I love reading these fics and so I thought I'd attempt my own. Feel free to review, but if you are going to criticize I appreciate if it is constructive.:) And naturally let me attach the usual disclaimer: I do not own any Phantom-related characters, I am merely borrowing them for my amusement. :)

Spring came down from the mountains, striding in stately beauty through the valleys of southern France, laying down a raiment of flowers in her wake. She walked through the provinces, laying her hand lightly on the villages that she passed, causing grass blades to spring up and lilies and roses and narcissuses to unfurl their petals and watch her passing. Her path led her eventually from the wilds of the countries to the stately city of Paris, where the sun now painted the ancient buildings with crimson and gold and the Seine glittered in its rays.

In Paris, that city of love and beauty, the spring saw the end to whispers of the Opera Populaire scandal, for it had grown dull and uninteresting in the face of other stories and rumour. The haute ton of the city burned for gossip, thrilled to hear of new drama, and they were quick to flit from story to story, nevermind the lives and tattered reputations that were left in their wake.

The final whisper, spoken by a lady of wintry complexion to her companion at a fete, was simple: "I suppose with Christine and Raoul gone from Paris, the ghost of the Opera has vanished as well."

The response was a murmured nicety, for with two of the major players in the drama gone from the country there was little to hold interest for long. And thus the story that had burned so brightly for a moment's time was ashes, and the wind dancing about spring's ankles carried those ashes away.

The story lingered in one place only: the poorer quarters of the city. And it did not interest those who dwelt in poverty for the same reason as it had interested those of the glittering upper classes: they did not shiver as they whispered about the Phantom, that monster dwelling in the depths below the Opera house. No – he was hardly mentioned at all.

But those starry-eyed daughters of chimney sweeps and fishmongers and ribbon-sellers sighed over the fairy-tale ending of Christine Daae, who – but an opera girl – had been elevated to that circle of privileged people the like of which they rarely saw. If it could happen to her, they whispered and wondered, could it also happen to one of them? Would a wealthy viscount sweep in on his white horse and take one of them away, to a world in which silk ballgowns, diamond necklaces, and dancing until dawn was the norm?

Thus it was that, when the murmurs of monsters had dimmed and rumour had fled to plague other people and the managers of the Opera Populaire quietly submitted an advertisement to the paper requesting interested, opera-caliber singers to come forth and interview for the job that La Carlotta was soon to quit, many of the daughers of the lower class presented themselves at the door of the Opera on the appointed day.

In that line was a young woman of tender age and subtle beauty, daughter of a fabric merchant and a modiste, of humble background and upbringing. Her name was Silvia. She was not there, as many of the ladies were, in hopes of attracting one of the wealthy opera patrons as her spouse – she was there due to her love of singing. In her childhood she had been classically trained, the benefit of having a father who traded in expensive silks and velvets that the upper class so enjoyed. But an unfortunate fire had quickly put an end to any hopes of wealth that the family entertained, and recovering had been difficult, and the lessons had ended.

Humming a few bars of the song she had prepared, Silvia watched the slow meandering of the line ahead of her. She had few hopes of being chosen, not with so much competition, but the chance to sing on the stage of the Opera Populaire was enough to make the waiting worth it.

An hour more and she was finally called before the managers of the Opera, two gentlemen whose weariness sat upon them so heavily that Silvia doubted even a good sleep would cure it. They greeted her courteously enough, one rubbing the bridge of his nose, the other gesturing towards the stage.

"If you will, mademoiselle," he instructed her. She nodded and made for the steps.

When she finally stood at the center of the great stage, she lifted her eyes to the heights of the theater, her heart thrilling beneath her breast. The gilded columns, the hundreds of velvet chairs – in her mind she filled the seats with dazzlingly beautiful women and dashing men, all there to see her sing. A cleared throat drew her back to the present, and she curtsied sheepishly to the managers who sat patiently before her.

She began to sing, enjoying the rush of words in her throat as they poured from her soul to fill the Opera. It was a song she had learned long ago, something ancient, with so many meanings one could take what they wished from the words. Her voice rang over the velvet seats, clear and beautiful, and the managers drew their heads together in whispered conference.

A mere two days later she was, to her utter disbelief, invited to join the Opera Populaire's company. And when she strode in on the first day to meet the people she would be working with, everyone saw a slim, black-haired girl of pleasing features and sweet manner.

Everyone excepting the managers. They saw her for the reason they had hired her: as bait.