Prologue– The Paris Opera House 1881

Foolish stable boy. He shouldn't have come seeking things he was not meant to see. The foolish boy sat in the torture room now, having his mind readied to sign his own letter of resignation.

"BOY!"

"Y-yes?" The fool's voice sounded weak. Perfect. This only made it easier.

"Are you ready to sign?"

"Yes, monsieur." The boy was brought out, and tied to a chair. His right hand was unchained and a blank sheet of paper as well as a pen was pushed toward him.

"Go! Write!"

The boy scribbled hastily, writing a letter explaining how he had become engaged and left town to seek employment elsewhere with his new bride. He wrote of how he would miss the opera house, but had to leave quickly so he could elope. The girl already had a suitor and they needed to flee. He signed his name and looked up.

"Am I know free to go, monsieur?"

"It really depends on how you define 'leave', boy." The boy was too weak, his throat too parched, his mind too drained to duck the lasso. Using a hot poker, one side of the boy's face was mangled horribly, and capped with a mask.

After the corpse had been pulled into dress-clothes, it was carried to the stable, left to be found by his own kind. The letter had been sent shortly before.

Erik laughed horribly and went back down into the labyrinth under the opera to await news of his own "death".

10 Years Later, in Copenhagen Denmark

"Tikva, I honestly don't understand what there isn't to like about Benyamin! I mean, first of all, he is the rabbi's son, and second of all, he plans to study at a Yeshiva, and third of all, you are twenty one and it is about high time you got married." Golde Maneshevitz spoke to her daughter in rapid Yiddish as she pinned her dress. For some reason, even with her mouth full of pins, each word was clear, and quite loud.

"Mama," Tikva turned around and tried to look her mother in the face. It was difficult, being as Golde was pinning the hem at the current time. "Mama, what if I don't get married at twenty one? You didn't."

"Yes, and I was living in Paris as a costume designer and it was the worst decision I ever made. Now hold still, I want you to look lovely at your brother's bar mitzvah!"

"Mama, first of all, if you hadn't gone to Paris, you wouldn't have met papa, and second of all, no one is going to be looking at me at Samuel's bar mitzvah.."

"The rabbi's son will be looking!"

"MAMA! I wasn't done yet!"

"How was I to know you weren't done?"

"Normally, when one's mouth is still open, one has yet to still finish speaking."

"How could I see it your mouth was open? I'm still checking to see that the hem is straight! You know, Tikva, this will deep blue will match your eyes beautifully. It will really help set them off against your fair skin and dark hair."

"That's lovely, mama, but I still wasn't done yet."

"Oh." Golde went back down to pinning. "Continue."

"Well, I was thinking of staying in Paris for a while before getting married."

Golde's mouth dropped open. Several pins fell out and bounced a few times against the carpet before being hopelessly lost in the thick pile. "You will do no such thing!"

"But you met papa there, he was playing the oboe and–"

"You will do no such thing."

"YOU DID IT!"

"Yes, Tikva, I did. I did it and I regretted it for the rest of my life. Paris is an evil, evil place, Tikva, a fire should burn it." Golde's eyes grew dark and clouded. "When I lived in Paris, Tikva, they hated the Jews."

"They always hate us, mama! Denmark is one of the few places–"

"I know, Tikva. But it was so bad in Paris, and still is that–"

"That you didn't cover your hair, changed your name and had to wear a cross at least once. I've hear the story mama, I know the evils of Paris."

"Then why do you still want to go?"

"I have to write my book."

"And how do you plan on supporting yourself while you are trying to write a novel in Paris?"

"I will work as an alto at the Paris Opera House. I have already sent letters to the opera house requesting an interview, and have sought out a place to stay. If I remember correctly, mama, it was the same apartment you had."

Her mother's mouth dropped open a second time. "Not, the Paris Opera House, the Paris Opera House?"

"Yes mama, the same Paris Opera House. Papa trained me well."

Golde swelled with pride. "Of course he did. Your father is a wonderful oboe player, a marvelous musician, and a brilliant teacher. It's no wonder his music store is a wonderful success. But, Tikva, I still can't let you go. Why don't you stay in Copenhagen?"

"Because you can't write a novel in COPENHAGEN!"

"Your father and I promised each other, after leaving Paris, pregnant with you, that no offspring of ours would venture there. Paris is too dangerous a place for a young girl."

Avram Maneshevitz was strong man. He was wide, and broad shouldered, with a large lung capacity. It was perfect for playing the oboe, but he also had a deep bass voice. Avram ran a music store, where he sold instruments, sheet music, music books, and gave lessons. Avram had tutored Tikva to give her a beautifully clear alto singing voice, and her brother, Samuel, had been taught to play both the trumpet and the cello. Samuel had just turned thirteen, and his bar mitzvah was this Friday. Currently, it was something that almost everyone in Tikva's little corner of Copenhagen was talking about.

