A/N Hello my dears. I have a new fic for you. If you could help me, I need a title and a British last name.
Chapter One: Madness
Charlotte didn't understand why her father had made her move to Paris with him. She was much happier back in London, where she had been born ad raised. She could have stayed with her Grandparents, or her father could have never bought that ridiculous Opera House. Charlotte laughed when she remembered why they had moved; her father had bought a 'haunted' opera house. The men they'd hired to move their thing into the house gave her strange looks. Charlotte just giggled and fluttered her fan coyly. She sighed and snapped her fan shut, the men hadn't even given her a second glance.
She turned to the mirror that had been placed behind her. She toyed with a strand of her limp brown hair, wishing it were curly and a more interesting color, like mahogany, or ebony, or a golden blonde. She glanced at her muddy brown eyes and wished they were a bright green, or a vivid blue., even a steely grey would make her happy. Her skin was as pale and flawless as any Victorian woman's should be, but her features were so plain and ordinary.
She was eighteen and unmarried, she'd never even had a proper suitor; she was a burden and a shame to her father and he never let her forget it. The only thing she had in life was her voice. She had the voice of an angel, it was the only compliment her father gave her. She longed to be the Prima Donna at her father's new opera, (and to have a scandalous and passionate love affair, but that was beside the point) but his reply had crushed any hope she'd ever had.
"I don't know what I'm going to do about finding a new Prima Donna. Carlotta Giudicelli will not sing, in fact, I'm afraid she's was driven half-mad by the events of last year. Most of the other divas are to silly and superstitious to sing at my opera, the good one's at least." Charlotte's father finished with a heavy sigh and Mr. Smith, his closest friend, shook his head sympathetically.
"Father," Charlotte began timidly, "I… I could sing."
"You!" Her father sneered. "You are to ugly! No one would pay to hear you sing!" He laughed cruelly.
Charlotte watched her reflection as the unwanted tears streamed freely down her cheeks. She raised her fist and rammed it into the mirror. She stared at her shattered reflection, not caring that her white gloves were torn and were slowly absorbing the crimson blood that flowed from her numerous cuts.
"Do you think she's mad?" She heard one of the maids whisper.
"Poor thing," another replied, "ugly and insane." Charlotte turned her blazing eyes on them.
"I'm not mad!" She screamed. "I'm not…." She fell to the floor sobbing. "I'm not mad…. I'm not… I'm not…." The maids shook their heads and quikly walked away murmering quietly among themselves. Charlotte screamed and buried her face in her hands.
Fifteen minutes after her 'fit' Charlotte was in the room that was to be hers. She had chosen it because of the bay window wich over looked the garden in the back. It was a beautiful garden. It was mostly roses of colors, white, yellow, pink... and Charlottes favorite, a deep scarlet. The richness of that deep red reminded her of blood... There were other flowers to, but there were mostly roses and those were all the Charlotte cared about, becuase they were her favorites.
She turned to access her room and make sure all her furniture had made it safely from London. Her great mahogony bed was there, as was her piano, she was gald the room was big enough for it and for the rest of her possessions. She checked on her bedside table and found that the maids had unpacked her things already. She picked up the silver mirror that had been her mother's, the only mirror in her room. It was the only thing she had left her. Her mother had died when Charlotte was eleven and sometimes what hard on Charlotte, for she had loved her mother dearly. Kathleen Ó hEachthairn had been a beautiful woman, not just in looks, but in spirit. Charlotte's mother had been a native to Ireland, the land that Charlotte's great-great-great gandfather had been from.
Charlotte sat down at the piano, which had been placed, by her instruction, facing the window, so that she could look out as she played, or composed, as she sometimes did. She placed her hands on the ivory and ebony keys and began to play a slow, dark, compostion she written upon recievng the news about her father's purchase. She had been forced away from all that she knew and loved so that her father could make even more money, not that he need it. Charlotte closed her eyes and let the music fill her and flow from her fingers.
A/N so how's that?