"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She obeyed her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music."

~ Gaston Leroux, the Phantom of the Opera.

Chapter One, from the perspective of the Hon. Mme. Nikita Desrosiers, née de La Chance.

15 February 1882.

On the night of Don Juan Triumphant, Erik sang his heart out. His voice alone sent rushes of ecstasy to the women sitting around me, and not even their husbands could protest. But Jeremy sat with tense shoulders, constantly glancing around or biting his nails. Once or twice, his gaze would lift to Raoul and I'd catch them glancing at each other at certain times in the show. More than a few times, Christine would seek me out in the audience, looking as if she was begging for something I couldn't understand or provide, but Erik would be at her side in moments, touching, singing, luring, and once more, she was Aminta.

"What are you doing?" I hissed as Jeremy stood from his seat and edged out to the aisle with muttered apologies to the rest of the theatregoers. I tried to catch his hand, but he moved too quickly, not looking back but walking calmly down the aisle to the side of an officer in the middle of the auditorium. I chewed my lip.

Erik sang on, his proud, strong voice booming around the auditorium, so sensuous it would make even Don Juan quiver. Christine tried not to grimace as she fought the trance he was putting her in, but the creeping of his fingers over her shoulder snatched her breath away and her eyes closed at his words.

I glanced back at Jeremy, whose hissed conversation with the gendarme I couldn't hear from my seat.

"Aminta!" Erik sang, turning Christine to him. "The angels weep in ecstasy! Hark, we shall away to-"

With one deft flick of her hand, Christine ripped his mask off. I couldn't help but gasp. The crowd was silent for a split second.

Then, it happened. The place erupted into deafening screams of disgust, and everyone around me turned their faces away or shielded their eyes from the repulsive sight, the face that was not even a face. After all, what face has no nose and no eyebrows, or cheekbones that protrude alarmingly, with skin covered in bumps, folds and scars?

I stood from my seat uselessly, unable to get to the aisle with everyone panicking. The woman beside me was violently sick all over her dark dress. Another in the row ahead screamed until she went hoarse and fainted in her husband's arms.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jeremy struggling with the guard, wrestling something from him. Erik spotted me at last, his shadowed, sunken eyes wide, and followed my gaze.

Jeremy took careful aim, a steely look in his eyes. Erik ducked as the shot went over his head and splintered the set behind him.

"Shoot to kill!" someone cried. "Shoot to kill, men! Fire!"

A volley of shots rang out from all directions, accompanied by hundreds of horrified screams. I barely caught sight of the gendarmes hiding in the boxes and gallery, filling the auditorium with gunshots, before a surge of people desperate to escape almost trampled me. I jumped onto my seat. Erik scurried across the stage to Christine with a ferocious bark of rage, where she was making a break for the wings. He made to catch her, his fingers so close to her arm and yet-

Jeremy fired the pistol again.

Blood splattered the stage. Erik gave a scream of pain and clutched his arm. He fixed his fiery glare upon Jeremy, amber cinders suddenly ignited into a raging blaze. Christine's steps faltered in horror, a tragic mistake.

Grabbing her in one hand and his sword in the other, Erik fled with a cry of anger as more gunshots followed him off-stage, leaving thick drops of blood on the sets. The torrent of people swallowed Jeremy up.

"Shoot him!" Raoul screamed, jumping about in Box Five. "Shoot him! And watch out for Christine!"

I struggled against the crowd, fighting to get to the aisle. With my heart in my throat, the screams of hundreds of people in my ears and Jeremy out of sight, I couldn't help but panic. Another chorus of raised voices arose and fingers pointed to the ceiling. I followed their direction. That was the moment my world stopped.

The chandelier was coming down.

Four months earlier...

Paris, 1881.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop.

The rhythm of the shoe-shod hooves against the street and the whirring of the carriage wheels had been lulling me to sleep for three hours now. The only thing that had been keeping me awake was the anticipation of reaching my destination and the fact that after twenty minutes of cleaning one of my daggers, a stubborn crimson stain still refused to fade. I gave up on it and threw it back into my suitcase.

Now, the dirty, horsey and smokey air of Paris filled my nose and I sat bolt upright in my seat, grinning out of the window like a common tourist. The sight that met me still managed to take my breath away, even after ten years. The Paris Opera House was not something one could miss very easily, even from a distance.

