Aminta groaned into her pillow; she was being awakened at a ridiculous hour for the third week straight. What was wrong with waking when you liked? Aminta had never thought about getting enough sleep before, but she now felt her early awakening was like the plague.

The maid knocked on her door again before entering, startled to see Aminta glaring at her.

"'Excuse me, please, madamoiselle," the maid said. She came in carefully.

"Go away, Marie," Aminta said, rather rudely. She blew some hair away from her face and glowered at the maid Marie, who truthfully was only a few months older than Aminta herself.

"I'm sorry, madamoiselle, but your grand-mère is coming for an early lunch. Your mama and papa are insistent that you are presentable and waiting for her." Marie pulled open the heavy drapes; the sun streamed into Aminta's eyes, and she howled at the sting of the brightness.

"Away, away! I am awake!"

Marie hid a smile under her hand as Aminta pulled the mass of covers over her head. The maid carefully approached the bed and pried the blankets and sheets out of Aminta's firm grip; strong-fingered Aminta might be, but Marie had worked long enough to know how to successfully pry the covers from her hands.

"Up, madamoiselle, or you will not be given dinner, and we know you adore the veal," Marie said.

Aminta groaned again and sat up, squinting in the light. "What am I wearing?"

"The blue and cream colored dress, that your grand-mère ordered for you."

Aminta arranged her dark curls on one side of her face to block the sun as she sat in her bed. "And they will murder me, should I get dust on it?"

"Mais oui, madamoiselle."

Aminta sighed, and slid out of bed, raising her arms expectantly. "Help me out of this, then," she said of her white nightgown. "And take as long as possible."

----

Aminta de Chagny was eighteen, or possibly eight, and an utter disgrace as far as her parents and grandparents were concerned. She was friendless and meddling; a trouble maker and the proud possessor of an attitude that did not sit well with society. She enjoyed building things, taking things apart, and playing with things assembled before she could get to it.

Naturally, she was often reprimanded for her curiosity about technology. Neither Aminta's mother nor father had much pity for her pastimes. Her father was a comte, and her mother a former prima donna at the Palais Garnier.

Of course, according to Aminta's grand-mère, the comtess de Chagny, they were "my pitiful son and his opera wench". Grandmaman, as Aminta was forced to call her father's mother, was the perfect vision of nobility. She had a coolly snobbish manner, hated anything less than perfect, and despised Aminta's 'tinkering'.

As Aminta slouched on a plush couch with her arms crossed, she smirked lightly as she recalled a rather delightful prank she had pulled. She had been just seven, and she had removed a door from its hinges while visiting her grand-mère who, aside from being snobby, was particularly nasty to Aminta. At first glance, the door looked perfectly harmless; however, when Grandmaman was opening the door, it crashed onto the floor in front of her. Grandmaman had shrieked and fainted dead on the floor, leaving Aminta with a wonderful mood and no dinner.

Now, her Grandmaman was eleven years older, and about five times meaner. Aminta was about five times craftier, and neither she nor her grandmother had gotten any closer.

To Grandmaman, Aminta was an object to marry off to the richest and most prominent young man Paris had to offer.

To Aminta, Grandmaman was a great inconvenience who would be better off in the grave.

Granted, Grandmaman had answered some of Aminta's most puzzling questions, where even her parents refused to speak a word.

So Aminta put up with her, not like she had much choice to begin with, and life went on.

---

When Aminta was eight, she was at the height of her trouble-making career. Eight had been the perfect age when she was still adorable enough to worm her way out of serious punishment, and yet she was smart enough to do things she hadn't been able to do at seven.

Year eight was also the time of Aminta's grandest discovery, and the thickest mystery she'd ever stumbled upon. Since then, names had never quite meant the same thing.

Aminta had been 'tinkering' with the suspension system in her grand-mère's attic for the small, intricate chandelier in the foyer of one of her homes. She had been seeing how many knots it took to hold the chandelier up. Dozens of replacements surrounded her. After a while, Aminta had apparently undone one knot too many, for the chandelier fell to the ground. It hit the floor, and the crash perfectly resounded with the powerful scream of Aminta's mother.

"ERIK!"

Upon uttering that one life-changing word, the woman had folded into herself upon the floor, just out of the range of the broken glass, shaking and mumbling with horror as she stared at the fallen contraption.

Aminta had heard only bits and pieces of her father comforting her distressed mother through the new hole in the ceiling; the dust make her squint to see her father rush to her mother's side and hold her in his arms.

"He is gone, Christine! He is not here. Hush, my love, hush. Do not worry." His voice was soothing, but Christine de Chagny was not so easily comforted.

"The phantom- Erik- The opera... my Angel of Music... Oh, Raoul!" Her sobs were loud, but louder still were the screeches of Grandmaman at the destruction of her chandelier.

"That little scoundrel! Reenacting the disaster! Does she have no heart! Raoul, I expect her to pay dearly for this," she ordered, her hand fluttering over her heart and eyes seeking out Aminta through the hole in the ceiling.

Aminta had pulled away quickly then, but mulled for a while about who "Erik" was, and what he had to with with being the phantom, or an angel of music, or an opera person. Aminta had puzzled for a whole twenty-four hours (dinner not included) before finally cornering her still-jumpy mother.

"Maman..."

"Aminta!" Christine de Chagny had spun quickly, eyes wide. "Please, do not sneak up like that."

"I wasn't sneaking, Maman, but I have a question."

"Yes, what is it, Aminta?"

Aminta pulled her best cute, inquisitive face. "What was the disaster, Momma?"

At that, Christine had gone from slightly pale to a ghostly shade of white. "Aminta, you would do well not to dwell on such topics. You waste your time. No more questions; they are not appreciated."

