CHAPTER ONE
The night was cold and fog swirled through the streets like ghostly whispers of carriages long gone. The stars above shone like bits of shattered glass strewn across the black abyss that was the sky. A lone figure made its way through the streets, cloaked and shrouded in darkness, bare feet padding along the cobblestones. The merciless wind bit at her skin, whipping her hair about her face chilling her to the bone, urging her onward. Rubbing her hands together in an attempt to revive some feeling in them and casting a nervous glance backward she hastened her pace further until she was running with all the speed she could muster toward the only place she knew of that could offer refuge for a wretch like her on a cold winter night; that looming shadow which emanated safety and protection: the abandoned opera house.
Born into wealth, Estelle Termonde's was destined for the comfortable existence of any Parisian woman of society. She would have attended operas and played the piano. She would have been perfectly assimilated, called upon by suitors seeking her hand. She would have held teas in the sitting room of her tastefully furnished home where she would mingle with the other women, gossiping about the most recent scandals in town, never once forgetting her posture, manners, and demure façade. Estelle's life was not supposed to be what it became at the age of two.
One day Charlotte and Joseph Termonde had gone to visit a Monsieur Leon Delacroix, an old friend in Rouen, leaving their daughter with her governess, Adele, and promises to return soon with a new doll for her. She dearly loved dolls and every time her parents went away somewhere far they would bring back a doll for her.
Three days later, while Estelle was seated on the floor rolling a small ball about there came a knock on the door. Adele bustled over to the door, peaking out to see who was there. Her eyes widened with surprise and fear as she opened the door wider, revealing two gendarmes standing on the doorstep with solemn looks on their faces. Estelle was much too young to understand what was going on, but she knew that something was wrong when she saw her governess lay a hand over her mouth in horror. There had been an unfortunate mishap with the carriage the gendarmes had told her. Estelle's parents would not return.
She was left with nothing. As a child and a woman, whose parents did not leave a will, all property was seized by the government and she was placed in the care of an orphanage in a particularly crime-ridden, dangerous area of Paris, being that the only other family she had could not support another child in addition to their twelve.
Growing up in the orphanage left her on her own for most of her life, and, eventually, at the age of fourteen, she ran away from that horrid place, only to realize that life on the streets would be more difficult that she had ever imagined. Her years in the orphanage had hardened her, but did not prepare her for life in the slums of Paris.
She was starving on her own, for any time she attempted to steal something from the market she would be caught and had to run to save herself. She was not made for life on the streets. She had a kind heart, and one could not afford such a thing when living on the streets and fending for oneself. Estelle knew she would not survive the winter if she did not figure something out quickly. It was then that she met Armand. Somewhere between his sharp wit, his dazzling smile, and his irresistible charm, Estelle fell in love with him. Yes, Armand Beauvais had been exactly what she needed.
Running up the steps, she stood staring at the towering structure before her with her mouth agape. The opera house had been abandoned for three years, a sparkling gem left to dull and be forgotten, a shell of the glory it used to be. The opening night of Don Juan Triumphant had been the last time the Paris Opera House had any life inside its walls. The Opera Ghost had frightened away any thoughts of restoration, especially after the announcement of his death had been run in the Epoque.
The public was extremely superstitious and, after the wrath of the Ghost had been seen, they did not want to anger him again, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that he was dead. Many believed that if the Ghost was able to produce such disastrous results from the confines of a human body, the havoc he could wreak upon them when the man became a ghost in every sense of the word was far too much for the superstitious public to risk.
There was simply no hope for the opera house to ever be rebuilt, for even if an ambitious manager decided to make an attempt at reopening it, who would dare become a patron for a haunted opera house, knowing his money would be wasted after the performances sold nearly no seats? No, the grand Paris Opera House was no more.
Peering in through the cracks in the boards covering the doorway, Estelle could not make out much, as the moonlight shining through the cracks in the boards over the windows only shed a small amount of light, giving her glimpses of the marble floor, thick with dust. Wedging her dirty hands into a crack and curling her fingers around the edge of a board she pulled back with all her might. She was weak, and it took a lot of pulling to remove the board, but finally, it gave a moan of protest, and after a few tugs she was able to dislodge it. Two more boards followed suit until she had finally created a hole big enough to slip her slender body through. Feeling like she was being pulled backward and hearing a tearing sound, she looked down and realized the hem of her frock was snagged on a piece of the jagged wood. Tugging on the material, she was able to disentangle it from the board, but ripped part of her dress in her haste.
Oh, no matter. I am a broken, homeless girl and hiding in an abandoned opera house. A tear in my skirt is not of importance anymore.
The air inside the abandoned opera house was laden with dust and soot, and, after allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, Estelle saw that the rest of the Garnier was just as dirty. Still, even dilapidated and neglected, dusty and grimy, the high ceilings and statues were enough to make her jaw drop in awe of its grandeur.
Trailing her hand along the banister she made her way up the staircase where, on the landing, she almost chuckled at the irony of her situation. She was a street urchin, standing atop the grand staircase of what was once one of the most beautiful buildings in Paris. Shaking her head, knowing circumstances like these were the only times she would feel powerful, she turned around and began walking up the left fork in the staircase, making her way down the darkened hallway in search of a nook in which to nest.