Hello dears. To reiterate, all changes in song lyrics are intentional, so that they fit in better with my story. I just can't imagine the Phantom saying "gonna," you know?

Review please! Love it? Hate it? Let me know!

I own nothing, obviously.

I awoke wrapped in soft velvet, in a tiny, candle-lit chamber. Blinking blearily, feeling utterly weak, I tried to sit up to find my bearings but failed miserably. My body wasn't obeying me - I could barely move my arms, much less push myself seated.

With a flutter of disbelief and excitement, my eyes fell upon a vase of water on the bedside table, and, next to it, an entire loaf of crusty French bread.

My arms forgot their lethargy, shooting towards the food with abandon. I almost knocked over the water pitcher as I grabbed the entire loaf and brought it to my mouth, tearing into it with my teeth. I'm sure I looked quite wild at that moment. I had half the bread consumed in less than a minute but it took some time to feel the effects of it spreading through my body. And then, in my stomach, a wonderful, full feeling. One I hadn't felt for months.

I gulped down some water before finishing the bread. It was more than I'd ever eaten at once - I had never before even imagined having an entire loaf of bread to myself. I settled back into the pillows behind me, wondering vaguely where I was. The room was built with rough-hewn lumber and plaster, and there were faded circus posters adorning the walls.

I thought about exploring, but my quick meal was making me heavy and warm. I drank more water, then curled up and again fell asleep.

I woke to the sound of tittering laughter from the next room. Slowly, I left the soft bed I'd been placed in, and noticed how much better I felt.

A fresh loaf of bread had been left on the nightstand, and there was a salami on a tray next to it. I inhaled both in a matter of moments, then stretched, feeling uncomfortably full.

I noticed for the first time I was dressed only in my undergarments - just a shift and cheap bloomers. I blushed at the idea of the masked man undressing me (though I found out that he had obviously not been the one to take my dress off for bed - that had been done by Molly, who will be introduced presently).

I looked around for something to wear, and noticed a bundle of dusky purple fabric in a chair by the door. I picked it up curiously - it wasn't my torn gray dress, filthy and two sizes too small. It was much heavier, and it had boning sewn in at the torso, almost like a corset. Like ladies wore. I'd never had a corset before!

Eagerly, not even sure this dress was left for me, I stepped into it. It was cut in the fashion of the day - long sleeves with a little puff at the shoulders, a modest square neckline, a small bustle at the back and a long, slim skirt. It was a bit large for me, and there were laces to tighten it at the back that I couldn't do, so I left them open. I closed the fabric over it and buttoned up the back. Once I wore it, though, I felt beautiful. I spun, finding it inside myself to actually giggle.

Who'd have thought such a terrible night would culminate in this?

Glancing in the mirror standing on the nightstand, I tamed my wild blond curls as well as I could, but I was aware I looked quite ridiculous as I finally took a deep breath and left the room.

"Oh, if it ain't the little streetrat," a nasally female voice greeted me as soon as I stepped into the chamber beyond.

I found myself in the grand auditorium of the carnival's theater. The stage was gargantuan, its curtain black velvet instead of the classic gold and scarlet. The seats were black velvet, too. On the stage and all around it lounged something close to twenty or thirty people.

They were dressed strangely, garishly, in stripes, tutus, tights and glitter - costumes, I found out later. They were performers in the circus, on the stage - they were the lifeblood of Coney Island. And they frightened me.

The woman who had addressed me sat on the edge of the stage with a few others. She was wearing a very short sleeveless dress striped black and white, with a puffy skirt. Her legs were bare (scandal!) apart from black ballet shoes with laces up to her thighs, and her corset dug obscenely into her chest, making her cleavage quite pronounced. Her hair was dark, coiffed into frizzy pigtails on either side of her head.

To either side of her stood a tall, slender mime wearing a glittering black tuxedo and a tiny man with beefy arms in a wrestling outfit.

The other performers that mingled in the room were each more colorful and whimsical than the last. I saw clowns and contortionists and freaks of nature. One man was nearly naked but for a loin cloth and various piercings and tattoos adorning his skin, his muscular body dripping with sweat as he blew out a burst of fire. There was a hunched, heavyset man who walked on his knuckles like a gorilla, and a woman with horns apparently growing from her head.

Demons, some would say, but those people are idiots. Phantasma's performers all fascinated me right off. They seemed strange and beautiful, and scary in an exciting way. Through my fear, part of me wished I was somehow extraordinary.

My eyes lingered curiously on another man, handsome, with long pale hair, nearly white, and eyes ringed darkly in black kohl. He had no shirt on under his coat and tails, his chest was defined and masculine, his nipples pierced with rings. And he was slowly swallowing a sword.

