"Did you enjoy the play, Ophelia?" The girl's mother asked.
As the girl walked arm-in-arm with her parents through the thrilling Parisian streets, she found her face glowing. The romantic heart of the young woman was still fluttering from the performance they had just witnessed.
"I loved it, mother!" She answered. "Was it just as breathtaking when you performing?"
"Well…" The viscountess trailed off.
"Your mother was magnificent!" The girl's father cut in grandly, causing his wife to blush. "She captivated the hearts of all Parisians with her performances!"
Both father and daughter smiled as the ex-singer blushed.
"Raoul my dear, those days are a distant memory," she dismissed softly.
"Not too distant, I hope," the girl laughed. "Isn't this where you two met again after so many years and then became engaged?"
"Yes, that's true. It is," the woman affirmed.
"Oh, father! What good taste you have! Proposing to mother in Paris!" The young girl sighed. "It must've been so romantic. A viscount and an opera singer… it must've turned quite a few heads."
The man laughed.
"Yes, I suppose it did," he admitted.
"Well, at the time, I was technically still just in the ballet. But I began to sing soon after; on the day after we met. Remember, Raoul?"
"True, my love. Although, I admit, I didn't know you were there until I heard you sing that night at the performance. Imagine my surprise! My Christine, an opera singer!"
"I had been dreaming of having that position for quite a long time. It was God's own doing that you were able to hear my first performance!"
Ophelia smiled softly and observed her mother. Having become a viscountess upon marrying her father, Viscount Raoul DeChagney, the woman had become quite distinguished. Though she was now in her mid thirties, she was still very beautiful. The girl's father had always said that Ophelia looked nearly identical to her mother at her age, except for her eyes, which were blue like her father's. She was proud to bear her mother's image.
"I like the thought that you weren't always a vicsountess, mother," Ophelia mused.
"Whatever is wrong with being a countess?" The father inquired teasingly.
"Oh, nothing. It just seems a nicer story to have been an orphan, who became a ballerina, who became a singer, then married a viscount. It's far more interesting," she confessed.
Both her parents laughed at this. Her mother patted her daughter's hand.
"Well, I'm glad my life story meets your approval," she jested as they continued to walk.
The frigid wind blew through Ophelia's decorative cloak and racked her body with a violent shiver. Snow began to drift down from the silver sky, settling upon her eyelashes.
"Tell me, Ophelia," her father began. "Despite the cold, are you pleased with Paris?"
"Absolutely! I love it here! It's nice to get out of our remote little house."
"Little?" His eyebrow raised at the belittling mention of their three-story, 20 acre, manor-estate in the country.
"Oh, I don't mean in size father, I mean the feel of the house. Or rather, the way it makes me feel."
"And Paris doesn't make you feel small?"
"Of course not!" She exclaimed. "There are so many things to do here! So many things happening all at once! Nothing much seems to happen when you live out in a country estate visited only by stuffy politicians. Paris is filled with excitement!" She paused here for a moment and her expression turned pensive. "Although I dare not complain because I'm here now, I am curious, why have we never come here before? I remember asking you both if we might visit, but the answer was always no."
There was an old, faint feeling of discomfort that arose in both parents at this question; even Ophelia could sense it.
"Paris contains mixed memories for the both of us, Ophelia. While we were reunited here, we also contended with a great deal of… that is, we… well…" The words seemed to evade her mother.
"We were also faced danger here, dear girl," her father stepped in. "Things happened here that are painful to remember and we thought it best to not revisit in case it was still perilous. We did not wish to traumatize you."
"Perilous? Why, how intriguing… and quite surprising! I didn't know you two were ones for adventure." The girl said with a grin. "What was the nature of this peril?" Neither parents spoke a word. "Oh, come now! You simply cannot reveal something like that and then refuse to tell me!" Still there was silence and several uncomfortable glances between husband and wife. "Very well, I shall simply have to guess. Mother, were you a gypsy?"
The tense air was lost as Christine burst into merry laughter at her only child's ridiculous theory.
"No, Ophelia. I was not a gypsy."
"Hmm… Then perhaps you were the source of the adventure, father! Tell me, were you a moonlit rogue, friend of the law and foe of outlaws? Did you roam the streets of Paris at night, keeping innocent citizens safe?"
He too laughed at this.
"No, not quite."
"Oh, I'll bet you were. You must tell me all about it!" She insisted teasingly.
"Ophelia…" The handsome father shook his head in amusement.
