Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Phantom of the Opera. (looks around) Erik, get back in the closet before someone finds you! (looks back at readers) Nope, don't own Erik at all…

AN: Here is another chapter. I'm going to skip a few things because, let's face it, reading about moving somewhere just isn't exciting. Therefore, I'm using my author's powers to move things faster. Also, the Craven's are the first "official" owners of the Populaire after it's been rebuilt, since building stuff took a while back then. Thanks for reading, and please review!

Chapter 3: Paris:

As the carriage my father, uncle and I were in approached the Opera House, I found that I could not believe how different Paris was from our country home.

Of course, I had stayed in London many times in my life, and had expected Paris to be just as bustling and noisy; however, it was amazingly different from England. The fact that it was French being spoken did not bother me; Grandmother had seen to it that all of her daughters and granddaughters learned to speak fluent French while growing up. I understood every word that reached my ears, but it was not the spoken word or the physical look of city itself that awed me. No, it was the fact that the air itself vibrated with a life-force quite different from that of England.

While London had been full of people going to-and-fro, Paris was far livelier; the air seemed thick with emotions and energies that I had never felt before, and it excited me to no end. Women in the newest Parisian fashions walked along the streets, and I had to resist the urge to tell Papa that I needed to shop for new things. Elegant silks and hats caught my eye, and I felt the need to go shopping.

'But there is no money for that now,' I thought sadly, watching one woman in a particularly lovely blue gown. 'The Opera House must come before all else; then, after we've had a successful production, I will be able to dress as the other girls do in Paris.'

A gasp escaped my lips as I felt the carriage slow and the Opera House came into view. The grandiose building was breathtaking, and the golden statues on the roof of it glittered as though in welcome of their new owners. I wished that my Uncle Gregory's wife and children could be here, but the little ones were too young to make the journey to France and had to be left at home. No doubt that they would instantly love the impressive fantasy-like air it inspired.

The carriage pulled to a stop at the front door and Papa leapt out, closely followed by my uncle. Both men offered to help me out, and after I had exited, I looked around. Surprisingly, there was a small group standing there to meet us, consisting mostly of young girls in identical filmy white dresses. From their appearance, I judged them to be from the ballet.

At the head of the group was an older woman about the age of my mother, her face solemn and serious as she waited to greet us. She was dressed entirely in black, meaning that she was a widow, and in her right hand she clutched an ivory-handled cane. Her silvery-blond hair was pulled up into a severe bun and her grey eyes were proud. The expression on her face was stern, but I could see a soft kindness to it, a kindness that was probably not given out very freely. To the woman's left stood a pretty young girl with flowing blonde hair and blue eyes. She, too, was dressed in a flowing, simple white dress, and, looking closely, I noticed that her facial features resembled Madame Giry's.

"Welcome, Monsieur Craven," the woman said as she stepped forwards. "I am Madame Antoinette Giry, the ballet mistress." She gestured to the girl standing to her left. "This is my daughter, Meg; she is the prima ballerina here at the Populaire. The others are my ballet dancers."

Papa gave her a slight bow. "Madame Giry, thank you for meeting us," he said with a smile. "This is my brother, Gregory, and my daughter, Aria. She will be living here at the Opera House with my brother and me."

Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. "You will be staying here?" she asked, obviously puzzled. "Do you not have a home here in Paris? Or at least a hotel where you will likely be more comfortable?"

Uncle shook his head. "We wish to be nearer to our employees, if only to spare the time and money of sending a messenger in case of an emergency," he explained.

I watched Madame carefully as she tried to absorb my father and uncle's words. Her face had become slightly alarmed when my father introduced me, and her eyes had flicked towards my left hand, almost as though she were checking to see if I were married. When Papa had declared that we Craven's would be staying at the Opera House together, surprise had joined the alarm in her eyes, and I could see a touch of fear there as well.

'What could possibly frighten her about us staying here at the Opera House?' I thought to myself.

Perhaps she was stealing money or some sort of thing from the Opera House and feared to be found out? Could that be it? Examining her expression, I decided against that idea; her face was closed to the casual observer, but her eyes were the window to her true emotions. She was no thief fearing to be caught, but her obvious sense of panic about something was quite real.

I tore my eyes away from her and focused on her daughter. Meg Giry was as short of stature as I was, though perhaps a bit smaller. She was very slight and pretty, perfect for a ballerina, and her innocent expression was sweet. It would take a heart of stone not to like her, especially if she smiled; I knew without question that she had a lovely, open smile.

