Chapter One

Ashton Marie Knight

On the upper left hand corner of the page in sloppy pen, eighteen year old Ash stares at her signature. Finals week has been excruciating, but this one will be the worse. Math and English, no problem. Science and Government? Child's play. But put a page of Spanish before the poor girl. No dice.

"I am going to die."

"No you're not, Miss Knight," The Colombian teacher smiles with a wag of her finger "Die, no. Fail, perhaps."

"Thanks, Missus Ramirez. Really encouraging."

She looks over at another girl, one with long brunette curls in a braid and glowing green eyes. Charity Evans laughs silently, holds her hands around her neck and mouths "choke"

Ash glares at her friend and mouths "bitch" before refocusing her attention on the paper. She moves her lips as she reads the Spanish questions and answers. Some of it is easy to understand, she sees the words for "man" and "woman" and translates easily. Now, what a man and a woman have to do with a word that can translate to years or assholes depending on the tilde-and she can't remember which-she has no clue.

"Ashton Knight, please report to the principal's office."

"Sweet baby Jesus, thank you!"

Ash grabs her messenger bag, writes NF on the topmost left corner of the paper and slams it on the teacher's desk with a joker's smile on her lips. Looking up from her novel, Missus Ramirez lets out a sigh of expectance. Ash feels the weight of the yin-yang hall pass in her pale, yellow tinted hand.

"First thing tomorrow morning, Ashton."

"Si, Senora."

Pushing a lock of her coal black hair away from her green-yellow eyes, Ash turns only to give Charity a wave and blow a snarky kiss before skipping from the room. Running her way down the hall to the only staircase in the three story building, she feels the floor slip from underneath her uniform shoes. Digging her heals into the tile floor, she grabs the nearest locker and holds.

She wobbles but gains her footing shortly. Deciding to walk the rest of the three feet to the top landing. She takes a seat on the railing, glad she wears the uniform black trousers and long sleeved shirt rather than the skirt. With a laugh, Ash pushes and slides down the circular railing to the first floor. When she sets foot on the first floor, she hears a disapproving scoff. "And your problem is?" She asks laying her hands on her hips.

Cary Clancy, not the most popular girl but the most feminine, clicks her sequined heals and zips her pink leather jacket. With a toss of her long blonde hair, Cary sneers.

"Could you at least try acting like a girl, Marie?"

"I don't go by my middle name, Cary," Ash snaps.

"Well, you have almost no boobs, you wear the boy's uniform and keep you hair super short, not to mention you are almost six foot tall . . ."

"I'm five eight!"

". . . There has to be something to identify you as a girl."

"Actually there is. It's called gender identity, and I am a girl despite my vagina. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go the Principal Green's office." She thunks Cary's hair with the hall pass before huffing away red in the face. If she could look at herself, she would see her irises flashing gold and her eyes darkening. By the time she reached the door to Principal Green's office, she is calm and Cary is just a thing of the past.

Opening the oak door, she nods respectfully at the sight of the seventy year old principal. Her body stiffens at the sight of Police Captain George Collins and, more specific, the somber look on his wrinkled face.

"Afternoon, Cap'n Collins," She salutes and takes her seat in the bench. The air shifts as she looks to and fro between the men. She twiddles her thumbs as they converse softly. Then, as an epiphany strikes, Ash closes her eyes and stills her hands. She focuses on their voices, ignoring the hums of the lights and the clicks of the clock.

"I'm not so sure this is a good idea."

"What choice do we have? She's next of kin."

"She is mentally unstable! Look at her file, George. PTSD, a pyromaniac."

Ash grabs her head with her hands and screams, "Just tell me already!" The officer bites his lower lip and lowers his head. "What is wrong? What are you so afraid of? Me?"

"Ashton, I am sorry."

"For what? For Christ's sake, for what?"

"Your mother . . . there was a robbery . . . it has to be the same men from before. She was burned . . . she died." Ash is taken back. Her mind floods with dark memories, things she pushes back. A little boy crying, a man shouting. And fire. So much fire.

"Nononononono . . ." She rocks back and forth, feeling her heart race, her mind reel. Her vision swims, and she unconsciously digs in her trouser pocket for a cold, metallic object. She holds the monogrammed lighter inches from her face and ignites it.

"Miss Knight, what are you doing?"

"Daddy, why are they hurting you? Daddy, Daddy . . . Alex stopped crying. Daddy! Gah!" She drops the lighter which extinguishes. She falls on all fours, grabbing her ribs as she feels a thousand daggers pierce her heart. Ash crawls forward, feeling her father's lighter under her palm, but the pain doesn't stop.

Another memory appears. On from when she was a little girl of a doctor explaining to her mother about how Ashton was born with a weak heart, and how too much strain can be fatal. The heart attack knocks the breath from her lungs, and the last thing she remembers is the sound of her body hitting the floor.

