I was nothing special, just a designer for the backdrops at the Opera Populaire, I had no talent but the ability to paint and draw, I had no hidden talent, I couldn't sing or dance. I wasn't a young fragile woman. I had broad shoulders and I was built firmly. My name is Constance, I wasn't interested in the Opera Ghost rumors, yet I didn't appreciate it when the supposed Opera Ghost dropped my hard work on that duck Carlotta, I worked hard to get that scene perfect.

Sweat beaded my forehead as I concentrated on my work, a rose garden for a later opera that was when I heard Carlotta screaming in outrage. I frowned and went to the stage to see MY backdrop fallen on top of her, I glared up at Buquet, while he cried not guilty, I rolled my eyes and went to assist the diva get out from under the heavy backdrop. I covered my ear as she began to screech at the new managers; walking away I went to my backdrop. That was when I heard the angelic singing of Miss Daae. I sighed heavily and worked on, I saw the little blonde Destler girl run up the stairs to the boxes' hall I smiled at her flitting motion, like a butterfly. That gave me the idea to add a few butterflies fluttering around on the backdrop. I glanced around and swore I saw a flash of white in the shadows, but I shrugged it off and went back to work.

It was late I was still working on the back drop, when I heard someone walking, ballerinas weren't allowed out this late at night, and the stage hands were too busy, drinking to walk around now, I stood and stretched my back. I went to search for where the noise came from. I went up though the boxes' hall and up the flight of steps that took me to the surveying deck over the auditorium and walked around. The entire time I swore someone was behind me, I turned quickly, but saw no one. I turned around and went back to my backdrop. I fingered the trinity knot I wore under my work shirt.

"That looks wonderful." I jumped and fell at the sound of Madame Giry's voice.

"I'm sorry, Madame, I've been too engulfed in my work to have noticed you coming." I told her with my light Irish accent, how I ended up in Paris, I was traveling with a friend of mine and I found my calling here.

"Maybe you should go home, it isn't safe to be around here at night, especially with Buquet running around drunk." She said with a hint of humor in her voice.

"I suppose you're right" I replied, beginning to put my stained brushes and flattened paint tubes away in my bag. I slung it over my shoulder and left with a respectful nod to Madame Giry.

The Next Day

I was in front of the Opera Populairein the following morning, about to ascend the stairs when I was nearly pushed over by a disturbed looking young man, sending my painting supplies everywhere.

"Dúr fop sotalach beag!" I cried in my native tongue at the man, as he passed without a second glance, I bent down gathering my supplies before they got crushed in the street, brushing my thick choppy red bangs out of my face.

"Gá duit agus cabhrú?" A man's voice came speaking in Irish, I was too busy to noticed he had walked up. I switched from Irish to French.

"Oh, I'm fine," I said picking up the last paintbrush. "Thank you for offering." I stood and noticed the man had his hat pulled down over his face.

"You're very welcome." He replied, I smiled, not knowing if he saw my thankful smile.

"Have a nice day." I told him as I walked by him, "I will." He muttered. I didn't like that, I hurried inside and went straight to the props room and started on my backdrop again. I concentrated heavily on getting the main rose bush right. I didn't have more than one chance. I heard a knock on the door, I put down the brush.

"Come in." I called. "Constance?" I heard the sweet soprano voice of my friend Christine; I turned around and smiled gently.

"Yes lass?" I asked her gently.

"Do you remember when I told you of my Angel of Music?" She asked.

"Aye lass, what are you getting to?" I asked her. "I met him last night, face to face." She told me. I dropped my paintbrush.

"Say again lassie, did you just say you met your Angel of Music?" I asked, disbelieving, this man that she thinks is her angel could be just some maniac after the poor girl.

"Yes, I did. But my angel is not who I thought he was, he, he's, he's the Phantom of the Opera."