Chapter One: The Audition

I held my breath as Gabriel Mercier, casting manager of the famed and fantastic Palais Garnier, looked me over with his eagle-eye, from the stitching in my shoes, to the braid of my hair. 'Your French is better than that of our former Prima Donnas.'

'I have lived in France, mostly in the Southern Provinces, for some years now.'

'You are English?' he suddenly looked directly into my eyes.

'Irish, monsieur.'

There was a moment of silence, during which I steeled my nerves and forced myself to stand elegantly still. 'We are not looking for a contralto, Mlle. Avalbane.'

'I know. But you haven't yet heard me sing. I could very easily fill in for a male tenor, and I have in the past. I hear there were some misfortunes with your former star, a M. Fonta?'

'Yes.' Mercier crossed himself. 'You have sung male roles then, before?'

'Yes, several. The latest I have sung was that of Beowulf.'

He blinked at last. 'A taxing role. Very well, I will hear you sing.' I very nearly opened my mouth then to allow the notes of come-what-may fall from my lips, but he held up a hand. 'Not today, of course. You have been speaking for hours, and you have been in the city amongst the smog and pollution. You will sing tomorrow. You have a place to stay in Paris?'

'No, monsieur.'

'You may stay in the Palais, in the dancer's quarters.'

'Thank you, monsieur.' I nearly bowed before recalling myself, and dipping into a curtsey.

'Meg Giry will show you the way.' Mercier opened the door to the antechamber. 'Marguerite,' he called, and a young girl., slender and dark-complexioned, perhaps seventeen to nineteen years of age stepped forward. 'Show Mlle. Avalbane to the dancer's quarters. She will take Christine's old loft.' the girl dipped and motioned to me with a graceful movement of her arm.

'This way, mademoiselle.' I hefted my carpetbag and followed her into the hall. 'So,' she began, once we were out of earshot of the office, 'what brings you to the Palais Garnier?'

'I need a job. And I know you need singers.'

'That we do,' sighed Marguerite. 'Since Christine Daaé ran away with M. le Vicomte, now the Comte de Chagny, and then Carolus disappeared...'

'I've heard. The scandal and romance are all over the papers, though I hear this alleged Phantom is deceased?'

'Yes. Yes, he is.' she lowered her wide, ingenuous black eyes.

'You sound almost sorry for it.'

'Well...he could be a nuisance when he took it in his head to be, and he took it into his head nearly all the time, frightening us like that.'

I couldn't help the wolfish grin that lifted a corner of my lips. 'I am nearly sorry I was not here before the famous kidnapping. I have some experience in ghosts, myself, and in debunking them for the frauds that they are.'

'Oh, is that so? You must have had a very colourful life, then. Are you not British?'

'My parents were Irish, but the first time I saw their homeland was at the age of eleven. I was born in Egypt, and travelled in Italy, Spain, Portugal, Greece, India, and recently, that is, for the past two years, I have lived in Southern France.'

'That must have been quite the traveling circus.' she joked.

I smiled thinly. 'Yes, mademoiselle, it was.'

'Well, here we are.' Marguerite opened a door, and led me into a large dormitory. There were some fifteen beds lined up, each made neatly, with white coverlets and blue pillowslips. Various bits of clothing and half-full washbasins cluttered with makeup revealed that it was nothing if not a women's habitation. There was a bed in the far corner of the room, and Marguerite pointed to it. 'That is yours, now.'

'Thank you, mademoiselle.'

'Call me Meg.' she smiled. 'Everyone does.'

'Call me Fallon.' I extended my hand, and she shook it warmly. I turned from her, and let my bag fall on the mattress appointed to me as she left the room. Tugging my watch from my jacket pocket, I glanced at it. Five forty-two. Not quite early, but not quite late. I determined to use the time to unpack and settle in. However, I did not wish to appear presumptuous, or as though I expected a more permanent arrangement, even if I did, so instead of taking out my things and folding them on the headboard of my bed, I only retrieved a music notation book from my bag. There was a stub of pencil habitually stuck into my hair, and, reaching back, I slipped it out and made myself comfortable on the bed. Flipping open the book, I scanned the few pages that were scribbled on with words and notes—the gipsy songs of my childhood days. At that moment, I would have given ten years of my life for a guitar.

It would be time for supper soon, and I fully intended to leave to opera house in search of sustenance, but I wanted to write something. It had been months since I had last written anything, even a dancing song to perform on the streets to attract the coins of passers-by. As I struggled to form music-notes in my head and concrete them on the page, Meg returned.

'Are you going out for supper tonight? I am afraid my mother and I have been invited to the house of friends, or I would offer to accompany you to one of my favourite taverns.'

