I understand that this chapter may be a bit uneventful, but I wanted to add in the background details just to set things up a little. Please read and review.

Disclaimer: All credit and rights go to Gaston Leroux, the author and rightful owner of these characters. I own nothing.

Scene I

As soon as the bows were taken and the ovations given, I ducked out into the hallway and dashed madly to my dressing room before the hall was filled with patrons, admirers, and actors. The doors were just opening, and I could hear, though the thin walls, the laughter spilling out into the foyer. The bells attached to my ankles danced and rang in time with the slapping of my bare feet against the floor.

The ringing anklets came off first, then the bangles and headdress. I snatched a bottle of lotion and a washcloth from Meg's dresser and scrubbed furiously at my face, until all signs of the extravagant makeup had disappeared. Finally, I stripped off the racy dancing girl costume, taking a few moments to smooth it out on my already-made bed so that Mrs. Giry wouldn't be upset. Meg stepped into the room just as tugged an old turtleneck over my head.

"You're leaving?" she demanded.

I leaned over my bed in search of a pair of suitable shoes for my aching feet. "It's closing night, Meg," I reminded her. "We have three days before rehearsals begin again."

She placed her hand saucily on her hip. "Does maman know?"

"She's going to." I walked to the closet to pull out my very weathered travel bag. I'd been through every possible argument about being allowed to leave the Conservatory, and now preferred to simply circumvent the issue. "She knows that I have my own Mamma to take care of."

It was love for my surrogate mother, alone, that could convince me to defy Mrs. Giry in such a way. For any other reason, I wouldn't have dared. I zipped up my bag, pecked Meg on the cheek, and then closed the door to our shared dressing room, heading out the back exit so that I wouldn't disturb the patrons.

It was difficult splitting my time between the Conservatory and taking care of Mamma Valerius. I already felt guilty about the amount of time I spent in rehearsals. She was on her own – Professor Valerius, her husband and my surrogate father, had died four years previously. I often worried that she would have a bad fall one day, and no one would be around to help her or call 9-1-1.

The bus ride to our little flat in the commercial district took about twenty minutes. When I got home, it was nearly midnight, but the lights were still on. Inside, Mamma Valerius was propped up at our little round table, sorting piles of old photographs. She beamed when I opened the door.

"Hello, dear," she called out cheerfully. Her voice had descending into frailty within the past few years, and I had to strain to hear her. "How was your little play?"

The term used to offend me, but I was rather used to it by now. Mamma, like her late husband, was of a scholarly mind, and had no patience for the arts. .She'd had a difficult time accepting my decision to leave high school for the Metropolitan Youth Conservatory. In her mind, the opera was not much higher than the lackluster school plays I used to perform in.

"It was fine," I replied, carting the bag to my room. When I returned to the kitchen, I peeked over her shoulder. The photos littering the tabletop were those of my first birthday. "What are you doing with those?" I asked gently.

"The binding on the album was coming apart, so I bought a new one…online," she added, sounding rather proud of herself.

I patted her shoulder, glancing over the photos once with a critical eye. They were the very earliest records of my childhood that we had.

Professor Valerius and his wife had taken me on at the early age of ten months. Not until I began to realize that my parents were much older than the other parents bring their children to school did they reveal to me that I was adopted. They would not tell me much about my biological parents. When I asked of my mother, Mamma Valerius always told me she was a lovely young woman who had died in a tragic accident. When I asked of my father, her face would turn cold, and she would simply say that he had not been deserving of a gentle young daughter like me…and then she would quickly change the subject.

I would be eighteen next April, at which time I would be legally allowed to meet my father…if he chose to seek me out. But seeing as he had never once bothered to send me a letter, or a photo, or even a card for my birthday, I very much doubted he had any interest in meeting me. And besides, I wasn't even certain I wanted to see him.

He had forgotten me. I was willing to return the favor.

"Oh." Mamma Valerius's exclamation pulled me from the cage of my thoughts. She picked up a photograph in her trembling, arthritic hands. "Look at you, dear!" she exclaimed, pointing to my toddler image, giggling and smeared in frosting. Mamma sighed. "You were the sweetest baby," she continued nostalgically. "You never cried in church, I remember. All of the young mothers were so jealous."

I patted her shoulder again. "Do you need help getting into bed?" I asked. Sometimes the support of her walking cane wasn't enough.

"No, no, I'll be up for awhile. I'd like to finish up with this first." She slipped the photo into an open slot in the album.

I turned to the fridge, feeling the rumblings of after-performance hunger. Inside, behind a carton of cranberry juice and a box of mushrooms, a plate of plain spaghetti noodles was wrapped up next to a covered slice of apple pie.

"There's no sauce," Mamma apologized. "I forgot to pick some up at the store."

"It's all right, Mamma." I peeled the plastic wrap off and stuck the plate into the microwave. It was probably just as well. Mrs. Giry had a long list of foods that were either too calorie-laden or too artificial to be allowed. Plain noodles were probably safest. I would have to throw away the slice of pie when Mamma Valerius wasn't looking, so as not to injure her feelings.

I spent the entire weekend with her, doing the cooking and laundry and running errands when she needed help. In the evenings, we played cards or one of the many board-games stacked in the hallway closet. It was a wonderful respite from the rigor of the Conservatory, but Monday came anyway. I rose before the sun, made a quick pot of oatmeal, left a bowl for Mamma, and walked to the bus stop.

Ballet practice began at nine sharp, rehearsals at eleven. By the time I made it to my dressing room, I had only forty-five minutes to shower, put on my ballet outfit, and head to the studio.

Meg was gone, probably having breakfast with her mother. I tossed my bag into the closet, and turned to look for my ballet outfit.

I was surprised to see a note with my name on it taped to the mirror over the dresser. For a moment, I thought that perhaps Meg or Mrs. Giry had left it for me, but the angular, spiky writing did not fit either of their hands. Curiously, I stepped forward and plucked the note from the mirror. The three words inside could have meant anything, and there was really no reason for the icy shiver that ran down my spine. But something about the spiky, bloodred writing sent a shot of liquid fear through my heart. I dropped the note onto the dresser, just staring at it.

Thirty-One Days.

The Queen's Reprise