Chapter 1: A Word of Warning
Paris 1881:
The clock ticked monotonously in the background as Brielle Donovan sat stoically in the manager's office of the Opera Populaire, her impassive expression effectively covering the impatience building within her chest. Dressed plainly in black, the high collar of her dress fitting snugly just under her chin, the young Irishwoman presented a sober picture, giving the impression of being far older than her twenty five years. A black velvet hat sat tilted fashionably to one side atop her head, purposefully covering the odd dove white hair which was pinned strictly into a bun at the nape of her neck. Topping off her unassuming attire was a pair of odd darkly tinted spectacles perched upon her nose, shielding her pale eyes from the sunlight streaming through a nearby window.
Brielle sighed and glanced at the wall clock. The managers, whom she had failed to secure an appointment with, had already kept her waiting for nearly an hour and despite her composed demeanor she was not a naturally patient woman. More accustomed to decisive action and quick results she was finding it increasingly hard to sit and do nothing, to wait.
I should have gotten an appointment. It was foolish of me not to. She thought, shifting anxiously in the large leather lined chair but finding it impossible to get comfortable as her whale bone corset dug into her ribs.
Sighing again Brielle's carefully contrived mask of calm began to crack around the edges. She silently listed all the tasks that waited for her at home as a way to pass the time, but the exercise only served to aggravate her further. First, I must clean my blasted desk. It is nearly akin to a natural disaster now. Then, of course, I must tidy up the barn and hang out the wash. Lord, there doesn't seem enough hours in the day. Ach, don't even think about it!
The very thought of the domestic chores awaiting her sent a shiver of dread creeping up her spine. It was no secret that she was hopeless when it came to housework, and though she worked hard to improve herself she knew she would never find the contentment in the kitchen that so defined the feminine sex. More irritated now than she had been before; Brielle slowly began to tap her fingernails upon the chair's arm, adding a new rhythm to the beating of the second hand within the clock's face.
What am I even doing here? she wondered, a moment of anxiety wrinkling the pearl white skin of her forehead. This is folly to be sure.
She sighed again, her cloud gray eyes shifting to the clock for the hundredth time, noting that another five minutes had passed. Brielle's heart shaped lips quickly began to thin in irritation as she stewed, her impatience chilling into anger, freezing her eyes into glittering shards of ice.
Really though, what should I have expected? Of course I would have to wait an eternity in this dusty office. These theater people are known for being irresponsible, and impractical in general, she grumped silently trying to keep her mind on anything but the reason for her impromptu visit to the Opera house. Anger was far easier to deal with than the anxiety which was churning within her gut. I should go…
And yet, she remained in her seat because despite her natural reservations the white haired woman had come to the Opera that morning for the express purpose of speaking with the theater's managers. The trip was impulsive at best, made that morning from her home in the countryside surrounding Paris when she could no longer stand staying away. The information Brielle carried with her, she knew, was vitally important; she had told the manager's secretary as such upon her arrival. But, despite this she had been kept waiting in one of the manager's messy offices like a common street urchin.
Spinning the golden wedding band about her left ring finger she silently argued with herself. Surely it wouldn't matter if I just left. I could be mistaken, after all. This could all be just a waste of time. I could definitely have been mistaken… But… then again… what if I am not?
Shaking her head in disgust over her own indecision Brielle finally stood, snatching up her handbag and her winter cloak quickly. With a flourish she swirled the cloak over her head and let it settle upon her shoulders. She moved towards the door pinning the cloak in place as she walked, hardly watching where she was going as she momentarily struggled with the clasp. It was at that moment the office door swung open, nearly knocking her upside the head.
The person entering the room gasped slightly at the near miss and quickly grabbed hold of her elbow as she stumbled backwards.
"Pardon me, mademoiselle." The white haired man gushed hurriedly, giving her a quick harried smile before releasing her and turning to shut the door.
"Forgive my tardiness. There are many… issues which arise when managing an Opera. I am Monsieur Andre, one of the managers here." He stated as he moved to sit behind the large mahogany desk which overpowered the small room. His eyes, though strained by some unknown worry, quickly slid over her entire body, taking a quick inventory of the cut and style of her dress, before rising to her face. Satisfied that she was a lady of relatively good standing, he opened his mouth to speak but paused to stare, startled at the unusual hue of her hair.
Brielle merely nodded her head in acknowledgement of the apology and stiffly moved to reclaim her seat, purposely ignoring his blatant gawking. She was used to the stares. People just could not comprehend why such a young face should be crowned with the snow white hair more liken to an old woman's, nor could they ever get used to the pale fog color of her eyes. Her coloring always caused a certain level of confusion no matter where she went. She was an oddity, she accepted that and moved on, not being one to allow something so trivial as appearance to disrupt her daily life. There were more important things to worry about. Like trying to sort out exactly what she was going to say now that her escape route had been cut off.
