Music is in Your Blood

Introduction

One year after the tragedy that befell onto the Paris Opera House, my father (the Opera maestro) wrote me to come home. After all of my years in America he wants me to come and play the piano for the rest of my life in the orchestra.

Walking up the gangplank I fiddled with the silver pendant that my father sent me as a gift, it was beautifully handcrafted silver. The ruby rose entwined with a mask hung loosely around my neck on the silver chain. He told me that he had found it in the cellars of the Opera. Whenever I looked at it I was reminded of the stories of the Opera Ghost. They said he wore a mask just like it to hide his deformed face. Whenever I misbehaved my father or Madame Giry would threaten that the Ghost would come and take me away. Of course it was all nonsense. I had always convinced myself that he would not want me anyway because I was never good at anything. I could never dance, or sing like the other girls at the Opera house. Why would he want someone who sat at the piano for hours on end just to play?

I did not really want to return to Paris, for many reasons I suppose. My French was a little rusting even though it was my first language. I did not know if anyone that I knew from my childhood would still be there. I felt as if I were going to a place that I had never been before.

I was never good with traveling and I felt my stomach turn itself into knots as soon as I boarded. My face turned a sickly green every time I traveled somewhere. Turning around I said good-bye to one life as I slowly headed toward another.