A/N - What can I say? I feel desperately guilty; it's been an inordinate length of time since I've updated this, despite all the lovely reviews and emails I've received urging its continuation. My only excuse is an entirely absent muse (a curse from which I know many of you suffer yourselves) and I can only hope for forgiveness from all my lovely readers.

Huge thanks to all my lovely reviewers, and especially to Stemwinder, whose review it was that finally made me sit up and kick my muse into touch! Thanks, guys :)

So - for the first time in about a year - an update ... and to make up for the ridiculous time lag, a nice long E/C chapter with lots of Erik!!

Love and hugs :)

Antoinette was up early again the next morning. Greeted with chilly politeness by Erik's disconcertingly cold servant, Darius, her inquiries as to where she might find Erik proved as fruitless as they had the day before. Unnerved by Darius' cold manner, she couldn't tell whether he knew where Erik was, and was just being difficult, or if Erik really had left early that morning with no clues left as to when he might return. Either seemed equally probable, and equally unlikely.

She retreated to her room, and wrote a long and convoluted letter to Meg which she knew she would never send.

Finally, driven almost to distraction by the unnerving quiet of the house, she ventured again into Erik's room, noting with surprise a fresh sheaf of paper on the table. She idly took up a sheet and glanced over it, noticing without any real surprise that it was music, hand-written, startlingly complex. Her eyes rested on the staves; a soprano line and a tenor line ... so he was still composing for her ...

She sighed, suddenly depressed. His rooms were a veritable shrine to Christine's memory - newspaper clippings, portraits ... endless sheets of music written for her voice ... and yet the whole effect was faintly sad, the unswerving devotion of a man who knew that her name and face in one dimensional black and white were as close as he would ever get to her again.

She wondered suddenly if, had she known this was how it would turn out, she would have left him alone to die as he had wished that last night. She had thought he would be able to recover from the blow Christine had dealt him - to start a new life, perhaps even return to the real world ... she had never imagined that he would spend the next thirteen years a slave to her memory, waiting only for death to set him free ...

She closed her eyes, finally succumbing to the inevitable headache, before replacing the sheet of music on the desk and leaving the room, closing the door behind her.

~ One week later ~

Christine bit her lip. She closed the score and laid it on the table beside her, rubbing one hand across her face, tangling her hair. She rose and began to pace the room, clasping her hands, picking up random objects and toying with them nervously.

It was the music, of course. No one else wrote music like that, music which made her ache to sing it, music you could taste even as you read it in script form. No one before, no one since. Not the easy genius of Mozart, not the dark violence of Wagner, but emotion ... so much emotion, liquid sound.

But how? How was it possible?

On a sudden whim, she looked out into the corridor and called Meg in as the closest relative of the only woman who might be able to help.

She sought briefly for a pretext and finally settled on, "Where's Pierre?"

Meg smiled indulgently. "He's outside. Do you want him?"

Christine nodded over an ache in her throat. Yes .. suddenly she wanted him desperately; these days she was beginning increasingly to cling to him as all she had left of his father.

"Oh, and Meg ..."

Meg turned back, her head tilted to one side, questioning.

"Why don't we have your mother down for afternoon tea one day?" She could hear the artifice in her voice and hated herself for it.

Meg furrowed her brow slightly, puzzled. She had known Christine for long enough to know when she was being evasive. But she hadn't been this secretive ... not since the affair at the Opera Populaire ...

"My mother's gone to America, Christine. Did I not show you her letter?"

"America?" The surprise in Christine's voice was real, and the disappointment even more so; if even Madame Giry was now beyond her reach, who was there left to advise her ...?

Meg was still staring at her in puzzlement. "Shall I fetch Pierre?" she prompted gently.

Christine flapped a hand distractedly. "Yes, yes ... please do."

Meg came across to her and gently took her friend's arm, steering her to sit down. "Here, have a seat," she urged anxiously, concerned at Christine's lack of colour. "Shall I fetch you a drink?"

"No ... no." Christine pulled herself together with an effort and smiled up at her friend, passing a hand across her face to tuck a lock of hair back into place. "Would you ... fetch Pierre for me, Meg?"

Meg nodded and made her way out, still confused, faintly concerned. Christine could hear her calling to Pierre as she went out, her voice becoming fainter as she disappeared down the corridor.

Soon her son entered; bright and exuberant, and nothing like his father ...

"Pierre!" she said with real relief, moving across the room to take him into her arms. "Sweetheart ... how would you like to go to America?"