Samuel's bar mitzvah went smoothly and beautifully. Tikva sat in the woman's section of the synagogue as Samuel chanted his torah portion and read the prayers. Avram stood on the bema, beaming at his son, and occasionally looking up at his wife and daughter behind the barred partition.

After the bar mitzvah was a celebration. All though it, however, Tikva worried. She worried about the letters she had sent, and wether she could actually go. But most of all, she worried about the train ticket in her pocket, that called for her to leave in the dead of night. She chose tonight, because she felt everyone would be worn out from Samuel's party, and she figured it would be easiest for her to leave if everyone was a tad bit drunk. She was wearing her blue dress, the one her mother had made her, and since her mother was a dressmaker, she was fine with that. It was a rich, royal blue, that matched her eyes, as her mother had said. Her family was a bit more modern, and her parents had decided that their children wouldn't have to cover their hair until they were married, so Tikva's hair lay down, long, dark brown, and wavy. Usually she straightened it and wove it up into a bun around her head, but in the hustle and bustle of preparing for Samuel that morning, finding his sock, shoes, making sure his talit wasn't wrinkled, making sure his tie was straight, etc. etc., she had been unable to straighten it, and instead just wore it down. She was sitting at the table of honor, talking to one of her friends who had walked over, when none other than the Rabbi and his son decided to pay them a visit.

"You look lovely, dear Tikva." The rabbi was an old man, but was very wise, and much loved. He patted her hand and smiled at her. He was like everyone's grandfather. Indeed, his "son", was actually his grandson, whose parents had been killed in a riot in Germany. Benyamin was small, not very strong, wore glasses, but had an earnest face and was very nice. The thing was, he seemed more of a brother than a husband.

"You do look, erm, lovely, Tikva." He smiled up at her. "The dress really matches your eyes."

"Thank you, Benyamin."

"No, I mean it, it really looks lovely."

"Thank you, Benyamin." She said again, her voice a bit harder this time. Why wouldn't he leave?

"I mean it. It really brings out your eyes."

"I'm sure it does, Benyamin." She was now certain he wasn't going to leave, and truly, the topic of her dress was really starting to bore her. "How do you think my brother did?"

"Oh, Tikva, he did wonderfully." Benyamin sighed wistfully, and Tikva strongly doubted he was thinking about her brother.

"So, Benyamin, when do you leave for the Yeshiva?"

"In a few months. After that, I would like to stay in Zion for a while, but I did wish I could have someone waiting for me."

Tikva took a deep breath. "I'll be waiting for you, Benyamin."

"You will?" He looked so hopeful, she hated to burst his lovely little dream, but she had no choice.

"I'll be waiting for you as a sister waits for a brother."

Benyamin looked crushed. He smiled weakly. "You are so pretty, Tikva."

Tikva shook her head. "No, Benyamin. You will meet other girls, much prettier than I, holier than I, in Zion." Tikva was pretty, but in a very unremarkable way. She had fair skin, and her long dark hair, but her face was not memorable, except for her eyes. Benyamin had been the first, and probably only boy, she figured, to call her pretty, except for her brother, when she was nervous about getting ready this morning. If only he know what she was nervous about.

Benyamin looked into her eyes. "How can you be certain?"

"I'm certain, Benyamin. Entirely certain."

Tikva hung around her friends for the rest of the evening. She kept glancing at the clock, willing the party to end, so she could go home. Her train left at three o'clock in the morning.

Finally, everyone started going home. Tikva and her family left, and went to their apartment above the two stores they owned. Once she was sure her family was asleep, she pulled the bags she had packed from underneath her bed, and took the letters she had written to all her friends from her drawer. She began to creep down to the exit out of her mother's shop.

Her mother was waiting for her. Tears were streaming down Golde's face as she stood in her nightclothes, looking at her daughter.

"I knew you were going to leave."

"Mama, I have to do this."

At this, her mother completely broke down, sobbing quietly into her own hands. "I know. I don't want you to go, but I cannot stop you. I love you too much to let you go, but I love you too much not to let you."

"Mama, can you deliver these letters?" Tikva handed them to her mother and turned to go.

"Yes. Tikva?"

She turned. "Yes, mama?"

"What name will you be using in Paris."

Tikva had decided this a while ago. "Mama, I will use the same surname you and papa used after you married. DuBois. I will be Charlotte DuBois."

"I love you Charlotte. I wish you the best of luck." Golde smiled at her daughter through her tears. "Take this. Don't forget who you are." She pressed something into Tikva's hand. "Don't forget."

And with that, Tikva ran out into the night.

A/N: Thank you to Virtual Phantom's list of French names for all the French names. Thank you to Fiddler on the Roof for some endless cliches, such as the one of the Rabbi's son. Read and Review, if you do so please.