Even as I thought that, Meg looked over at me and gave me the smile I'd been thinking of. I returned it openly and honestly, which seemed to make her happier for some reason. She gave me a small nod of greeting, which I also returned.

"Shall we go inside, Monsieur?" Madame Giry asked. "It is quite cold, and it is winter, after all."

"Yes, please," Papa replied, offering me his arm, which I automatically accepted. "I hate keeping my daughter out in the cold like this; she tends to become ill if left outside too long."

I blushed and rolled my eyes at the dancers, who all giggled slightly at my expression. They became silent, however, when Madame turned and gave them a stern look before leading us up to the doors. The dancers trailed behind us like little lost ducklings, all except for Meg, who walked directly to her mother's right.

As I was escorted inside, I looked around and admired the large hallway. White marble, gold painted statues, fantastic murals and a brilliant chandelier filled the room up with welcoming light. I felt joy flow through me as I admired the beauty of it all. The theater close to my home back in England wasn't nearly as grand, and I couldn't help but feel better about Papa's purchase of this place. Surely people would come back to this temple built for music and opera?

"We have many rooms in the Populaire meant for living space, Monsieur," Madame Giry was saying. "There are some lovely ones located near the manager's offices, which I assume will be yours?"

"Absolutely," Papa replied while patting my hand, which was firmly tucked in his elbow.

Madame nodded. "There are two suites of rooms, one for you and your brother, Monsieur, but I'm afraid that there isn't one for your daughter," she apologized. "However, there is room for her in the dormitories if she wishes-"

"Thank you, Madame, but my daughter will not be staying in the dormitories," Papa firmly replied. "I did a bit of research and have decided that she will sleep in the Prima Donna's rooms."

The dancers gasped and began whispering frantically behind my back, causing me to turn around and stare at them. Madame tapped her cane loudly on the floor, getting instant silence with only two taps, much to my amazement; the woman must carry a great deal of respect if she were to get such attention so quickly. I quickly a made a note of it, and decided to try and be in her favor, in case I needed her for something in the near future.

"Monsieur, it is quite unusual for someone other than the Prima Donna to stay in those rooms," Madame said, her voice slightly strained.

My father put on a firm look. "Madame Giry, I happen to know that our newest Prima Donna has her own home near the Populaire and will have no use for the suite," he said as he glared at her. "There is another costume-and-makeup room that she may use that is close to the stage and as comfortable. I have decided that the suite now belongs to my daughter. Is that understood?"

For a moment, I thought Madame would protest, but she quickly silenced herself and nodded before leading us onwards. Behind us, the dancers seemed to vanish on their own, allowing the rest of us to proceed without a group trailing at our rear, for which I was thankful.

As we walked down numerous hallways and listened to Madame explain where certain rooms were and what they were used for, I saw many people gazing at us from behind doors and around corners. I tried not to look at them directly; they were probably just curious about their new managers and what to make of us, since we were strangers from England now living in Paris. The dancers and chorus girls in particular were interested in my father and uncle, and I could guess why.

After hearing a swift flurry of soft chatter, it was obvious that the ballerinas were explaining that my uncle was married and I was the daughter of the other Populaire manager and owner. I watched in satisfaction as the girls looked disappointed; there was no chance for a greedy little performance girl to snatch either one of their new managers, and I barely restrained myself from smirking at them. My uncle was very much in love with his wife, and Papa would never marry again, since he wasn't exactly divorced from my mother in the first place. Since they were very honorable, very loyal men towards their wives, they were quite safe from the scandals of affairs and the like.

"Here are the Prima Donna rooms," Madame Giry declared, stopping right before the white doors trimmed with gold paint. "I hope that Mademoiselle Craven will be comfortable here, as it has the highest quality of everything she could possibly need."

I noticed a touch of emotion in her voice, and could tell she was testing me. Looking her in the eye, I knew that she assumed me to be a spoiled young woman, one who was used to having the best of everything and to ordering others about whilst I sat in my room and looked pretty. Given the chance, I would have told Madame that there was nothing I hated more than sitting around and being idle; I was always writing stories for my cousins, sewing my father's shirts, or listening to our housekeeper play the piano, just so there wasn't so much silence in the house. Now was probably the best time to prove her wrong, though I would have to polite in doing so.

