Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, except my own. The lyrics belong to Mephistophele's Returns- Trans Siberian Orchestra.
Chapter 1: The New Girl
Rain poured into the streets of Paris. Annabelle's body rocked inside the buggy she was riding, her violin case pressed tight against her torso. The crowds were beginning to thin; the rain poured down harder. There was a small jolt as the buggy came to a stop.
Annabelle stepped out of the carriage. She looked up at the impressive building. The Opera Populaire. The dark stone looked ominous from the rain. Lightning flashed and she placed her case over her head to stop the rain from drenching her. A few drops of rain still landed on her arm and neck. The coldness sent shivers through her body.
It had been a year since the Chandelier Incident. Fearing that the place was cursed, no one tried producing an opera play. The beautiful building had almost been torn down after no one had bought it, but there was a savior. The patron, the Vicomtess de Chengy, opted for the Opera Populaire to remain open as a musical concert hall and ballet school.
In fact, that was the reason Annabelle was there. She snapped out of her daze when the buggy driver nudged her arm, his arms heavy with her bags. With an embarrassed smile, she gestured for him to follow her in.
The large doors swung open. Her mouth almost fell open. It was just as grand inside as it had been during its glory days. She opened up her acceptance letter, following the directions to her room. She stopped at a dark oak door. The buggy dropped her bags, tipped his hat when she passed him his fee, and left without saying a word.
Annabelle opened the door. The hinges were well oiled and didn't squeak. The room smelled a little musty with perfume mixed with dead flowers. Despite the rain, she opened the window to air out the room. She was here, she was actually here! Her shaky hand brushed her bangs out of her face. Looking at the mirror, she unstrapped the eye patch that was covering her left eye. Four claw marks flared red over her pale skin. Next, she removed the silk scarf from around her neck. A chunk of flesh was missing from the same side.
Her fingers traced the scars over her eye and breathed out quietly. They were the remnants of a dog attack from when she was a child. Doctors had informed her parents that she would have scars and be unable to speak. Her mother was shamed that she would never be able to attract a respectable husband. Her father had encouraged her in hobbies to keep her occupied as she healed. She participated in everything from learning the violin to horseback riding. She excelled in her music interests and had earned a spot in the concert orchestra.
Madame Giry had ensured that she would have a quiet and secretive spot so she could be comfortable taking off her coverings. It would also be helpful in keeping the other females from discovering her scars.
Annabelle sat down on the bed and looked around her room fully for the first time. It had been the lead soprano's dressing room before the renovations. The majority of it was clean, but there were still papers and dead flowers scattered around. She began cleaning, wiping away the dust away. Her eyes landed on the papers. There were musical notes here and there, words printed beneath them. An opera song?
Perhaps. Unable to help herself, she placed them on her bed, picked her violin up from the case and made sure it was in tune. She looked at the notes again briefly. Annabelle placed the bow against the strings and began to play. She read the words beneath the notes.
"Tell me what you think
Tell me what you know.
Did you really think there will be an ever after?
Do you think I'm scared?
Tell me, does it show?
When inside this darkness I can hear his whispering."
The tone was angry and dark. Her bow froze on the last note. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Her heart jumped into her throat as she looked around the empty room. Could it be him? The Phantom? It was a possibility; he had never been caught.
She placed her instrument on the bed, resting her back against the headboard of the bed. Annabelle didn't have to report to Madame Giry until the following afternoon. A smile on her lips, she went to the dresser and pulled out a blank sheet from her journal. Five long lines were drawn on it. Back with her violin, she closed her eyes, trying to feel a song. After a few warm ups, she began to string notes together.
Her tune was light, happy. Her fingers and bow danced over the instrument's strings. Periodically, she would pause and write the notes down, adding words beneath them.
A few hours later, Annabelle looked down at her two small compositions. Satisfied with her work, she stretched out on her bed. Lying out on her left side, she looked out the window. The rain was still pouring down. She should unpack; make her room to her liking. But her eyes felt heavy. Slowly, the rain made her fall asleep.
There was movement in the shadows. A figure stepped out, glancing at her sleeping form. The music from a violin had drawn him out of his lair. Gone was the joy of singing. The fact that his beloved Christine was paying for the continuance of his home filled him with guilty rage. Honestly, he had no right to be angry. She had made her choice and had chosen a normal life.
For the past year he had remained hidden, only leaving behind messages and blueprints as renovations began. Even his lair was moved into a larger grotto, more booby traps guarding the place when he was not there.
He had been sulking, sitting lifelessly at his organ. An unfinished symphony was scattered across the floor. Until sweet notes came to his ears. How long had it been since he had heard the practiced hand on a violin? Curiosity roused him from his self-pity. The notes got louder when he got closer in his secret passageway. When he looked through the two-way mirror, he was taken by surprise. Surprise was an odd feeling to him. Her back to him, he has seen a young woman playing and.. Composing?
It wasn't unusual, but it was rare to see such a sight. He wanted to see the finished progress. Luckily, patience was one of his best virtues. He only had to wait for another twenty minutes. The woman had placed her violin back in the case and stretched out over the covers. Making sure she was asleep, that was when he had come into the room.
His footsteps were as quiet as a ghost. He looked down at the papers scattered on her bed. He stifled a small chuckle. Her bed looked just like his when he got into one of his moods. Her compositions were simple, but with a guiding hand, become masterpieces. He looked at her sleeping form. A familiar feeling grew in his chest. The last time he had felt it, he had been the Angel to a new soprano singer. He muffled a growl. He would not even think her, not even her name. Maybe, just maybe, this young violinist could reignite his passion.