People around him were kissing, others groping or laughing uproariously, others drinking. Actually, almost all of them were drinking.

I was overwhelmed and enchanted immediately, and frightened out of my mind after a moment. I froze by the door. I felt I was in a world I did not understand, one where I did not belong - one far too shadowy and adult for me.

The woman in the striped dress was beckoning for me, her scarlet painted lips spread in a grin over teeth that glinted gold in places. Slowly, carefully, I crept toward her.

"Ooh, a little mouse," said the mime next to her, silkily, squatting down to get a better look as I approached the stage. I glared at him. Mimes weren't supposed to talk, everyone knew that. He grinned and reached out fluidly towards me, and I stopped short of his reach. He frowned in an ironic way. "Pretty little mouse, why so shy?"

"You're a dick, Louis," the little man beside him snorted, hardly turning his red-rimmed eyes to me. He had his hand on the thigh of the painted lady lounging next to him, who seemed cloaked in dragon scales. Her lips were green, and when she smiled her teeth were pointed, sharp.

"What's your name, honey?" the woman in the black and white stripes asked, leaning down to me. She smiled kindly, and I noticed she was quite pretty, if a bit rough looking. She had the thick, nasally accent of a New Yorker.

"Isabelle," I replied, determined to sound brave. My voice came out too loud, and it caught the attention of a few performers around us. The sword swallower stopped whatever he was doing with the silver hooks he held and leaned towards us.

"Belle," the mime, Louis, tasted on his tongue, a bit lasciviously. "Little French beauty." The black-and-white lady elbowed him, hard, and he bounced backwards onto his butt, laughing.

"Nice to meetcha," the woman said. "I'm Molly. This is Louis," she gestured to the grinning mime, "and that's Max and his wife Claudia." The little man and his lizard lady waved lazily.

"You like your dress?" Molly asked, sliding off the stage to stand before me. I nodded shyly, fingering my skirt, and she graced me with a soft smile. She reached out to place a hand gently on my shoulder and I leaned into the touch, not realizing how much I needed physical comfort. Molly's deep blue eyes reminded me of Madeleine.

At the thought of my dead sister, tears flooded my vision and I sniffled despite myself. Immediately concerned, Molly knelt in front of me, her hand cupping my face in a motherly display of affection.

"Whassa matter, puddin'?" she asked. I shook my head.

"Nothing," I managed, furious at myself. What kind of impression was I making? I roughly wiped away the snot under my nose as Molly gently slid her thumb against my cheek, drying my tears.

"How old are you, anyway?" she asked.

"Fourteen."

"Christ," Max the little man hissed from the stage. "A kid. I hope Y knows what he's doing…"

"Where am I?" I asked, looking around.

"Where are you?" the lizard lady, Claudia, exclaimed. She, unlike the rest of them, was not American. Her accent was vaguely Eastern European (I found out later she hailed from Prague). "Don't you know?"

"You're in Phantasma, kid!" Louis exclaimed, spreading his arms to the sky. The mention of the carnival's name made a cheer erupt from the other performers, who clinked their cups and drank deeply. "The circus of dreams…" His eyes sparkled as he leapt from the stage, his lithe body arching smoothly, his tux glittering. He slid up before me, his finger under my chin lifting my head to meet his eye. He was very tall and behind the makeup I saw green eyes and high cheekbones. "Or, maybe, the circus of nightmares." He grinned wickedly.

(Cue: "Welcome to my Nightmare" by Alice Cooper)

"Don't scare the kid," Molly scolded from behind. But Louis ignored her, stooping to look in my eyes.

Louis sang in a raspy tenor that sent shivers from scalp to sole:

"Welcome to our nightmare," he grinned, gesturing around. "I think you're gonna like it."

He stepped toward me and, frightened, I stepped back. We continued this slow game of cat and mouse as he kept singing.

"I think you're gonna feel you belong.
A nocturnal vacation
Unnecessary sedation
You wanna feel at home, cause you belong."

He grinned like a cat, reaching out for me, and I scrambled backwards, right into the arms of a man with so many piercings I could scarcely see his face. I gasped.

"Welcome to our nightmare, whoa-oh-oh-oh," Louis hissed as the pierced man's hands closed around my upper arms to hold me in place.

The sword swallower with the pierced nipples and the long white hair appeared beside Louis, pushing past him as he slowly approached me, like a stalking cat. His voice was lower than Louis', more silky.

