Chapter One – The Parisian Opera

Paris – February 2005

Christine Landry stands outside the newly-built Parisian opera house, waiting impatiently. It wasn't like her grandmother to take this long. The cold air bites at her face, the only part of her that is exposed, and she curses silently.

Elle Landry finally appears at the door of the building and motions for her granddaughter to come inside, into the warmth. Christine hurries into the opera house, and Elle closes the door behind her. The sight astounds her. There is a grand staircase tiled in purely white marble, glittering from the light of a magnificent chandelier. "Well, mon chéri? What do you think?"

"It's…amazing!"

"Not the kind of thing many sixteen-year-olds get to see, eh?" She smiles at Christine, glad that she is experiencing the kind of thing her great-great-grandmother, Elle's grandmother, experienced.

"Madame Landry!" There is a male voice from the top of the staircase, and Christine turns. A rather tall man descends the marble stairs towards Elle and Christine, taking the older woman's hand and pressing his lips to it momentarily. "I'm so glad you could make it. We've been looking for an Opera Populaire descendant for years now!"

"André, I'm happy to be here. This is Christine, my granddaughter." She motions to the girl beside her, and Christine extends her hand to meet the man's. "Christine, this is Monsieur André Destler, the owner of the Opera."

"It's a pleasure, Monsieur Destler."

"All mine, Mademoiselle." André looks away from Elle and Christine back up the staircase. "Erik! Get down here!"

"Yes, Father." The voice floats through the air like it's made of silk. Soft, luscious and baritone, it makes Christine quiver. Another man, though merely out of boyhood, appears. He comes down the landing beside André.

"Madame Landry, this is my son, Erik. Erik, this is Madame Elle Landry and her granddaughter Christine." André motions to the two women beside him, and Erik nods in acknowledgement.

"It's a pleasure to meet you both," he says, his astounding voice penetrating Christine's ears as his eyes rest on her. Their eyes meet, but she blinks and looks away, slightly embarrassed that she's being dragged around with her grandmother.

"Erik will be starting medical school in America next fall," André mentions proudly, capturing Christine's attention.

"Really?" Christine says, but realizes that she's spoken out of turn. "I'm sorry. That sounded extremely childish."

"No, no, Mademoiselle. I can understand excitement, especially when you're only…how old are you?" Christine gulps. She feels almost vulnerable now, as if saying her age around two adult men will make them think the less of her, take advantage of her. But her grandmother answers for her.

"She was sixteen in September."

"Ah," André replies. "Elle, I must speak with you in private. Erik," he turns to his son. "Would you be so kind as to give Mademoiselle Landry a quick tour?"

"Of course, Father," he replies in his magnificent voice, motioning for Christine to follow him up the staircase and to the right down a walkway of more marble. There is silence all around them as they enter a covered hallway leading to a large, intricately carved door. Erik slips a key with a red-tasseled end into the lock and flips it.

The smell of freshly-cleaned fabric meets Christine's nostrils as Erik motions for her to walk into the theatre ahead of him. She is met with a glorious sight from her perch atop a stairway leading down toward the seats. The stage is hidden behind an immense golden curtain that matches the trim on the burgundy fabric of the seats. There is a chandelier hanging from the mural-painted ceiling. "What do you think?" Erik asks of her, and she jumps at the sound of his voice after all of this silence.

"It's quite the sight for sore eyes."

"That it is."

"May I?" she asks tentatively, motioning towards the downward slope of the stairs. Erik nods, and she slowly descends down the Persian-carpeted stairway towards the stage. It isn't that long of a walk, and she knows that Erik has been behind her the whole way. She stands at the foot of the stage, taking in all of its grandeur, and wishes suddenly that she could be on the stage.

She hears the movement of pulleys and the shuffle of fabric, and turns. The glamorous gold curtain is rising off of the wood of the stage, and she sees Erik at the source of the movement, just off to her side. Christine hops up on the stage and walks to its center, looking out over the seats.

"Christine? Are you down there?"

"Yes, Grand-mère!" she calls up towards the door, hurrying off of the stage, Erik behind her. Their footsteps echo around the emptiness of the theatre as they run to the door.

"It is time to go, Christine." She looks at André, who stands behind her. "Au revoir, Monsieur. Erik." They walk out of the opera house and down the frosty streets. "They're very nice men, don't you think, mon chéri?" Elle says as Christine waves down a taxi.

"They're nice enough." The ride back to Elle's apartment is long and silent, and when they finally reach their home, Christine wants nothing more than a warm cup of tea. "Tea, Grand-mère?"

"Yes, Christine, thank you." As she runs to put a kettle of water on the small stove, Elle speaks again, this time more seriously. "Christine, would you think of joining the opera's company?"

"Pardon?"

"Monsieur Destler was speaking with me about having you join. He's looking forward to it, I know. He'd be very flattered if you took him up on the offer." Christine turns the stove on and turns back to her grandmother, a little confused. Why on earth would she join the Paris Opera? It seems a little old-fashioned to her.

"Grand-mère, much as I love you, I would never join the opera. Tell Monsieur Destler I decline." She turns back to the kettle.

"Christine, humor me. Join the opera. If you don't like it after a year, we'll pull you out."

"A year? But Grand-mère!"

"I will tell Monsieur Destler you accept at the opening reception. It's a masquerade, you know. It ought to be most enjoyable." Christine sighs in defeat.

"Mama wouldn't like you forcing things on me." That does it for Elle.

"Christine Marie Landry, how dare you say your dear deceased mother's name in vain!"

"She wouldn't like it, Grand-mère! How many times must I remind you?" Both Christine and Elle are on the edge now.

"You will join the opera," Elle says through gritted teeth, tears forming at her eyes. "Your mother certainly would've wanted that. No more discussion."

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