My violin case knocked against my leg and I picked it up into my lap, clutching the handle in glee. The driver called a low "woah" to the horse and the clattering against the cobble streets ceased.

I didn't wait for the footman to open the door for me, choosing to jump out myself in delight, seizing the chance to stretch my aching legs. The huge building was as grand and as daunting as ever, yet the word 'family' sprang to mind. And that word alone reminded me of one specific person.

The astonished footman managed to pass me my suitcase without dropping it. I tipped him with a smile and the dying, shrivelling apple I'd been putting off eating. He hid the face of disgust he'd almost pulled, but I was already paying the driver and giving the steed a well-deserved pat on the neck.

Bounding up the steps to the huge oak and glass door, I breathed another lungful of the dirty air I had almost forgotten, though how could I say the same about the mouthwatering scent of fresh bread rolls and cream buns from the Café de l'Opéra across the square?

"Mademoiselle de La Chance!"

I grinned from ear to ear at the sound of that voice. "Madame Giry!"

"How wonderful to see you once more!" she greeted, leaving the safety of the front door to wrap her arms around my shoulders and kiss my protected cheeks. I echoed her greeting, abandoning my old suitcase and violin case to the floor. "But still wearing a mask?"

Ah, yes. My mask.

I liked to think of it as a 'whole-hearted, nothing-left-out' mask: it was a light shade of cream and covered every inch of my face, with the exception of my lips, chin and eyes. I had tied the strings in a neat bow and slipped it under my chestnut hair; though perhaps 'neat' is an overstatement.

I nodded with a grin that hadn't faded since turning onto the Rue de l'Opéra. "You know what it hides, Madame. The one downside to my travels, I'm afraid."

"People will think you're related to the Master," she joked, taking me inside.

I only smiled and went after her, touching Gluck's podium as we climbed the steps into the grand foyer. "Thinking is overrated."

"Which country were you thrown out of this time?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Germany." I chuckled at her frown. "And I wasn't thrown out. They'd have to catch me for that, and the last thing they'd do is let me go."

"I don't want to know." She rolled her eyes and turned away, probably heading off to the dance foyer for all I knew. "You two are another sort of evil altogether."

"You do exaggerate," I teased, waving a quick goodbye and walking out towards the Grand Escalier. Out of all the sights Europe offered me over the past five years, this surely had to be the most breath-taking. I smiled at the way the polished steps shone in the candlelight. Gold panels all around glittered like troves of treasure; indeed, the opera house was a treasure in itself.

I touched the bannister, unable to help but run my white gloves along the smooth marble, recalling the days when I'd helped go over these very designs and walked them for the first time. The floor plans were still engrained in my mind's eye, enough that I might be able to walk the house backwards.

Not likely, I grinned, clutching my violin case a little tighter. Five years out of the country wouldn't have helped my memory.

Something feathery light touched my mask, pressing it slightly into my skin. A sharp jolt of pain laced through my face. I snatched the hand, turning it on itself. Whoever was behind me, daring to reach for me like that, yelped in pain. I bent the hand back further, further, until I was sure it would snap with just one flick. Another yelp. I glared over my shoulder and turned to the assailant, not letting go.

A pair of horrified, green eyes stared back at me, coupled with a gaping mouth.

"Touch the mask again," I growled, scowling amongst the laces of stinging that now coursed through my skin. "I insist."

I let the hand go.

The man stumbled back, dropping a few cases to the floor in favour of tending to his wrist.

"Sorry, Mademoiselle," he whimpered, rubbing his wrist where I'd left red marks on his light skin. He managed to tip his cap politely but hissed and went back to his hand with a blush. I glanced at the cloud of sawdust that gathered on my suitcases. "I only meant to catch your attention, Mademoiselle. I'm meant to show you to your room, Mademoiselle."

And he touched his cap again, fiddling with the braces that held up pantaloons, which quite honestly looked ready to fall off his skinny frame.

I shut my mouth firmly, shifting my mask back into place, out of bad habit and routine more than his doing, though he flushed and scurried to pick up my cases.