"Welcome to our nightmare," he sang to me. "I hope he didn't scare you." He gestured in an irritated way to Louis, but his smile was hardly more reassuring. "That's just the way we are when we come down."

"We sweat and laugh and scream here," Max called from the stage, guttural.

"Cuz life is just a dream here," Molly sang in a high, lovely voice.

"You know inside you feel right at home here," Louis sang, his smile sly and ironic. Because, no, I didn't feel at home. I felt very frightened and very watched.

I know now that, as the sword swallower said, this was just how they initiated new performers - by scaring the shit out of them. It was playful, and all in good fun (except, perhaps, for Louis), but it seemed cruel to me. I pinched my lips together.

"Welcome to our breakdown, whoa-oh-oh-oh," the cast sang all together, hushed and hissing. I ripped away from the pierced man and ran to Molly's side, gripping her arm on instinct. She smiled down at me.

"You're welcome to our nightmare, whoa-oh-oh-oh," everyone sang. I found every single person's eyes were on me, and through my fear I was excited, enchanted. I gazed around.

Then, a deep, perfect voice came from behind us, hardly more than a whisper.

"Welcome to my nightmare…"

Molly and I turned together, and there was the masked man, having appeared on the stage like a ghost. He reached out to me with one gloved hand, his eyes dark and intense.

"I think that you might like it."

He allowed a smile to flit across his full lips, but his expression instantly changed into an unfathomable one as he sang the next line - like longing or concern.

"I think that you may feel you belong."

I stepped away from Molly, towards him, entranced. He lifted his chin, looking down at me and gesturing around with one hand.

"We sweat and laugh and scream here,
For life is just a dream here."

His hand thrust out to point to me.

"You know inside you feel right at home, here.
Welcome to my nightmare, whoa-oh-oh-oh."

I stared into his eyes for what felt like ages, losing myself in the blackness. He nodded at me, slowly, seeming to know the effect he had on me.

"Welcome to my breakdown-…"

"Mistah Y!" Molly squealed, and his eyes snapped to her, effectively breaking the spell. He turned towards her as she scrambled up on stage to curtsy at him. "I've been wanting to talk to you for weeks. And then I found your note and little Belle here, and I knew you'd come back, but you weren't at the performance last night. I didn't know what to think. Where've you been?"

"Away," he said vaguely. "And I have returned to find my production in pieces." Molly flinched away at the anger in his tone, and the rest of the entertainers chattered to each other, worried by his reaction to the state of the circus.

"It's not too bad, is it?" Molly asked, warily.

"It is a disgrace," the masked man, Mr. Y, replied, gesticulating. "The orchestra is a cacophony, the acrobats are clumsy, the dancing lamentable. We will have to begin again."

The cast groaned and immediately began to disband, off to perform their various duties. Off to practice their various talents. Mr. Y swept backstage, not even looking toward me again, his long black coat trailing behind him, and Molly followed like a puppy.

I felt a long fingered hand close over my shoulder and I gasped, turning to meet Louis' sparkling eyes. The handsome sword swallower stood behind him, looking bored.

"Come on, little mouse," Louis said, beckoning. "Tomorrow we work you harder than you've ever been worked." At my look of confusion he laughed. "You want to stay, you work. But tonight - you have a show to attend."

"The show in pieces?" I snapped back, disliking this man intensely. He laughed, and the sword swallower laughed, too, coming forward to clasp my hand with his. I looked down to his fingers, clever and long, criss-crossed with multiple scars.

"Name's Corvo," he introduced himself, leaning down to kiss the back of my hand. I'd never had a man do that to me before, and I blushed scarlet as he met my eyes and slowly straightened. "And the master is just a perfectionist. He wrote it, but no one can match the vision he sees in his head. The show's much better than he says."

"The best show on Coney Island," Louis boasted.

"Come," Corvo said, and I followed.

Mr. Y's show, Phantasma, was a triumph. A delight. A phenomenon. I had never been more enchanted. I sat in the back, all wide eyes and wonder, as I watched Mr. Y's vision unfold before my eyes.

It was a grandiose love story, a tragedy in many parts, and the cast was comprised of well over fifty talented performers. It had everything - music, dancing, knife-throwing, freak-showing, contortion, acrobatics, illusions and more.

Molly was the headliner, and could that woman sing! She was brilliant, a temptress, and matched stunningly by her romantic counterpart - none other than the bewitching Corvo, who acted as ring-leader, stunt-man and singer. I already was developing quite a crush on the pale-haired sword swallower.

The show ended with a kiss, the lovers reunited, and the audience thundered its approval. I leapt to my feet and screamed, "Bravo! Brava! Encor, encor!" clapping until my hands hurt.