'Think nothing of it, mademoiselle.'

'Meg.'

'I'll be fine. I have been in Paris some times before, and have never lacked for anything.'

'Have you money enough for supper?'

'Yes.' I still had two louis d'or left over from my previous employment, as well as a pocketful of small change.

'Very well. I must go now, but the doors lock at midnight, so be certain that you are not left without.'

'I do not make a habit of late nights before an audition.'

'Oh, but I can hear in your speech that you've a lovely voice.'

'A heroine must needs be a soprano. I'm afraid I've had better luck auditioning for male roles, as a tenor. That is what I have done in the past.'

Meg giggled. 'Imagine that! A female hero. I can quite nearly picture you in a cravat and coat, with a crossbow under your arm, singing William Tell in rich tenor tones, without the Palais even knowing you were a woman!'

'Yes. That is an amusing thought.'

'Well, I must be going. Feel free to roam the opera house. All the dancers are out for the evening, so it will be empty. If you'd prefer...'

'I will be fine, thank you.' I did not wish to be rude, but the girl could positively not stop talking.

'Goodbye, then.' she smiled charmingly and flounced out of the room.

I sighed and slipped back down onto the bed, where I wracked my brains for music before leaving two hours later to find supper.

The streets of Paris had always held an allure for me, especially after the sun went down, and despite my unfamiliarity with the area, I managed to find a small, respectable restaurant called Chez Rousseau, ate a modest meal for sixteen sous, and returned to the Palais Garnier, where I forced myself to fall immediately asleep.

Christine de Chagny twisted her hands worriedly as her carriage rolled toward her own personal purgatory. The Palais Garnier, for three months now, since that terrible night of the scorpion and grasshopper, had been a sort of shadowy vista upon which she had not dared to encroach her person. She and Raoul had been blissfully married for two of those months, and she had very nearly thought that nothing could possibly mar their happiness.

Though a request letter from M. Richard was not precisely the end of the world, Christine still did not like the idea of returning to the opera house while the loss of her Angel was still so raw.

When the carriage stopped, the footman helped her descend the vehicle's steps. She hesitated only briefly before pushing open the doors and walking through. She knew she would find M. Mercier, M. Rémy, and this mystery tenor in the theatre itself, so she headed down the familiar halls and corridors before arriving in the seating pit.

It had been remodeled as well as renovated, with differences in decoration and measurement, from what she could see on stage. Several maids were walking up and down the aisles, sweeping and mopping the steps and making certain the area was decluttered. The managers, MM. Richard and Moncharmin were sitting high in a box on the grand tier. They were simply there to hear the price the young tenor would demand, and cared nothing for his performance. In fact, their roles in the opera had been quite nearly nominal since the disappearance of the Ghost, and they left many of the administrative duties to clerks and lawyers, and the brunt of management fell now to Mercier.

Christine glanced up toward the stage.

Mercier and Rémy were standing on the stage beside a slight young man. He wore black boots that rose to his knees and tight doeskin trousers, a white cravat, and a black shirt. Around his waspish waist was tied a wide sash. It was multicoloured, finely embroidered with mind-swirling patterns, here and there the image of a horse, a fire, an elephant, or a tree.

The youth himself was a mere three or four inches shy of six feet, with unusually long, jetty black hair and an ashen complexion. His eyes were lurid emerald, like daggers waiting to be drawn, and from a high, peculiarly curved forehead descended a sharp nose, slightly hooked at the bridge, but with a slender, predator's air. His mouth was full, but set in a resolute line, his long, elegant cheekbones and slender jaw giving him girlish charm. Christine risked a glance at his hands. They were wide-palmed, with long, tapering fingers. Artist's hands. He had noticed her the moment she had walked in the room—that she was certain of, but it was not until she had cleared her throat that he, Mercier, and Rémy acknowledged her.

He made a low, portentous bow. 'Mme. la Comtesse,' he murmured, in a low, soothing voice like honey wine, 'I have heard that you were beautiful, but this...this has taught me never to take the word of another.' she blushed as he bowed again. Mercier shot him a look and descended from the stage to sit in the audience. Rémy remained downstage.

'I will sing the part of Pierre Abélard from Abélard and Heloise, act four, scene two.'

Christine's eyes widened. She knew that Mercier's auditions were stringent, but that aria was one that challenged even the most seasoned of tenors. 'Are you certain?'

The resolute and wordless nod from the young tenor was confident and she could have sworn that he was looking into, rather than at her.

'It is a soliloquy of the highest possible range. If you are looking for a tenor to fill in for Carolus, you should put him in less taxing...'

