Author's Preliminary Apologies:

I confess that rather than beginning with a note, I'd just as soon have my dear readers jump into the story and gather specifics as they go. However, with so many strong opinions on which Phantom of the Opera is to be preferred as far as the characters' physical appearances, personalities, and pattern of events, I feel it only right to give fair warning on that score.

This is not entirely faithful to either the book or film, but a mesh of both, and I hope I've blended them well enough to prevent inconsistencies that may be jarring.

The inspiration itself was derived from the 2004 musical film, and devious Christine I envision much as Miss Rossum portrayed her therein. Erik's physique is taken largely from Leroux's novel, as are many of the details I've chosen for the setting and back story. Raoul is something of a mystery. You may imagine him as handsome or ridiculous as you like. I tend to see him as rather dashing, but that's my own folly. The timeline moves exactly how I wish it to in order to generate a greater outpouring of devious script.

Last and deepest apologies are for s. du jour who has been a faithful follower of this particular work, and has been made to suffer many rewrites and long silences without a proper ending. You are a darling, and I hope I do you proud!

Chapter One: Wandering Child

Daddy Daae did not die a poor violinist as everyone believes. Quite the contrary, he left me to inherit a comfortable fortune that could keep a less ambitious woman easily contented for the rest of her trivial life. Indeed, this is how Daddy Daae always preferred us to live: simply, quietly, poorly. He was very proud of his little girl's voice, but was too humble in mind to use any of his wealth towards furthering her singing career.

When my father left this earthly life, I was sent to live with a fat, tidy woman who was all kindness and no brains. I thought of hiring a master tutor for myself, and continuing on to be the greatest, most celebrated soprano that this country has ever heard. I certainly have the God-given talent to do just that. However, I needed time to think. No one knows how much wealth was left to me. In fact, it's assumed I have nothing at all. All the dealings I had with lawyers and money handlers were handled in private, with the utmost discretion. The general consensus is that I don't speak of money, as I have no money to speak of. This worked to my advantage when pity compelled Mme. Valerius to let me stay as a guest in her house for nothing.

As I mulled over my situation, I pretended to be so struck by Daddy Daae's death that I could no longer bear the thought of singing without his guiding hand. This gave me the chance to collect my thoughts and keep nosy old women out of my business. No one is obnoxious enough to distress a young orphan so melancholy and prone to fits of sighing.

I wanted to make singing my profession. I've always wanted to sing. Nothing could be more fulfilling than standing on a lighted stage in the most renowned opera house in all of France, keeping thousands of patrons enthralled by the spell of the perfectly devastating, crystalline richness of my entrancing voice. What could instill such a feeling of power? Nothing else in the wide world.

Or so I thought before Mme. Cauchon came to call.

For the first forty minutes of her visit, she rattled away all the details of petty people, their shoes, their spouses, and their scandals. I kept to my place in the corner, demurely occupying myself in decorative stitchery. It's easy to keep up a façade of industry as long as one imagines each stab of the needle to be embedding itself by your "delicate" hand into the eyes of the gossiping sow sitting across the room. My interest was piqued when the troubles of M. Lefevre, manager of the Opera Populaire were made known.

Apparently, he was being plagued by some trickster that caused a few headaches in their latest production when a certain salary wasn't paid. Nothing I concerned my whirring little thoughts over for long. The important thing was the opera house. To sing inside it would be a triumph, but to own the Opera Populaire! I took a care not to dwell on the thought in the Madame's' company for fear that my beating heart would sound some kind of alarm. They mustn't know what thrills are sent quivering over my frame at the prospect of such a masculine ambition. I know I have the acumen to accomplish anything. Why set my sights on something countless women have already done before me? I will not stop at owning the stage, but the whole of the opera house, down to the last chandelier crystal.

However, I had no conceivable way of attaining my goal. I have money, it is true, but I barely have enough to purchase a little theatre, let alone the Populaire. And there is the upkeep to consider. An opera house requires a hundred and more details to be sorted each day; all of which require francs in abundance. To live as the grand lady I could be would waste my growing assets and stifle my dream before the fruits of my plotting could ripen.

The curse of my gender is another setback. No one is going to take a woman seriously who wants to own an opera house of such prestigious renown. I need a man to charm into my designs. A man with a titled position in society. A man with status, and money.

Opportunity came when my temporary guardian suggested I continue cultivating my vocal talent under the instructors at the Populaire. A little reflecting showed this to be the best course of action. I accepted with the proper hesitation for someone still suffering inside over the loss of her father, and was soon installed into the world of performers and directors, all of whose jobs will be mine to purchase and trade when I am the owner of this establishment.

Everything is working exactly as I anticipated.

I sing just well enough to remain a faceless chorus girl, and in the company's mind I strive for no better. I receive no censure from Mme. Giry for less than exemplary dancing, nor am I privy to the praise and commendation of a lead soprano. No one is aware of my incredible gift. The only one who could have told my secret is resting in his tomb with a collection of stone angels guarding his sleep.

Living in the dormitories with the other ballet girls allows me to live cheaply. My lawyer, ironically named Marcel Lamont, meets with me secretly whenever my monetary balances require discussion. I'm certain he believes there's reason to kindle hope for a relationship of a less businesslike nature, but the lad will continue to deceive himself as long as he serves a purpose. There is a constant flow of titled men who come to the opera, paying homage to the fine arts, and giving me no limit to my choices for unwitting benefactor. So far there are no outstanding prospects on that front, but my expectations are high.

I've determined to make an account of all the happenings concerning my opera house in case an alteration in plans is necessary. This diary will allow me to look back and be sure nothing slips past my notice. Lefevre must be watched. Carlotta, the leading diva soprano will be brought to her place in time. Sweet little Meg, who thinks me the dearest, most innocent child in this deceptive circle will someday have the position she deserves and her mother has worked so hard for.

Yes, I call it my opera house. For although I play the part of a wandering child, grieving in silence for a deceased father, I shall one day be the power and mind behind all the silly puppets I live among.

Mme. Giry is tapping her cane for the lights to be extinguished. I must remain the submissive child and obey at once.