique looked up at the ceiling for one last glimpse of the magnificent chandelier. As she did, a chill went up her spine. Without hesitation, she ducked back out the door and hurried past the Surete to her house.

For a moment, it had felt like someone was watching her.