Holding her handbag firmly in her lap, Brielle focused her eyes upon the floor, her mind racing as uncertainty took hold. Her classically proportioned features were set in a neutral, cool expression, though she was trying desperately to remember the speech she had practiced in the carriage ride to the Opera House. She had been able, she hoped, to construct a few sentences that imparted the information she knew without seeming like a complete lunatic; but now that she was faced with the task of actually repeating it aloud the words few straight out of her head.
"Monsieur Andre. My name is Brielle Donovan," she began cautiously, her French spoken with a charming Irish lilt.
He nodded, vague recognition of her family name flickering across his face. In his circle of acquaintances it was common to drop high brow names within every conversation. So it was not a surprise that he recognized the Donovan name as both rich and foreign. His tired, harried eyes now rose to fix strictly upon her face with fawning respect, his interest in her appearance piqued. Thoughtfully, Brielle raised her wide eyes to meet his. Knowing that she now had his attention restored a bit of her flagging confidence.
"I know my request to meet with you may seem rather odd, being on such short notice, but I must tell you something of great importance," she stated, hoping her tone did not betray how uncertain she was.
Andre stared at her for a moment in confusion, obviously trying to foresee the reasons she was about to reveal. The worry lines about his eyes stood out in stark relief as he studied her but he remained silent allowing her to continue. She cleared her throat and let out a calming breath. I can't believe I am going to try and tell him this. God I'll be lucky if he doesn't call the authorities. I mean… it sounds crazy to me and I am the one who is saying it! But someone must warn him. I am just unfortunate that that someone has to be me.
She straightened her shoulders and barreled on. "Monsieur I have come here to warn you. I have been led to believe that this opera is in great danger. A disaster is imminent. You must do something soon or people will be kille…"
As she rushed through her partially remembered speech, Andre's expression slowly began to sour. The polite façade he had been affecting earlier slid easily from his face and the dark circles under his eyes grew more pronounced as his features turned white in fury. Hurtling to his feet he was around the massive desk in seconds. The white haired man snatched one of Brielle's tiny wrists and jerked her to her feet without any hesitation.
"Who told you to say these things," Andre hissed glancing about the room, his eyes fretfully searching every shadowed corner. Giving her arm a good shake, he demanded her to answer him. "Who?"
Brielle stared up at him- her jaw sagging open- shocked into temporary speechlessness at his outburst. Not used to being treated with anything other than the proper respect assigned to her sex Brielle stiffened in his grip, two spots of crimson staining her pale cheeks. A moment of tense silence followed before her shock cooled into sharp indignation, then into anger. Fury flashed brightly in her eyes, turning them as hard and dark as river rocks, but her face settled into a mask of cold calm around them, all expression draining from her features as the Irish woman raised her massive defenses and prepared for battle. Slowly she reached up and pried his fingers from about her wrist, flinging his hand away.
"I came of my own accord monsieur. No one sent me to give you such disheartening news. And I take no pleasure in being here but I was compelled to come." She paused, glaring at him with an unladylike openness. "But I see that my warning must be redundant for it appears as if you are already experiencing some sort of disturbance, if your countenance is any indication. What has happened here to incite you to the brink of violence?"
Brielle couldn't help but notice the manager's already pale complexion draining completely of color at her inquiry. Andre crossed his arms defensively, completely ignoring her question. "Where did you come by this information," he asked, his anger fading into what appeared to be panic.
She had hoped to get through this little episode without him asking this particular question. Rubbing her wrist where he had gripped her moments ago, Brielle stalled. Here it comes. He is going to think I am crazy. I really shouldn't have come…
"Monsieur this will sound crazy, I am sure. I cannot tell you exactly how I know this but I must impress upon you that I simply know that something horrible will happen here." When Andre only continued to stare at her she went on uncomfortably. "Occasionally… I have dreams that hint at things that have yet to happen." Cringing internally at how preposterous her words sounded even to her own ears Brielle waited for Andre to react to her revelation.
The manager let out a hissed breath and adjusted his coat before speaking. The panic her words had initially instilled in him was receding quickly, replaced with what could only be described as relieved amusement. "Oh? And when did you have this dream?" he asked.
Slightly startled by his rather calm reply Brielle hesitated. "Uh… well dreams actually. Over the last week or so I have been having…"
Nodding his head as if he were listening intently Andre interrupted. "And what have you dreamed about exactly? What dark fate awaits us?"
Feeling a blush rise up to stain her cheeks Brielle shook her head. "I cannot remember many specifics usually upon awakening but I…"
"Madame…" he sighed, a patronizing note sliding easily into his voice. "Enough of these games. You cannot give details because this story is just a figment of your imagination." Pausing here Andre fastidiously adjusted his jacket.
"Monsieur, I swear I am not lying to you. My concerns are real!" Brielle argued even as the manager's disbelief speared through her pride.
Waving a hand for silence Andre continued as if she hadn't spoken. "I have respect for your family name, but it is obvious to me that your parents raised you with too loose a rein. I know some middle class house wives dabble in such imaginary things. But I would have never expected it from a woman connected with the Donovan line. Does your husband know you are here?"
She tensed at his words, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "Monsieur I am not married. I am…"
Cutting her off Andre laughingly added. "Ahh….a pity, such a pretty girl like yourself is without a husband. No wonder you are given to flights of fancy."