I went to bed in a little cubbyhole in a tent next door with the dancer girls, and slept more soundly and sweetly than I had ever slept before.

The next morning, the circus made good on Louis' promise of hard work.

I was awoken at dawn by the head of housekeeping, Mrs. Crowley. She was a no-nonsense woman who snapped more often than she smiled, austere and formidable. But I liked her, nonetheless.

She put me to work sweeping the stage, and after that I polished every candelabra - of which there were hundreds. And then there were a million other things to do. I waxed and mopped and scrubbed for hours, until my hands bled and I had blisters on my feet.

That night I fell into bed weeping and sore, only to wake the next morning and start the cycle afresh.

For those first few weeks, the only thing that kept me going through the intense work was being allowed to watch the show every night. I came to know the characters as I would know my own family. But then I grew accustomed to the hard work - my hands formed calluses, my back grew strong - and I enjoyed even that. It was fulfilling, and they paid me a modest salary, which made me feel independent.

The cast and crew enfolded me easily, though I kept to myself for a while. I was quiet, often startling people when they weren't aware I was in the room, and Louis' nickname of "Little Mouse" stuck with me.

But after a while, I started to feel at home, just as they'd said I would. We ate together, laughed together, sang together and cleaned together. Molly seemed to like me, and as I was the youngest member of the company she took me under her wing. She was common but kind, and everyone sarcastically referred to her as the Diva - for although she was the lead actress in the show, she was far from a starlet. She cleaned and cooked with the rest of us.

I warmed up to Louis, who showed me card tricks and kept his hands off me. There were very few people near my age, so I was forced to grow up, and grow up fast. Nakedness stopped bothering me - people changed freely in the wings of the stage and in the middle of tents, or simply spent their days mostly naked. Those with deformities and oddities - the Freaks - in particular wore very little clothing.

Sex became something I was familiar enough with (even though I'd never experienced it). The performers were big fans of free love, and none were afraid to speak of their affairs. Some of the lewdest tongues I've ever known, I met in Phantasma.

After a while, Mrs. Crowley and I discovered my talent with sewing, when I was asked to stitch up the curtains. Apparently, my hands were nimble, quick, and detail oriented - a fact I hadn't even known about myself. I was just as surprised as everyone when I was sent to the costuming department - but none of us were sorry for it. We pumped out some incredible costumes after that, and cheaply, too.

Spring, 1891

Months passed. For the first time in my life, I had a home.

I rarely saw the composer and creator, that enigmatic Mr. Y. He was a legend, even in his own company - a recluse, a musician, an illusionist and a genius. Molly was rather in love with him, and I couldn't say I didn't understand why. He was handsome - the part of his face I could see, anyway - but it was more than that. It was his presence, his voice… his intensity.

"He could seduce ya just by standin' there," Molly told me a couple days before my fifteenth birthday, as I put some golden stitches in her new, deep purple corset. "The way he moves…"

We sat on the stage in our little group - me, Molly, Louis, Corvo, Max and Claudia. Somehow, though I was young and untalented, I was allowed to associate with these incredible people. Though, to be fair, I started by simply followed them around without their permission. Soon, as I knew they would, they grew used to me. And after a while I was gratified to know they missed me in my absence.

"The way he moves?" Louis scoffed, shuffling his ever-present deck of cards. "He's still as a statue one moment, then suddenly he's all movement." He moved the cards from hand to hand in a smooth arch. "It's fucking mad."

"It's gorgeous," Molly said dreamily. I smiled.

"He strikes like a snake," I said softly. It was something I noticed about Mr. Y on those rare occasions he oversaw the show in person - his hands flicked and conducted on their own, and his head moved quickly and accurately if something caught his attention. "Or a jaguar."

"Ooh, sounds like the Little Mouse is in love," Louis teased. I blushed and hunched back over the corset.

"Where'd you hear tell of snakes and jaguars?" Corvo scoffed. I always thought he was a bit jealous of Mr. Y - though surely he had many more women than our master. "Don't talk nonsense."

"We're in a bloody circus," I pointed out. "We deal in nonsense." I had a foul mouth, I was discovering - probably Max and Louis rubbed off on me, each of whom said "fuck" more than almost any other word.

Corvo looked at me sulkily, through eyes half-lidded. "You bore me," he replied.

I pouted. Corvo was a grown man, and clearly knew about my girlish crush on him. But when he wasn't meaninglessly flirting, he could err on the side of cruel. When Louis was mean, I just stuck my tongue out at him or tried to sting back. But when Corvo was mean, it hurt.

