The Opera Populaire stood imposingly within a whirlwind of snow, glowering down upon the many carriages that stood before it. Pasted across the sides of the building were posters that proclaimed "Voir que la Moiré et Niall chante la comédie de chanteur d'opéra, Don Pasquale!" See la Morié and Niall sing the operatic comedy, Don Pasquale!
From those aforementioned carriages poured royalty and near-royalty of all kinds, swathed in cloaks made of the riches fabrics and lined with the most expensive furs. They proceeded up the curving stairs to the Opera House doors, women gripping the arm of a husband or favoured man to keep from blowing away in the fierce wind. However, their delicate courtly dance was interrupted when an observant Countess gave a small cry of surprise and said loudly, "Look, Mallory, the Beaumont's carriage!" Heads turned all over the stairs and many couples stopped—the tragically killed Monsieur and Madame Beaumont were the builders of the Opera House. Their children, a twenty-something boy and his younger twin sisters, were the sole heirs of the wide estates of the rich couple.
The carriage in question, a rather plain black one with a blue and gold crest painted on the door, glided to a stop and a footman jumped down to hand out the occupants. A murmur spread through the crowd—the younger daughters must have come for the premier of Don Pasquale!
The waiting crowd was not disappointed; two slim girls, about sixteen years of age, were let out by said waiting footman. One of the two sisters waved away the carriage with a laugh in reply to something her twin said. They swept gracefully up the right staircase, conversing quietly with each other as the sea of highborns parted before the two heiresses.
The twins swept regally into the main hall of the Opera House, nodding to various well-respected persons as they were relieved of their cloaks. The twin standing on the left nodded vigorously at something her sister said, curly black hair bouncing cheerfully as her crystal blue eyes shone with laughter. Her wide-skirted burgundy velvet dress was somber for such a young woman, but the rose vine patterns on the bodice lightened it to a more acceptable mood.
"Sylvia," she said quietly to her sister, "You really must not be so crude in public."
Sylvia's grey eyes glittered as she tossed her straight black hair over her shoulder. "Aurore, dear," she whispered back, "You must admit it was quite true." Her black-gloved hands smoothed over her silver bodice and arranged the wide front split in her skirts that let black silk and taffeta underskirts come through.
"Do you have the tickets?" asked Aurore after searching in a hidden pocket in her bodice, only to see said tickets held aloft in a black-gloved hand.
"Here," came the answer, and the small slips of paper that proved they were supposed to be there were slipped back down the long glove.
Aurore laughed. "What an innovative place to put them," she told her counterpart.
Sylvia giggled back as she tugged her glove so it lay perfectly upon the middle of her upper arm, only to pull the tickets back out as an usher came towards them, bowing deferentially. She handed him the tickets and smiled coldly at a nearby Vicomte who was eyeing the two girls up. Aurore, however, was not so subtle and gave the man a death-glare before stalking off after the usher.
"Box Five, ma'moiselles," said the usher politely. "The best seat in the house, if I may be so bold to say, ma'moiselles, and it says on your tickets that it shall be left empty for you at every performance."
"Thank you, monsieur," the twins chimed in unison as they arrived at the box, "That shall be all."
The usher looked slightly frightened by their simultaneous answer but nodded anyway and darted off with a sketchy bow. Sylvia and Aurore looked at each other, amused, before sweeping inside the box.
A/N: Well, we hope you all liked the prologue! Chapter one should be up soon, once I get chapter two done and pass chap. three off to Ankh. Oh, and before I forget, I'll stick in this so I don't get yelled at. Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera Copyright Gaston Leroux and other cool people like that. In essence, not ours, no matter how much we pray.