'We are looking for someone to fill M. Fonta's shoes, full-time. At the Palais Garnier, we do not hire fill-ins.' Mercier replied coldly.

'You hired me.'

'I know. You were not to be a fill-in.'

The youth was still standing at ease on the stage, his hands behind his back. He seemed very confident for one whose voice was about to be tested to its extremities. Mercier motioned to him. 'You may begin, M. Avalbane.'

Fallon took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and, suppressing her smile, opened her mouth and poured out the long-hoarded contents of her soul. Her rich, deep voice had something of the mournful undertones of the cello in it, and the wild, dark strains of gipsy lore she had hidden in herself over the years. With her eyes screwed shut, she belted the song out, running every scale from the lowest and darkest to the most sonorous, lightest, most passionate touches of breath upon the air. When the piece was over, she glanced out at Mercier and the Countess.

Gabriel Mercier had seen many tenors in his day, but none had the quality of this girl. She had a darker, more achingly suppressed emotion than any male singer, as well as a smoother, more sonorous voice. As for Christine, she could not think. Her breath caught in her throat, and she knew. This was the man to bring the Palais Garnier back its fame. There was something about this Avalbane that recalled to mind her Angel. Of course, she could scarcely imagine this beautiful youth to be as violent or mysterious, but he was at least as passionate.

She stood, and walked toward the stage. 'You are talented, monsieur. I recommend you highly to MM. Richard and Moncharmin, and should they care to take you on as the new leading tenor, I would come to see you every night you perform.' Fallon smiled, and contemplated the young woman before her. She was small-boned, something like two inches shorter than herself, but flaunting the feminine curves that the Irish girl hid. Her golden hair was intricately arrayed, and her eyes were bright, and blue, with an eager hope which Fallon had seen before in the eyes of orphans who had been just adopted. The Countess was adorable, and her lyrical voice soothed. She had a very coy smile, with deep dimples in each rosy cheek, her Cupid's bow lips parting to reveal ivory teeth, complemented by her slightly upturned nose, the girlish smattering of freckles which still lingered upon the fresh, white complexion.

Fallon bowed as Mercier gave her an arch look. 'So it is settled,' the manager said, his stern voice jolting her from the study of the young Comtesse, 'You shall have a place to live here, and to study music. You will star in our first performance of the season, a production of Alexandre Dumas' Count of Monte Cristo, by the Italian composer Dominic Voretti.'

'Thank you, messieurs, madame. I have no words with which to praise your great kindness.'

'I have no words with which to praise your great talent, monsieur,' Christine was delighted to have salvaged so riveting an experience from so dreaded an expedition. 'You must meet my husband.'

'I have heard M. le Comte is a great connoisseur of the arts. He must be, to have secured so beautiful a chanteuse for his bride.'

Christine blushed, failing to catch the subtle irony in the other singer's voice. 'Yes, Raoul adores the Palais. Perhaps, if he takes to you, and you become all the rage, he will consent to again setting foot in the Palais Garnier.' she smiled at him charmingly before recalling to herself that she was a married woman, and, as such, no longer free to flirt with every pretty man that crossed her path. 'Well, I must be going. M. Avalbane, will you do me the honour of having supper with my husband and me this Sunday?'

'I would be devastated in the best possible way were I invited, Madame.'

'You are. See that you are not in absence, or I do not believe I could ever forgive you, despite your lovely voice. Seven o'clock, Sunday evening, monsieur, at number eight, Rue St. Antoine, near the Pont Nôtre Dame.'

'You have my word that I will be present. Au revoir, Mme. la Comtesse.'

'Au revoir. MM. Mercier, Rémy, always a pleasure.'

Christine turned, and, waving to the managers, disappeared. Mercier allowed herself a wry smile, walking back onto the stage. 'Were you truly a man, I should keep you away from the dancers on account of your ruthless charm.'

'Monsieur,' Fallon blushed, 'I am an entertainer. My job is to charm.'

'Of course. But you must have made quite the impression on the countess, for she not only praised you highly, but also invited you to her famous Sunday night dinner party. She has one every other week, and only the lions of society and art are ever invited.' Rémy murmured thoughtfully.

'And you, Mercier? What do you think?'

'You've a role, haven't you?' Mercier allowed himself a smile.

Fallon laughed boisterously, the tones bouncing off the acoustics of the stage in hollow echoes. 'So I have, monsieur, so I have.'

'You may go now. Your days will be relatively free, until next week, when we begin rehearsals. However, I will begin sending a vocal trainer to you, that you may be ready for the rehearsals when they begin.'

'Thank you, monsieur.' Fallon bowed, and left the room.