"Careful, Corvy," Molly said. "Keep in mind who sews your costumes." She laughed. "We don't want another Mina-Mishap."

I smiled quietly as the other performers burst into laughter, Max clapping me jovially on the back. Mina had been a ballerina in the company, generally hated by the rest of us - she was rude, demanding and diva-ish. And French, which was something of a point of contention in the company. I only got by because I wasn't snooty about my heritage, though I received a reasonable amount of flack for it.

Anyway, Mina and I had been arguing about her tutu, which she was convinced I had torn at the hem on purpose. I was trying to explain that she had snagged it on a nail as she ran out on stage, but she wanted to be angry at someone and I was her target. She screamed at me, then reached out and grabbed the bodice of my dusky purple dress (it was my favorite outfit). With a horrible rip, she tore it down the front, ruining it and exposing my translucent shift to everyone milling about backstage. It infuriated me.

That night, I made a cut in the crotch of Mina's tights. Just a tiny thing, that I knew would spread rapidly if she so much as spread her legs. She didn't even notice until she was onstage in her solo dance, doing the high kick. With a rip and a gasp, the audience was laughing.

She was banished from the company shortly after. Such a lewd display, onstage in the middle of the show, was not to be forgiven. I saw her one last time leaving the theater's basement in tears - generally the consensus was, if Mr. Y called you to his basement, it was bad news.

Summer, 1891

Summer was coming, and so were the crowds. I'd never seen more happy people in one place - tourists and children and locals all came to our gates for our days and nights of whimsy. The theater, called Main Stage, hosted the largest act, the one written and directed by Mr. Y. They performed twice a night, but for the rest of the day the tents were filled to bursting with freaks, wonders and entertainers. When I was not sewing, I was with Louis learning slight of hand, and had recently been allowed to set up a tiny stand to beguile the public out of their money with my little magic tricks.

One night, after a successful show and record-breaking crowds, I was alone on Main Stage, doing the last sweep of the night. Everyone had retired to their tents and caravans, and the theater was empty and dark.

My mind was full of tonight's show - having been tweaked by Mr. Y to phenomenal ends. The music astonished me, and I hummed as I swept, my feet moving the steps of the dance I'd watched so many times.

Soon I'd abandoned cleaning altogether, and was simply dancing with the broom as though it was my handsome companion. I curtsied at it, spun around, and began a song Molly sang each evening - a bawdy retelling of the fable of the scorpion and the frog.

(Cue: "Prick! Goes the Scorpion's Tale" from The Devil's Carnival)

"Black," I sang, putting my hand dramatically to my brow, "black is love's potion.
We drink, we drink from its well.
And in their names let's drink to true love,
Where a toad and a scorpion fell."

I grinned, pleased with my voice. I hadn't even cracked at the high note. I'd been warming up and practicing with the chorus, even though I was not allowed to perform, and I had improved notably.

"Yes," I continued. "In their names, let's drink to true love
For true love can break the spell."

Suddenly, a man's voice wafted through the auditorium, echoing me, slow, deep and beautiful: "For true love can break the spell…"

I gasped and dropped the broom, going still as I peered through the darkness into the seats, attempting to see the intruder. But no one was there. I looked up to the wings, then behind me… but I seemed to be alone.

Had I imagined that?!

"Go on," the voice hissed. I jumped again. It seemed like it was all around me, yet I couldn't see him. "Sing, girl."

My mouth gaped, my heart started pounding. Was that the voice of Mr. Y? And why did he want me to -...

"Sing!" he commanded, his voice booming from the rafters.

So I did.

"Awake from your dream, frog maiden,
Skin green as the emerald sea.
I will tell you a tale of a love that did fail.
Prick, prick, prick!
Goes the scorpion's tail."

I flinched at the sound of my own voice, girlish and untrained. Molly's womanly, rounded tones fitted this mature operatic much better than my own. But when no further instruction came from the voice, I continued.

"She blushed as she walked by the water,
Having known him the evening before.
She liked how he spoke,
But aware of his poke.
Prick, prick, prick!
Goes the scorpion's tail!"

I was getting into it, now, swishing my skirts and moving to the tune.

"Oh love it is foolish and green,
My love.
How quickly we forget the sting,
My love.
What a pretty yet dangerous line,
My love.
What bitter yet delicious wine,
My love…"

I copied Molly's seductive tones as I sang the last few words, then paused. I wondered if I would only embarrass myself by continuing.

"Monsieur?" I asked to the room at large. I always called Mr. Y monsieur in my head, because I knew he was French.

He did not reply. I sighed. I was alone.