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No one knew exactly how the fire started. There were rumors, but none of them were ever substantiated. How could they have been, when nearly anyone who could've been a witness was burned alive or trapped in the melee? The Gavins had worked hard, and they were consummate performers, all of them. Kristoph, their oldest son—their brightest star—had made his debut right here in the Opera House. He had been on stage when the fire had started. Stagehands had run at the sight of the fire. The audience crowded the exits as they attempted to push their way out. Klavier, their youngest son, watched his brother's performance from the back row, just as he always did. When the fire broke out, he was one of the first to make it out safely, forced out against his will even as he shouted for his parents, in the wings, and for Kristoph—who Klavier had last seen standing on the stage as flames fell down around him. As Klavier stood in the crowd, watching the building burn, and frantically searching for the rest of his family, Mr. and Mrs. Gavin found and embraced him, and it was only then that they all realized: Kristoph was still trapped inside.
Once the fire was doused, the fire marshals had said that the building was not beyond salvage. The cosmetic details were destroyed, but the structure remained basically sound.
But when several days of search and recovery yielded no survivors—or recognizable remains—the Gavins, grieving the loss of Kristoph, packed up their things and drove back to where they had come from. It was impossible for them to imagine returning to the dream that had taken the life of the family's beloved scion, or to encourage Klavier to continue down the path he had already begun—the path that had led them to nothing but ruin.