Author's Note: Thanks again to TalithaJ, mildetryth, Rose of Night, steelelf, and CarolROI for their latest reviews. Double thanks to Soignante, Busanda and WindPhoenix for posting two reviews each. Well, we cleared 125, so as promised, here's the next chapter. Once again, it's something a lot of you have been asking for. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 24

"So, scale of one to ten: how much of a Prima Donna is she?" Meg asked, ice cream bowl in hand as they sat once again on the overstuffed couch in the Giry house. Having finished yet another week of classes, the girls were spending the evening unwinding – seeing as Madame was reviewing a dance class run by one of her students at the leisure centre in town and they had the house to themselves.

"I'd say eleven, but from what I hear, that probably describes her mum better. Given the chance, she'd probably live up to that; but at the moment, I'd say a ten." Christine replied; the hints a real smile showing through.

"Why does she have a problem with you?"

"I was a mute in Vocal Performance. Maybe she thinks I stopped a friend of hers from getting in or something. Then she found out I wasn't mute because I sort of stole the show from her when she was meant to be doing a solo."

"Meaning you decided to start singing for whatever reason, knocked everybody's socks off and showed her how it's really done. Don't give me that look, Tina. I know you too well." Meg replied over Christine's silent protests.

"It was Siúil a ruin. Professor Gardiner said to skip the Gaelic because nobody knew it, but she was using the rest of it to flaunt herself. It's a bittersweet song of devotion and lament. She was killing it."

"And I suppose the fact that it was one of your mother's had absolutely nothing to do with your coming to the rescue?"

"She and Papa had enough insults to deal with in their time. I'm not going to let their music suffer as well."

"I still would have loved to see it." Meg returned, grinning cheekily, prompting a slow smile to creep across Christine's mouth.

"It was worth it to see her face."

"Aha! I knew my girl was in there somewhere." Meg crowed triumphantly.

With everything that she had been through, coupled with the fact she was never the most outgoing of people to begin with: it was no wonder that losing her father along with the rest of it had made Christine a very shy person. Seeing signs of the attitude and temper that Meg knew and loved gave her one more reason to hope the girl they had all thought lost would come back some day.

"I'd better going; it'll be getting dark soon." Christine said, looking out of the window.

"That still bothers you?"

"It's not as bad as . . . other things, but I don't know when I'll be comfortable in the dark again."

"In that case: RUN! I'd better get this little lot tidied away before Maman sees and gives me another hour's run anyway."

"Ouch."

"Hey! Don't grin at me like that! It's all down to you, you know."

"Well, I guess I'd better bribe you with the second cupboard above the cooker then."

"If it weren't for my generous nature- Hang on. Does this mean what I think it means?"

"Freshly baked and sealed away yesterday. I figured out how to work the oven."

Meg squealed and threw her arms around Christine, twirling her madly around the front room with a grace that marked them both as children – one way or another – of the ballet mistress. Unfortunately, in her excitement, either Meg's aim or her memory was a bit off.

"Meg!" Christine called out through gritted teeth.

"What? Oh, Christine! I'm so sorry. Are you OK?" she asked, releasing her sister's right side.

"Yeah, it's not as bad as it used to be."

"And you're not as quiet as you used to be." Meg replied, trying to cheer Christine back up a little.

"Pity really. It was starting to rub off on you."

"Why you . . .!" Meg shrieked indignantly. They fought much as they had the last time they'd had an ice cream session, until Christine found herself in the hallway and declared enough.

"Seriously: gotta go." Meg gave her a gentler hug this time, sending her on her way. She watched her sister leave, casting an anxious eye over the clouds that had gathered. It wasn't the darkness setting in that them both worried: it was the rain.

Christine walked as quickly as she could, trying to get home before the light was gone from the sky. She would have run, but unlike Meg, she wasn't used to it enough to manage the distance between their houses. She had enjoyed her time with Meg immensely. They'd spent the last week catching up – and in spite of Meg's intentions, she was the one who had ended up doing most of the talking, as usual. Neither of them minded. With the exception of a few eggshells that were carefully trodden around, it was almost like old times. Almost. Christine knew what the Girys were hoping, but that girl was gone, and she wouldn't be coming back. Now that her voice had returned, she had to reacquaint herself with the soul behind it, for in its absence, she had changed and her music had undoubtedly changed with it. She wished yet again that there was someone who could guide her as her life moved on in what was thus far an unwelcome direction. Yet again, she sent up her prayer.

