Author's note: This story is based on the assumption that the Opera House never burned or was destroyed in anyway. The only thing missing is that marvelous chandelier.
Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera in any shape or form. I give full credit to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber and Charles Hart.
Wandering child,
So lost, so helpless
Yearning for my guidance...
Katrina had come this far. She could not possibly think of turning back now. She was here, at the famous Opéra Populaire in Paris. Her delicate ballet shoes danced impatiently in her shaking hand, waiting to be worn again. It was rather cold out, so she might as well go inside at the very least. She picked up her only bag of clothes and necessities. Her parents had never approved of her dancing. They thought the only skills she should have were cooking and cleaning for a nice, wealthy German husband. So, as punishment for leaving, they gave away her best clothes and anything fancy or expensive that she owned. German women were meant to give birth and give all time and loyalty to their husbands, not to go dancing off with thespians, divas, and sodomites.
But Katrina had left Germany behind her. She had not spent four years teaching herself French for nothing. It also had proven difficult to even get from France to Germany, because of the war that had just ended. France was not exactly keen on just letting a bunch of Germans come and make homes here. Then again, France had just lost a great amount of territory to Germany, and were not exactly in the position to turn away incoming Germans either.
However, the good thing about being in the world of Opera was that no one cared where your roots were, as long as you were disciplined in your art. Katrina took a deep breath, and marched into the opera house.
Many pretty girls were in line to audition for dancing roles. Previous girls taught by Madame Giry had been scared off for good by the infamous Phantom. He was a monster, a creature in the night that hung his victims and made demands of exclusive box seats and large sums of money. Katrina did not believe in such tall tails.
Apparently, some of her fellow potentials did. She listened to the curious and also fearful whispers of the girls.
"I hear he entices young girls into his chambers, and then while they are sleeping, he cuts open their chest and collects their hearts."
"I have been told he has no face, only a patch of ghastly flesh."
"Well I heard if you are a good singer, he'll teach you and improve your voice. But only if you have something to offer, if you know what I mean."
Laughter, then exclamations of "Oh do not talk so vulgarly" and, "Nonsense!"
Katrina just shook her head and bent down to stretch.
The line moved fast. Many girls came out crying. Very few looked like they had any confidence left. Katrina became more and more nervous. Soon, it was her turn.
She entered the room where three people sat at a long table. The only woman that was present Katrina figured was the choreographer, Madame Giry. From the two men she guessed one was the conductor and one was the pianist.
"How old are you?" Madame Giry practically lashed out at Katrina.
Startled, Katrina managed to squeak out, "Nineteen."
"Have you had any previous formal training?" She had not even bothered to ask her name.
"Yes, with Madame Wilmund for ten years." This was a lie. Katrina had been trained by her best friend Molly for six years. She taught Katrina whatever she learned from ballet lessons everyday. Molly had been a prized pupil of Madame Wilmund, until a dreadful accident happened where she had broken both her legs. The doctor had informed her she would never dance again. Katrina did not think though that being trained by one's friend counted as formal training. Katrina had found that the loss of her dear friend's ability to dance with such elegance had driven her even more to become a magnificent and famous ballerina.
"Did you practice and perfect the required piece?" Madame Giry's sharp voice brought her back to the present.
"Yes," she replied weakly, now unsure if she really had gotten it right.
"Well then, we shall now see." She nodded to the younger man sitting next to her. He rose and sat at the piano. "Begin," she instructed.
Katrina rose on her toes into her first position, and then she was off. She had been sitting on that train for too long. The flying feeling was back as she twirled and sprang off the floor. She allowed her body to completely surrender itself to the music but managed to keep her composure and determination. This was for Molly, she thought. She performed a strong Jeté en avant; a leap that possibly defied gravity. That was how it felt to her. For most girls it was a relief to touch the ground after such a feat, but for Katrina, a disappointment. As her legs began to sore and her arms tired from the constant raising and change in positions, the song was near its end. She did several slow and complicated turns on her toes and then ended in a simple arabesque. Molly had told her to end with simplicity showed more discipline than anything flashy or seemingly wondrous. She put her leg down several seconds after the final chord.
The man who could be the conductor stood up immediately and clapped his hands wildly. "Brava! Brava! That was completely wonderful my dear! Simply extra-" Madame Giry placed a hand on his arm. She walked from behind the table and straight up to Katrina. She gulped. The older woman bent forward and said quietly, "Breakfast is at six every morning. Your room will be shown to you by my daughter, Meg Giry." She beckoned in a petite blond from the other room. "Do not disappoint me my dear."
Katrina was at an utter loss for words. She nodded in hopes that her expression showed enough gratitude. She did an odd form of a curtsy, and followed Meg, nearly stumbling over her own feet.
"At least she dances far better than she walks," she heard the pianist say.
Meg lead Katrina up a wooden staircase that was strewn with costumes and many paint stains. Various undergarments were hanging to dry on a line above her. She heard screeches and giggles, arguing and singing.
"You are the third one she has picked today you know," Meg informed her. "She will most likely pick one more and that will be it."
Katrina was astounded. There had been at least two hundred girls there altogether. Seventy of them had been behind her. How could Madame go through so many and know for sure right after they danced if they were in or not. Katrina would have looked at all of them and then decided.
"This is your room," Meg opened the door to what looked like used to be a storage room. It was dusty and at the very top of the opera house, so it definitely used to be an attic. The walls had been painted lazily. You could see where some one started and ended a brush stroke. The room had been done an ugly pinkish brown. But what made Katrina wrinkle her nose was the spider webs in every corner.
"It's not much, but you'll get used to it. And you don't have to share it with anybody." Meg added.
That's somewhat of a positive side, she thought. At least I do not have to share that small bed or that dinky dresser...
That's when she realized she had forgotten her clothes. "My bag! I have to go and get it!" She turned around to dash off to the main hall. Katrina nearly tripped on the stairs. "What-?" She turned around. Her bag was right there.
"Someone must have brought it for you," Meg said mysteriously.
"Yes, but who?" Katrina picked up the small case and went back into the room.
"Let's hope you never find out," Meg left in a rather hurried manner to return to her mother.
Katrina found Meg's words rather odd, but found it even more puzzling that her bag had made it up here, and certainly not on its own. She sat it on the bed and clicked it open. A piece of parchment that had not been there before lay folded on top of her things.
She opened it carefully. In intricate writing it said: Welcome to my opera house - O.G.