Glancing towards Meg, I had a sudden epiphany. Perhaps the best way to win over Madame Giry was to become friends with her daughter. The young dancer seemed like a good sort, and I found myself eager to have someone to talk to besides my father and uncle. So, putting on my best smile, I gave Madame an honest, grateful look.

"Thank you, Madame Giry," I replied. "I'm afraid that the long journey has taken its toll on me. Would it be alright if your daughter Meg joined me for some tea? I would like to get to know her better and perhaps we could tour the Opera House together."

I watched as Meg's blue eyes lit up, very much eager to make a new friend. It probably didn't matter that I was the manager's daughter; she just looked as though she wanted a friend to talk with, someone who hadn't already knew the latest talk and stories occurring within the Opera House. Also, since I wasn't a dancer or a singer, we would probably have many other things to talk about without feeling as though I wanted to take Meg's place as prima ballerina.

Meanwhile, Madame Giry looked as though she wanted to be sure that I wanted to become friends with her Meg, not toying around with the other girl's emotions and kindness. For a moment, I came under the scrutiny of Madame Giry's gaze, her gray eyes staring into mine as she attempted to read my intentions. It made me uncomfortable for a moment, as it was the same sort of trick Grandmother used when she was trying to see if someone was lying to her or not. Knowing it would prove disastrous to look away, I merely stood there and allowed the ballet mistress to 'read' me.

After what felt like an eternity, those cold eyes warmed slightly, and she nodded. "Very well, then," Madame said. Turning towards her daughter, she continued, "Meg, since today is a rest day for the Populaire, you may stay with Mademoiselle Craven while the staff and I meet with her father and uncle. When you are finished, come and see me about practice for tomorrow."

She then gave Meg a severe look that told her not to do anything stupid before leading Papa and Uncle Gregory off. Papa gave me a kiss on the forehead before leaving, as well as pressing a small cloth purse into my palm. Before I could thank him, he had vanished around the corner. Sighing, I turned towards Meg and gave her a smile, which she shyly returned.

"Shall I have the kitchen send up tea?" she asked. "And a small bit of something for you to eat? Dinner won't be for hours yet, and I'm sure you're hungry."

"Yes, please!" I said with relief. "That way, you and I can talk a bit while we wait."

Meg nodded excitedly before leading me inside the room. To my surprise, the suite was quite large, almost as large as mine had been at my home in England. The walls were covered in wallpaper of a reddish-brown with elegant vines and tiny pink-and-white roses, making the room elegant, but cozy, which I liked very much. On the far side of the room was a tremendous gold-framed mirror that stood at least six-feet-tall; I had always wanted such a mirror for my room, but Papa had always refused, saying how expensive it would be to purchase one of that size. Thus far, I was satisfied with my rooms…except for one thing…

The furniture was covered in pink sheets. If there was one color I detested, it was pink.

Barely containing my urge to gag, I began removing my traveling gloves and hat, pulling out the pins in my hair and letting it fall down my back. As I began combing my fingers through my hair, I listened as Meg began chattering in that sweet voice of hers. I found myself smiling while she talked, as it was soft, musical, and very pleasant to listen to.

"I've rung for tea to be brought up to your room, though I'm terribly sorry about the color," she was saying. "La Carlotta was the diva here before, and her favorite color was pink. And since these rooms were untouched by the fire, it means that they got to keep their looks until long after--oh, my goodness!"

Alarmed, I turned around. Meg's eyes were wide and she was staring at me as though I had grown three heads. "What? What is it?" I asked, wanting to see what had startled her.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Meg apologized. "It's just that you have such pretty hair…I've always wanted dark hair like yours!"

I couldn't help laughing. "Well, if it were possible, mademoiselle, I would gladly trade hair colors with you," I said while giving her a wink. "I've always wanted blonde hair, especially hair that isn't impossible to style. Yours must be easy to put up into curls or braids; mine always escapes its pins and sticks out in the strangest places."

Meg giggled just as a knock was heard at the door. She accepted the tea tray from the serving boy there and thanked him before kicking door shut with the heel of her foot. After setting the tray on a nearby table, she sat and waited for me to finish changing out of my travel clothes. Since my belongings had been sent here from England weeks ago, all of the boxes they had been sent in were neatly stacked in a corner, waiting to be moved to another room, if necessary.