#

Sound is the first thing she regains. For a moment, it is not understandable, almost like it is in a foreign language. Then it clears, and she focuses as her other senses return. She reaches with her hearing, and the words flow.

"Is he . . . dead?"

"It's hard to say. I wonder what happened."

"It has to be the ghost! He killed Joseph Bouquet just the other day, remember?"

"Little Giry you are a paranoid one."

"Miss Daaé, you are not thinking clearly. He is dressed like a worker, perhaps the ghost was angry at him."

Ash shifts her foot to make sure she can move at all. She stands hearing two bodies scurry away as she wipes her eyes. She opens one and sees her father's lighter in her hand. Stuffing it in her pocket, Ash opens the other eye to locate her messenger bag and finds two girls huddling around it.

"Uh . . . may I have my bag, please?" She holds a hand out with a gentle smile to try and relax the girls. One is maybe about sixteen years old, her hair is in platinum blonde spirals down her back, her skin a creamy pink and her eyes a sapphire blue. The other is small of body, though she might be the same age as the former. Her skin seems to be pulled over her bones, ghastly pale. Her hair and eyes are inky in color. She is the one to stand and bring Ash her bag. "Thank you, dearie."

"You are welcome, monsieur. May I ask whom I am addressing?"

"Ashton Knight, though everyone calls me Ash. And you are?"

"Meg Giry, dancer and chorus girl for the Corp De Ballet." The Corp De Ballet rings a very low bell in Ash's mind. Charity and her many ramblings included the mention of said Corp, including the wish to join when they graduate at the end of the term. However, that is all she can recall at the time. She scratches her head and looks around.

They appear to be in the wings of a theatre, catwalks and rope and sets as far as the eye can see. Actors, dancers, and fly workers walk around, not paying any attention to the trio off on their own. Though preoccupied, she does faintly hear someone speak and turns to the blonde girl.

"I beg your pardon, but what?"

"I said, you seem familiar, Monsieur Knight. Have we met before?" The blonde walk forward and stand beside Meg. Ash sees their matching tutus and pointe shoes and assesses that they are both ballerinas.

"I don't think so. I would recognize someone who looked like you, miss . . ."

"Christine Daaé."

Another bell. Visions of a brunette spinning and staring in Ash's eyes, the lines of the wig and the microphone obvious and her dyed red hair sticking out. A play, that's right. Freshman year there was a play, a musical. Ashton auditioned for the female lead, and was given the male lead for her low voice. The female character's name? Christine Daaé.

"A pleasure, Miss Daaé. I appear to be very, very lost."

"You must be looking for Moncharmin and Richard, the managers. We need a new stagehand, or even a background character." Meg smiles. Ash likes her smile. It seems ill-used and reserved for those she believes deserves it.

"Stagehand? Shifting scenes, preparing costumes, and adjusting lights. Yes, sounds doable. Now, where can I find Moncharmin and Richard?" Ash does not feel comfortable in this situation. She has no idea where she is, why they are addressing her as "sir", and furthermore why are they speaking French? Nothing adds up.

"Well, usually . . ."

"Christine, Meg, why are you flirting with the staff?" Another ballerina, a slender woman with dark hair and fiery blue eyes stomps forward and pushes her way between Ash and the girls almost protectively. "We have Faust tomorrow and Carlotta is throwing a fit that we can't continue rehearsal."

"We're sorry, Sorelli. This man, he is looking for the managers to apply for a stagehand job."

"Ha! A stagehand?" Sorelli faces Ash and moves her eyes up and down Ash's body. Seeming to like what she sees, Sorelli shrugs. "Perhaps. Honestly, darling, all you have to do is go to their office every other Friday to collect your pay. They don't notice new faces and will believe you if you say you work for them."

"Really. That's perfect then. Thank you, Miss."

"You are welcome, Monsieur . . . ah, your name?"

"He is Ash Knight."

"I was asking him," She snaps.

"Meg is right, though. Ashton Knight, at your service. One last question and I'll get out of your hair. Where can I sleep?"

"There is an inn just down the road . . ." Christine starts.

"Nonsense! There is an empty dressing room at the end of the farthest hall just south of here. It is reserved for a new musician, but after the continuing accidents we will never replace the pianist."

"Pianist?" Ash drops down and searches through her bag. She pulls out a large red folder and opens it gleefully. "I play. I have since I was a child. Now, it will take me a while to learn the music for your production . . ." She flips through the pages and Sorelli lays a finger on one page titled "The Jewel Song".

"It seems you already have."

"This? I learned it three years ago. The Damnation of Faust, I believe. I have all the music, but it is practically memorized. Why, is that what you are performing?"

"Exactly right. Christine, Meg, go back to rehearsal. I will escort the young man to Moncharmin and Richard for an audition."

#

After landing the job, Ash is given an advance to purchase anything she might need for her room. She created a story, a house fire that killed her family and destroyed all her possessions as she made her way to France. She also said that she had no belongings with her because they were on a separate ship, which sank. Fortunately for her, they believed the bullshit that flowed from her lips. Even more, they were so impressed with her playing, Richard offered her a contract for a full three seasons.