"Fine then, if you won't tell me, I shall have to invent my own story." The girl bit her lip in silence, thinking up a tale to fit her father. She tried to shut out the noises of the city—pigeons flapping noisily, horse hooves clipping against the cobblestones, a small boy shouting behind them. She had to admit, the country had been nice and quiet. Finally, she had it. "I say you were the inspiration for the Purple Pimpernel! You were so fearsome in keeping order that the villains you faced—masked, shadowy men no doubt—dared not show their faces!"
The merry mood died down slightly at this.
"Well, that's certainly not too far from the truth," he answered, a half-smile remaining on his face.
"Miss!" The distant child cried.
Ophelia's face froze in disbelief.
"What? Surely, you're teasing."
"Miss! Please wait!"
The girl and her mother turned at the noise, their feminine ears attuned to the needs of children.
There was a small boy, quite young and dressed all in brown, running behind them. His eyes were fixed on the viscount and viscountess' daughter.
"Miss! Miss! Could you please wait a moment?" His shrill voice cried desperately.
"Is he speaking to us?" The girl asked in surprise, checking the empty sidewalk behind them.
Panting and wiping his red running nose, he stopped just before the young woman. He extended a letter to her with rosy fingers.
"Excuse me, miss. A gentleman asked this be delivered to you."
"Oh, thank you." She accepted it with a smile. "A letter? For me? How strange."
The parchment felt coarse and heavy beneath her fingers and the letter was sealed with a spattering of red wax imprinted with the image of a rose beneath a skull. When she looked up to ask the boy what the man had looked like, he had already turned and sprinted away, likely returning to the man for payment. She turned her attention back to the note.
"What is it, Ophelia?" Her father inquired, leaning closer.
"Does it say who it's from, dear?" The mother asked, her brow furrowing a bit.
"It looks like an invitation, but I'm not sure who it's from," the girl answered, skimming over it briefly. She looked away and laughed, "It's probably from some nobleman's son who recognized you at the play, father."
"Well, read it out loud, dear," he responded, his expression unusually cautious.
"A-alright," she answered, suddenly made uneasy by her father's face.
She cleared her throat.
"My love, the stage has been set once more. I bid thee to return to my Opera House and reprise the role meant for you in one final performance.
Do not refuse my invitation, my dearest one. For the performance cannot proceed without you. You will decide how it is to end. I pray you will not further the Tragedy.
Come back to me.
Your Angel of Music will be waiting."
The girl's brows furrowed in confusion as she concluded her narration. She had been merely uneasy before, but now, the letter left her thoroughly unnerved. In her puzzled state, however, she did not notice her parent's panicked expressions.
"This must be some sort of a prank," she stated for mainly her own benefit. "Why, it makes no sense whatsoever. Angel of Music?" Looking for answers, she raised her eyes to her mother, who had released her arm and now bore a terrified look in her eyes. "Mother?"
She was pale as the snow falling around them.
"Oh!" She exclaimed, wavering on her feet. "Raoul!"
"Christine, my dear!" He responded by stepping forward to take hold of his wife, lest she swoon. "Calm yourself. It can't be him."
"But the seal! Look at the seal!" The blood-drained woman cried.
When his eyes turned to her, Ophelia dazedly fumbled to refold the note, baring the seal to her father's eyes.
"A rose and a skull." She stated.
He became considerably more nervous looking.
"Christine, Ophelia, come. We must return to the hotel. We are leaving, tonight," he stated, supporting his trembling wife as he led the way.
Their baffled daughter followed closely behind them, still clutching the letter.
"What?! Father, why?"
"Just this once, Ophelia, I'm sorry. But you mustn't ask any questions. God willing, we will explain it to you later, at home."
"But… we just arrived! And we were having such a good time!"
"Please, just stay close!"
Her parents were frightening her, but she obeyed. Now was not the time to question them, she could tell. Suddenly a great deal more cautious, she trailed along behind them.
Another bone-chilling gust of wind ignored her coat several minutes later and caused her skirt to lift slightly. Embarrassed, she reached down to still the motion as she walked, but realized that the letter, which had caused such commotion, was no longer in her hand. Looking behind her, she watched as it fluttered and was borne on the wind—almost like a living thing—into an alley.
After brief consideration, she went after it. It was troubling, but it was evidence. She didn't have an inkling as to what about it troubled her parents so, but if the police were to get involved, she thought that the note would be sorely missed.
A moment after she stepped a foot inside the alley, however, a nauseous feeling rose in her gut. It was inexplicable. The instant her fingers met the coarse paper again, darkness rushed into her mind like a wave and she was consumed by it.