'Thank goodness it's not!' I thought to myself as I pulled off my dress. 'I quite like where I am!'

I watched as bits of dirt floated off of the cloth and winced; it would have to be washed, and soon. Quickly tossing the grimy thing aside, I went to one of the boxes and began rummaging around, finding a simple, pale lavender gown that would be easy to explore in and swiftly put it on. I rummaged around some more and found my hairbrushes and combs, which I put to immediate use.

"You may go ahead and pour, Mademoiselle Giry," I said while pulling a comb through my impossibly thick locks. "It will take me some time to finish."

Meg nodded. "Please, call me Meg," she pleaded as she poured for the two of us. "Cream or sugar?"

"Both please," I replied. "And I will gladly call you Meg if you call me Aria."

She sighed as she finished putting the cream and sugar into our cups. "You have such a pretty name," Meg said. "Does it mean music? It certainly sounds musical."

I laughed and nodded as I put up the last strands of my hair into a chignon at the back of my head. "It does mean music, though I'm sad to say that I am as unmusical as can be," I said, walking over to join her on the couch.

Meg chuckled as I sat down, the two of us chatting about everything and nothing. We exchanged stories about our favorite foods, colors, childhoods, and families. Meg was shocked and envious to hear about my family and how we all gathered together at least once a month; in turn, I was jealous of her growing up in the Populaire and becoming a dancer.

"But it hasn't been all wonderful things," Meg said, suddenly turning hesitant. "And as you are now my friend, and your father and uncle own the Opera House, I feel I must warn you…"

Her sudden change in demeanor startled me. "Meg, what is it?" I pressed, my hand coming to rest comfortingly on hers. "What do you need to tell me about?"

She sighed. "Have you heard of the Opera Ghost?"

I blinked at her for a moment. "Well," I slowly replied. "I have read many stories about it."

Meg nodded with all of the wisdom and solemnity of a wisewoman. "It's all true," she whispered, leaning in closer. "He lived underneath the Populaire and could be seen going in and out of Box 5, the most expensive seat in the house! And he demanded a monthly salary of twenty thousand francs! Then he fell in love with a friend of mine, and when she refused him, he went mad. He wrote an opera for her to perform and kidnapped her during the opening night! It was terrifying!"

I had heard about the opera, but not about the extortion. "Meg, really…"

She shushed me. "He still lives here, I'm sure of it!" Meg exclaimed. "My mother was once his messenger and the collector of his salary. I know this because, before a note was sent to the managers, maman would disappear for a while and would immediately reappear just as the note was being discovered!" Then she paused. "And now, just as your family has taken over the Opera House, maman has returned to vanishing again at odd times. You must be careful, Aria!"

"Meg, I doubt that there is such a thing as a ghost in the Populaire," I said with a shake of my head.

A small, frightened smile tugged at her lips. "You will see," she said. "Just wait and see."

Shaken by this, I knew it had been a horrible mistake purchasing the Opera House.

"Aria, you are being silly about all this," my uncle said, his voice light as though he were trying to humor me. "There is no Opera Ghost! It's all a story that the ballerinas made up to frighten you."

He then sat down at his desk, shuffling through papers in an attempt to ignore me. My uncle and I were in the managers' office, where I had asked to meet after dinner; Papa was sleeping in his room.

"But the newspapers!" I protested. "The papers all say it was he who had burned down the Populaire in the first place! There were witnesses who saw him abduct the soprano! A whole audience of opera attendants saw it happen right in front of them!"

He waved my comments aside. "Probably a performance gone wrong," he said. "And the fact that so much money went missing over the years is probably due to someone stealing from the Populaire."

"But what about the accidents? And the murder of the stagehand?" I desperately asked.

"An accident," Uncle snapped. "Now, enough of this nonsense, Aria. There is no…"

I looked over at him to see what had stopped him mid-sentence. The answer was in his hand; an envelope sealed with a red wax skull. I watched as he opened the letter and read it. Suddenly, he crumpled the thing up and tossed it into the fire

"A joke," Uncle said firmly. "A twisted joke from an employee, that's all." He gave me a stern look. "You are not to tell your father, do you understand? He is stressed enough as it is. We will ignore the note and the prankster will leave us be, mark my word."

I, however, wasn't so sure, but promised to keep quiet…for now.

AN: Uh, oh, Erik's not going to be happy! He'll be here next chapter, I promise. Please review!