So even though she still has no clue how she arrived in Paris, she at least has a flow of . . . francs? Counting the notes, Ash ponders on the currency. Europe is on Euros, not francs. Oh well, after she hails a cab, she can think on it. She looks up from the sidewalk to the road. Cobblestones and carriages left and right. Ash wipes her forehead. I'm not just in the wrong place, Ash scurries around and grabs a newspaper right from the hands of a boy. I'm in the wrong time!

The paper reads August 13th, 1880.

"Monsieur, are you going to pay for that?"

"What? Oh, sorry kid. Here, take the paper, I just needed the date." The boy is dirty, skinny, and pale. With a heavy heart, Ash hands ten francs to the boy who smiles with black teeth and runs away, shouting a thanks over his shoulder as he meets a begging woman Ashe assumes is his mother.

Smiling like a lunatic, Ash hails a carriage and says, "To the shops, please."

#

Ash returns to her new room with six black trousers, six white shirts, six vests of varying dark colors, a brush, hair tonic, and zero idea of how she travels not only to another country but back in time as well. She hangs the clothing in an oak wardrobe, making obscure comments about searching for Narnia, when she sees something on the vanity.

She stares at the parcel, a letter lying flat on top. She lifts the letter and runs her finger over the red wax seal. It's shaped like a skull, and a new memory arises. In the musical, they used laminated paper, plastic seals, and the letters sealed with magnets. Her lines were always prewritten on the paper, so she would just recite them.

Hearing the paper rip, Ash knows that this is not a fake, and she pulls out the note. Closing her eyes tight, she chews her lower lip and sighs. The note is written in French, a hasty French, but still French. Ready to rip the paper to ribbons, Ash holds it in both hands right as the letters shake and rearrange. Focusing, Ash realizes that whatever mysterious force brought her here is kind enough to let her be able to communicate.

In handwriting worse than she could ever manage, Ash begins to read.

Monsieur Knight,

It is my deepest pleasure to welcome you to the Paris Opera House. Though you have impressed me with your audition, I do question your abilities. Unfortunately my new managers have very little skill in the arts. So, here is my proposition. Tomorrow night you will perform perfectly, not a single misplaced note, and if you meet my expectations, you can stay. If not, I suggest the flies. I have acquired for you a suit worthy of the opera you will be performing.

O.G.

"O.G." She whispers setting the paper aside. She unties the black ribbon and removes the lid. The jacket and trousers are a blood red, the lapel a shimmering gold. The shirt is black and the vest a vibrant white. There is another card, with one word written in red ink.

Mephistopheles.

Ash places the outfit on the bed, pondering on what her next move should be. The coincidences between her situation and the musical she performed in are too numerous to count. The girl, the place, the time, and now a note signed O.G. Facing the floor length mirror to the right of the vanity, she knows there is one other thing to test for.

Walking slowly, Ash stares at her eyes in the mirror until she is almost two inches away. Shaking, she lays one finger against the glass. She looks carefully at the tip. There is no space between her finger and its reflection. This is a two-way mirror. From above her head, two yellow orbs gaze down at her unsuspecting face.

They take in all the similarities in appearance, and realize that this can be quite the opportunity. This young man seems to be the perfect tool. Musical, strange looking, mysterious origin. Turning away from the glass, the orbs make their way down five cellars. A plan is forming, one that will shake the Paris Opera.

Meanwhile, Ash is sitting on the bed in her shirt and underwear. She has covered the mirror with a spare blanket, her mind reeling with the impossibility before her. Her hair is sticking out on all sides, though that is not helped as she continually rakes her fingers through. She rocks back and forth, her breathing deep and hard.

She needs to relax, to get her mind off her situation. Only one thing comes to mind, a song, one from the musical. She keeps going back to the damn musical, nothing can stop it. Opening her mouth, she starts to sing, unaware that she is still being listened to.

#

Christine wanted to ask the man if he needed anything else. Ashton seems like a friendly face, sweet demeanor and cocky attitude. She can't help but feel just a little attracted to him. But then, as she was about to knock, his voice comes through the door. It was quiet yet clear. Christine leans against the wood, closing her eyes.

His voice floats through the air as the lyrics poor from his mouth. Chills run through her body as realization hits her. Panic floods her heart and she runs from his door. It just can't be! It can't be! She makes it to her bed right as Sorelli makes bed checks.

#

Ash falls back in the bed and covers her body. Tears flow down her cheeks as she blows out the candle. She curls in the fetal position, closing her eyes tight. She thinks of the suit hanging in the wardrobe, of who it has to be that gave it to her. In her dreams she relives the Freshman musical, from start to finish. The characters have been replaced with the people she has met, and in her mind she accepts what has happened.

She is living the plot of The Phantom of the Opera.