"But maman-"

"No more, Aminta! I am firm on this; if you obey one thing, ask me no more questions. Please, ma cherie, stop this."

Just then, a maid had come in to get Aminta ready for bed. Aminta could hardly get out a 'bon nuit' before she was ejected into the hall, where her Grandmaman scowled at her before brushing off to the master bedroom.

"Wait, Grandmaman!" Aminta said, surprising herself. The old woman turned quickly on the spot, raising an eyebrow and making Aminta feel like a fool. "Who is the phantom at the opera?"

Her grand-mère's scowl had deepened even farther, but she had beckoned Aminta closer. "If only you will desist this useless questioning that distresses my son and daughter-in-law," she threatened. Aminta nodded, her eyes wide. Grandmaman had sighed. "The Opera Populaire, in Paris, is said to be haunted by some spirit. Apparently, he wears evening clothes and a mask." She stiffened slightly, her face pinching unpleasantly. "When your mother was a singer there, several murders took place, as well as the chandelier falling, which killed one person."

"How can a ghost kill people? Aren't they corporeal? And how were the people killed?" Aminta's mind was abuzz with questions.

The comtess stiffened dramatically and refused to speak of it any more. "No proper young lady would dream of asking such foolish, bloodthirsty questions! I quite wonder if you did not hope to kill someone with your foolishness yesterday, with that horrid trick."

Aminta cast her eyes down, hands twitching slowly into fists.

"Bed, maintenant," Grandmaman had declared, and Aminta was ushered away by a maid.

---

Now eighteen, Aminta found herself still being ushered around by maids, often at the beck and call of her grand-mère. And she had learned precious little of the phantom at the opera or Erik since she had accidentally reenacted The Disaster. The mystery still haunted her, so after a tense, uncomfortable tea time with her parents and her grand-mère (with conversation that mainly featured Aminta's faults as a young lady), Aminta had escaped to the second floor while her parents and Grandmaman discussed business.

She sat slouched in a chair facing a lit fireplace in her mother's little room, the only room, in fact, where her father rarely came. Her mother loved the intimacy of the small room and filled it with art; leaving the opera house had not changed her artistic soul. The walls were a soft cream color, and the fireplace crackled merrily, much to Aminta's annoyance. The sound was worse than nails on a chalkboard, or perhaps Grandmaman's screeching.

The thought brought a scowl to Aminta's lips as the door opened and her mother paused, surprised to see Aminta there. It had grown dark, and the woman sat in a chair across a small round table from her daughter.

Christine de Chagny sighed deeply and closed her eyes; Aminta could tell she'd had some of their fine wine before coming up, for her eyes had become particularly bright and her smile was foggy.

Aminta slumped, scowled, and waited, kicking her foot against the chair leg. A beat formed, and Aminta hummed absentmindedly.

Her mother stirred, and her eyes opened and shone almost yellow in the firelight.

"Aminta," she whispered, as if in a trance. "His face- oh, how it haunts me, Aminta! Stop searching for it. Please, my daughter, my Aminta, please stop." A tear wound its way down Christine's perfect cheek; she shuddered at some unseen vision. "Once you have seen him, you can never be free..."

The woman fell into her doze once more, and Aminta's scowl turned into a raised-eyebrows look of great confusion. What was so fearful about a face? Scattered pictures floated unbidden through Aminta's brain: a plaster skeleton, a waxy vampire, a hag-

The door swung open, creaking slightly, and Aminta jumped in her chair. It was her father, in a robe that ran in silk rivers down his body. He came towards her, and then noticed Christine. He smiled down at her sleeping form before going to kiss the top of his daughter's head.

"Good night, Aminta. Sleep well." He turned and scooped up his wife gently; he retreated to master bedroom with her.

Aminta sat in the plush chair in her mother's little room for a few minutes, her curiosity suddenly piqued. Her mother's fear gave her little reason for caution; Christine had never been a very rational woman. None of the people she knew would say any more than her Grandmaman had.

A plan formed in her head by means of a fancy golden facade, masquerading masks, and chandeliers. If no one could tell her the facts, then the only way to find them was the source: the Palais du Garnier, the Paris opera house.

Suddenly very determined, Aminta stood and silently made her way to her bedroom. Closing the door so Marie the maid would hear, she moved to her boudoir and rummaged for her tinkering clothes.

Shedding her blue and cream outfit, Aminta pulled a slightly old-fashioned dress over her head. It had once been a crisp white, but now the color was slightly faded. Marie the maid said it now suited her coloring better; the bright whiteness of it had made her look frightening and harsh.

Now, though, she'd worn it through her dusty attics and basements; it was her tinkering dress, and she loved it. It was comfortable, fit well, and the skirt was plenty wide enough for easy movement. Including, Aminta thought with a sly grin, a secret trip to the Opera house.

She then sat on the edge of her bed and pulled on a pair of worn ankle boots that had once been Marie's; the maid had given them to her as a secret gift for her tinkering so her nice shoes wouldn't get disgustingly dirty.

Aminta then swung a dark cloak about her shoulders and pulled it close around her pale dress, bringing the hood down over her hair. In silence, she took a lantern from the side of her bed, put a small packet of matches in her pocket, and took two extra candles.

She slid silently down the wide banister and landed lightly on the marble hall of the foyer before making her way into the deserted kitchen; time had passed, night had fallen, and the servants were all asleep on the third floor. Aminta went out the kitchen door and moved to the street.

She stayed close to the shadows, the lantern hidden in her dark cloak and her hood around her face. The cloak whipped around her, and the streetlamps pinpricked the darkness with ease.

And then, Aminta saw the looming facade of the Opera Garnier before her, the empty windows glaring down into the shadows.