"Your violin?" he asked eagerly as I followed him through endless corridors to a darker part of the opera house, a hallway with plenty of doors, behind which I assumed were the few bedrooms available. I glanced at my case and nodded, offering him a smile.

"Why do you ask?"

There was the flush again. He didn't meet my eyes, but his smile couldn't have been wider. "I listen to your compositions, Mademoiselle. My friend, Guillaume, he plays them for me when he can. Sad to say I can't play an instrument for toffee, but you-"

He swallowed and stopped outside one particular door. "You've helped me through a lot these past few years, Mademoiselle, without your even knowing it. I can't begin to thank you enough."

I smiled. It was a rare thing for me to do, yet somehow this scruffy stagehand brought it out in me. He had to be in his mid-twenties, give or take; the thick, dark, curly hair most likely made him look more boyish, and if it weren't for the stubble along his chin and over his lips, I'd have knocked even more years off.

He opened the door for me and strode inside, leaving my cases by a wall. I followed, watching as he tried to arrange them neatly, and didn't tell him that I'd be unpacking in a few minutes anyhow. I set my violin case by the door and looked around at my home for the next number of months until I'd find myself with no other option but to flee. It happened every time; I'd just be settled, perhaps have a steady income, and then five, sharp raps would sound at my door and I'd be hauling myself out the window and jumping into garden bushes.

Alright, that was just the once, in Austria, but I didn't see any windows in this room and that disconcerted me. One way in, one way out.

The stagehand completed his little quest for neatness and stood back. A sudden realisation dawned in his eyes.

"My manners, of course!" He extended a hand. "Jeremy Desrosiers."

Oooh, Desrosiers!

"Nikita de La Chance." I offered mine and he kissed my knuckles, bowing slightly; I came up to his shoulder when he stood upright. "The name sounds familiar."

If he blushed any further, he'd turn into a tomato. "My uncle is the Count of Rosiers-sur-Garonne, Mademoiselle. No, please, don't look at me like that! There's nothing to be impressed about with me. I've only the clothes on my back and the sawdust in my hair. Even my little apartment isn't really mine."

Oh. Never mind.

"A pleasure meeting you, Monsieur," I said. "I'll remember to play for you at some stage."

Now I was certain he'd turn into a tomato or pepper or something. He fidgeted with his braces and muttered something so indistinguishable, I didn't waste my time trying to decipher it. He made for the door at an awkwardly fast pace, hands flexing at his sides.

"Jeremy!" I called as he crossed the threshold. He froze in place. "I'm sorry about hurting your hand. It's the mask... I have my reasons."

"Of course," he spluttered. "Well, erm... goodnight, Mademoiselle!"

And then he was gone. I frowned and checked the clock on the dressing table. Not even midday.

One really shouldn't meet one's idols. I plonked myself on the cold, hard, single bed and stared up at the ceiling. Nothing good would come of his expectations.

I sighed, tired from all the carriages and long walks I'd taken to get here. My gaze wandered to a beautiful golden statue, surprisingly polished where the rest of the room was dusty. Wings sprouted from his noble back as his eyes gazed up into the heavens. His hands rested together in a silent prayer. A harp sat by his feet, resting against his leg. An angel. An angel, more specifically, of music.

What kind of servant's room had a five foot tall, golden statue of a praying angel casually standing by the wall, seemingly hidden away from the rest of the people here?

Without a second thought, I grabbed the lantern and set it on the floor carefully, laying my gloved hands on the shiny metal and beginning to push.

The angel looked heavy. Indeed, it was heavy, but I hadn't expected it to sit on hidden wheels, masked by the golden robes. It moved much easier than I had expected and I almost toppled over.

It was virtually impossible to stifle my laugh of triumph. There, in the dimness of the candlelight was a cold, dark, narrow and lonely passageway that quickly led to a flight of stone stairs not five feet away from this exit. After the third step, the darkness enveloped the rest of the passageway.

I was a fool. It was obvious in everything I did. Especially in picking up the lantern with a grin and moving the statue back into place once I had worked my way into the doorway. It slid back neatly, stopping as if it was blocked from going any further when it covered the passage entrance entirely. Shining the lantern's flame further down the stairs, I smirked even further and began to step down the stone stairs, the soft candlelight guiding me bit by bit down the tunnel.