Welcome to my novel! As you know, I released a description of this project in another post (if you haven’t already seen it, here’s the post I’m refering to) and after a lot of waiting, I’m finally ready to share the first chapter with you. I encourage you to leave your feedback in the comment section, be it questions, suggestions, or even what you liked about the chapter. Fire away!

All that said, here is the first chapter of Angels and Phantoms! Enjoy!

Angels and Phantoms, Chapter 1

The humble church bells toll their melancholy song of three o’clock. The parishioners whisper prayers, kneeling before the altar as the light of the Parisian golden hour shines through the stained glass windows. All is tranquil…with the exception of a few stray giggles.

The bubbly chorus comes from a pair of girls ensconced in one of the pews. They whisper behind their hands, and every now and then they burst into a babbling brook of laughter. The other church goers would scold them, but they were such a perfect picture of sisterhood that all they could do was shake their heads and chuckle.

As the old adage goes, blood runs thicker than water. However, I believe that it can make an exception for these two specimens of loveliness: they can’t be more different than day and night. While one is the traditional doll-like youth of Paris—the bright eyes, the head of chestnut ringlets, the cherubic face—the other’s slender figure and luxurious, mahogany tresses tell the story of something altogether foreign, exotic even. Prussian, perhaps? Whatever the case, there is no denying that these young ladies are sisters. The way one holds the gloved hand of the other, whispering in girlish delight like a pair of little songbirds in a tree; it rings the melody of family all too well.

“Meg,” says the stately young lady, “I do hope that isn’t your impression of the matter.”

“Indeed, it is, Angelique,” replies the Parisian youth. “And don’t deny that you agree; I know you as well as anyone.”

“My dear lamb, I tell you truly that I do not agree and that they should leave the building untouched.”

“Well, what use is the old opera house anymore? It’s been totally abandoned and no one wants to bid on it. Tear it down, I say, and good riddance to it.”

“Margaret Giry, I am surprised at you!” Angelique exclaimed. “You forget that we spent our whole lives at the Opera Populaire!”

“That’s easy for you to say: I was born after Maman took you in, remember?”

“Indeed, I do, and again I say that the opera house is as good as a home to me. It would be like…like taking away a part of my life.” Angelique runs her hand over the silver locket as she makes this ejaculation.

Meg sobers when she sees the all-too-familiar motion. Angelique has practically worn the pendant smooth from the touch; one could barely see the embossing that adorned the little heart, the inscription that gave Angelique her name. “Ma Belle Ange.” Only one voice could speak that phrase in Angelique’s mind; that sweet, melodious voice that was taken from her long ago. She knows that the only available comfort that she can provide at this point is a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

The quarter hour bells’ tolling brings Angelique back to earth, as if they intend to remind her of her duties elsewhere. She and Meg both stand, attempting to avoid disturbing the other parishioners that plan on staying for the evening mass.

“Already off on your pilgrimage to help the underprivileged, I see.”

Père Gérard Ducasse, affectionately known as Père Gérard, meets them in the middle of the aisle. He smiles, his gentle gray eyes squinting under his spectacles as he does so. There is nothing particularly remarkable or attractive about this priest’s demure appearance, but where one observer finds a priest, the other finds a father.

Joined at his side is a dour woman, whose expression and dress could not be more opposite the priest’s. Her russet hair is confined in a tight net, imprisoned so that no single lock can escape. Her black taffeta and shawl, joined by her lanky figure, give her the appearance of a large raven. It is hard for anyone to imagine that this is the mother of the two girls in the church aisle: joined to one of them by blood and the other by vow.

Meg and Angelique smile at both of them. “We could never leave without wishing you farewell, Gérard,” Angelique says, and this is quite true: after all, Gérard has been a paramount influence in her six-and-twenty years of life.

“Do you have any particular place for us to visit today?” Meg inquires.

“Ah, yes!” exclaims the priest. “In fact, I was just discussing the subject with your mother.”

The mother—Madame Giry by name—nods. “There is a family on the river front we must see,” she drones. “Their little ones have taken ill and no one can pay for a doctor.”

“Then we’ll be sure to take care of them,” Angelique decides.

“Of course, we must gather the medicines and food first. We can’t very well hurry off with nothing to care for them with, can we, Angelique?”

“No, Madame.”

This is the usual exchange that takes place between the two of them. One would think that twenty-three years of care would bring the two of them closer—Angelique and Madame Giry—but unfortunately familiarity could only breed tolerance for them.

Gérard, of course, is the one to warm the uncomfortable chill that overtakes the foursome. “Well, I suppose you must be off before it is too late,” he says. “We don’t want those poor children getting any worse.”

“Of course, Gérard,” says Meg. “Thank you!”

Goodbyes are exchanged, and once bonnets and shawls are tied on, the three women make for the door.

But Angelique stops. She turns. For a moment, under the ring of the half hour bells, she thinks she can hear another tune. A melody that accompanies the monotone of brass on brass. She listens for a moment, but once the bells finish their tone, she shakes her head. Of course, how silly of her. She’s just imagining things.