The Irish woman's jaw visibly tightened and she went utterly still with fury at his ill mannered words. "My husband died four years ago Monsieur." She ground out through clenched teeth. "He was an officer in the army. A bullet claimed his life before his duty was complete. I am not married because I am a widow."
Andre paused at this, a moment of regret passing over his features before he regained what composure he had left. "I thank you for your concern, but the opera is quite safe, I assure you. Your…feeling was incorrect. We will soon rid ourselves of all the ghosts which haunt this place." He smiled at this last thought. "Your warning is not needed. Perhaps you can get together with your lady friends. I am sure they will appreciate your predictions."
Brielle gasped in outrage at his blatant dismissal but before she could mouth any protest he was ushering her out of the office, a firm hand pressed into the small of her back. Once out in the hall he gave her a quick nod of his head and turned away, slamming the office door in her face. She stood outside, her pale eyes sharp as steel.
"You don't know what you do Monsieur! You are mistaken to believe you are safe!" she shouted, her accent thickening with anger.
Blowing out a breath, Brielle listened to her last words hanging eerily in the cool air of the stone lined corridor. Turning from the door Brielle crossed her arms over her chest, a chill running up her spine. Andre's nervousness seemed to have affected her, for she suddenly had the distinct impression that she was being watched. Glancing up and down the silent hallway, she hesitated for a moment before slowly turning and making her way down the corridor to exit the opera.
"Not that I expected anything different," she murmured to herself. "Who in their right mind would believe that sort of story from some strange woman who wandered in off the streets? I certainly wouldn't…if I were in their shoes."
Taking a pair of winter gloves out of her hand bag Brielle worried her bottom lip between her teeth; a gnawing feeling of stark embarrassment temporarily making her forget why she had bothered to come in the first place. I don't think he could have pushed me out any faster. Oh god…how humiliating.
At the door to the outside world she paused, looking over her shoulder at the massive marble stair cases of the main entrance hall. Her gaze moved slowly across the shadows lining the deserted room as all the worry and uncertainty she had experienced the last few days swamped her senses. The same feeling of dread which had been plaguing her dreams rose up in her throat, nearly stealing her breath away. Her eyes softened, loosing the cold edge of anger as anxiety took over, and her hands fisted at her sides in anticipation of an impending horror.
"Fools…" She breathed. "Soon their world will fall down upon their heads and they don't even know it yet."
Biting her bottom lip, Brielle turned away from the opulence of the opera house and stepped out into the sunlight of a cold winter's day, knowing she could do nothing else to convince others of what she knew. Pushing her tinted spectacles farther up her nose she hurried out into the chilled air and climbed quickly into a plain black coach waiting for her at the curb.
A man cloaked in shadows watched Brielle's black clad figure disappear out the doors and into the winter's day. He had been listening in on the interesting little interlude which had passed between his moronic manager and that strange girl.
So they think to be rid of me soon? he thought, as a feral sneer peeled his lips back to reveal a row of perfectly straight, white teeth. How absurd…
The man's startling blue eyes glittered with a frightening intensity as he glared at nothing in particular, lost in the whirling chaos of his own thoughts. Soon his plan to finally claim what by rights was already his would be put into action. The opening night for Don Juan, his opera, was set for the end of the week. They think they are so clever. Trying to trick the trickster. But I know their game.
His sneer grew, distorting the left side of his face into a grotesque expression of borderline madness, the other half of the twisted grimace remaining hidden behind the smooth white mask covering half of his face. The effect of emotionless white leather side by side with such black fury was disquieting, only highlighting the instability and desperation of the man behind the mask.
Raising a hand to adjust his mask in a gesture so practiced as to be nearly unconscious, the mysterious man continued to stare unseeingly out the Opera's main entrance. He took a long slow breath in a fleeting attempt to bring his racing thoughts under control.
His sneer faltered, and his expression took on the hallow-eyed look of a man intimately acquainted with despair. For a moment his mind calmed and his rage receded, leaving a great gaping chasm of sorrow and regret free to open up all around him. The keen stab of love rejected tore through him then and the chasm opened wider, threatening to swallow him completely in darkness. She does not want me. Perhaps she never did. I have loved her all this time but… but she does not want me.
Grimacing as the pain of it became a living thing inside of him the man shied away from calm and reason, embracing once again the protective fire of his all-consuming fury. As the man's mind skittered around the broken pieces of his heart he focused on the strange woman's words of just a moment ago. Repeating the words over and over so that he didn't have to think about anything else, clearing his mind so that her words and her words alone echoed endlessly within his skull. "Soon their world will fall down upon their heads."
Fall down around their heads… around their heads… Yes… Yes that can be arranged. And as he mouthed the words silently, a terrible idea filled his fevered mind.
He glanced upward towards where the fantastic chandelier hung in the next room, the pained grimace morphing into a dark smile. With the final step of his plan taking shape within his mind, he turned on his heel and stalked off down a side hallway. And with a flourish of his finely tailored black cape, the Phantom of the Opera disappeared into the shadows.