And the heavens opened.

The rain came pouring down. There were only a few drops in warning, before the showers began tumbling heavily. Christine tried to cover herself. Her coat had no hood, and she had no umbrella because there had been no forecast of rain.

Stupid, Christine. Stupid!

With the weather being the inconstancy that it was, she should have kept an umbrella on her all the time, but the fact that she was hardly ever outside had made her take the dry spells for granted. She couldn't let herself get wet. The make-up she used to hide the scars wasn't waterproof – for some reason, that kind had ended up inflaming the marks and delayed their healing even more than the regular sort. There was no way she could make it home in the next few minutes; she was only halfway there.

She looked around frantically.

Christine

She could have sworn she heard her name whispered on the wind. Her head flipped around to the direction it came from and she found herself facing one of the back doors of the first theatre. She ran over. At least the building would provide some shelter . . . the door was unlocked! She giddily wondered if an angel had been watching over her after all.

The door closed behind her as she stepped in. She was surrounded by darkness.

She tried to control herself, but before long her breathing was becoming laboured as the familiar panic began to set in.

Christine

The whisper calmed her. It was the same one she had heard outside. She moved forwards slowly, following it, trying to find its source. Absent-mindedly she patted her face, checking that her make-up was still in tact. Nothing felt out of place.

She felt the ground rising upwards. Soon her shoes were clicking on a wooden floor. She knew that sound: she was on the stage.

"Is someone there?" She called out timidly, feeling foolish.

No voice answered.

But a violin began playing.

Christine's hand flew to her mouth to hold back a sob as she recognised the sweet sound that could only come from a violin when in the hands of a true master of the craft. It was a sound she had only ever heard from her father.

But he had never played this.

It was the music from the house. It was the music that had saved her from the darkness of her dreams; just it was now saving her from the darkness of both the theatre and her mind. She kept silent, waiting to hear if it would be played in its entirety. She prayed with every fibre of her being that it was not some illusion her mind had created in its panic.

The last notes died away.

She tried again.

"Wh . . . Who's there? Please answer me." The question came out on a tremor; the request, on a whisper. Silence. She was about to weep – whether from frustration or desolation she did not know – when a soft, beautiful voice called out:

"Christine."

He had followed her from the Giry residence. He had not risked watching the two girls through the window. There was no way he could do that without being seen. And there was no way even he could enter the house without Giry knowing. She knew him too well after all, especially in her own home.

She had walked quickly. What was it about the darkness that bothered her so? Her actions on their own would ordinarily point to a rational concern over the dangers of being outside in the dark; but when taken into consideration with everything that he had seen of her: this was a full-blown fear of the darkness itself. Why? If she sought to go unnoticed, surely the comforting mantle of night would be welcome to her.

As the rain began, she stopped. It would not do for her to be caught in this downpour: her throat had suffered enough already; a cold was unacceptable. She was near neither the Giry residence, nor his house. But she was very near to his home. He had spent long enough waiting for her: first to hear her voice, then trying to find a way to reach her, then looking for the opportune moment.

Perhaps the latter had finally arrived.

He swiftly reached the building and unlocked the stage door, slipping inside and heading towards the upper levels – but not before throwing his voice, calling out to her so that she followed. He did not head towards his box until he knew that she was moving towards the stage.

He watched her from the shadows. She looked so lost, yet she was right where she belonged.

She called out to the darkness. By this time his violin was ready. Whether anyone came into the box or not, it would not have been found: there were enough secrets in the theatre – of which only he was aware – to ensure that.

Ordinarily he would have lost himself in the music, seeking a release. He sought something else this time. He watched every emotion that crossed her face as he played. So she had remembered, and he had been right in his estimation of what his music meant to her.

What his music meant to her.

The idea warmed his heart, although he could not have explained why if he had realised it.

She was on the verge of tears as he finished and – flattering and accurate as it would have otherwise been – he had a feeling it was not simply because of the skill and beauty with which he had played.

"Wh . . . Who's there? Please answer me."

He closed his eyes; once more relishing the sound of her voice, preparing himself, getting himself under control for what would follow. Using all the power and skill he possessed, all the beauty he could muster and convey with the spoken word, he answered.

"Christine."