"America?" Pierre twisted round to look at her. "Really?"

"Yes. Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes!"

Christine laid her cheek flat against the top of her son's head and took up the hand-written note that had accompanied the score.

"Very well then," she murmured. "It's settled."

* * *

Antoinette stormed into Erik's room and threw a folded newspaper down onto his desk.

"What is this?" she asked in a dangerously quiet voice.

Erik glanced up from his paperwork and cast a cursory glance over the newspaper, folded open to the two-inch tall headline:

Opera diva Christine Daaé to cross Atlantic to star in new opera!

"Facetious little man, isn't he," he said quietly, dropping the paper back onto the desk. "So much fuss over an opera ..."

"Is he right?" Antoinette demanded, unreasonably infuriated by his predictably calm attitude. "Have you called her here?"

Erik didn't look up. "I believe Hammerstein has been dealing with casting ... it's none of my concern."

"Erik!"

He sighed, capped his pen, and laid it down neatly on his desk, finally looking up at her. "Yes, I've called her here," he said coolly. "I need a soprano - she happens to be just what the opera needs."

"Just what the opera needs?" Antoinette echoed disbelievingly. She turned away, shaking her head. "What do you want from her?"

"That's a remarkably jaded question, Antoinette," he said coolly. "I'm a composer, she happens to be one of the finest sopranos in the world."

"A fact which is largely if not entirely due to you!"

He glanced over the paper again and laid it back down on the desk. "You flatter me, madame. Quite how I can be responsible for her career when she and I have had no contact for the past thirteen years somehow escapes me; perhaps you would like to credit me with Nellie Melba's successes as well?"

"Why must you make this so difficult?" she asked suddenly. "Why can't you ever just give a question a straight answer; why must everything you say be in riddles?"

"No riddle, madame," he said flatly. "I fail to see why it is a matter of such agitation to you that I should employ the woman who is perhaps the finest soprano in the world to open my new opera for me."

There was a long silence.

"She is very happily married, Erik," Antoinette said quietly. "If any harm should come to Raoul or Pierre through this ..."

"The newspaper article does not state whether or not they will be accompanying her," Erik said icily. "It is entirely possible that she may choose to travel alone. And if they should choose to join her, I may assure you now that Raoul de Chagny and I will have no contact whatsoever." He took up his pen and began to write again. "There is no one in this world I wish to encounter less."

Antoinette stared at him for a moment, then turned to leave. "Tread carefully, Erik," she said quietly, closing the door silently behind her.

* * *

Christine heard a knock on her door, and the Irish priest who travelled with them as her son's tutor poked his friendly grizzled head round the door.

"We're almost in, Madame. Best get yourself ready - there's quite a crowd there from what I've heard." He smiled. "Are you nervous?"

"Nervous!" Christine laughed, trying to cover her apprehension. "I'm terrified. I've never even been to America before - I couldn't bear it if my debut was a disaster!"

Father Joe cast a shrewd glance at her and entered the little room, closing the door behind him. "Are you sure that's all?" he asked gently. "Nothing else you want to get off your chest?"

Christine laughed nervously and moved away from him, picking up a scarf which she had discarded over the back of a chair and smoothing it against her, holding it to her breast as a shield.

"Oh no!" she said, too quickly, her smile a little too wide. "I'm ... just a little jumpy, I suppose."

Father Joe remained silent and grave for a moment, then nodded briefly.

"As you like it, Madame Christine." There was a brief pause, then he smiled again, and she felt herself forgiven. "I'll send Meg in to finish packing up."

Christine turned away to fold the scarf into a trunk, and Father Joe left the room, closing the door quietly behind him, and catching sight of Meg's bright blonde head bouncing along the corridor.

"Meg, pet, you're wanted to finish the packing up. We'll be landing fairly soon, they say."

Meg beamed, her eyes alight with excitement. "I can't wait," she admitted. "I think I'm a little giddy with nerves!"

Father Joe caught hold of her arm and turned her to face him. "Calm yourself," he said with uncharacteristic firmness. "Madame Christine is not herself; I don't want you making her more nervous than she already is."

Meg looked up into his face and nodded, sobered by the usually jovial priest's unlooked-for gravity.

He released her arm and smiled again. "Go on, then," he said with a nod towards Christine's dressing room. Meg hurried into the room, and before the door closed behind her, he heard her greet Christine with carefully measured solemnity. He smiled, and made his way down the long corridor to his own cabin, closing the door behind him, and sitting down on the bed to think.

He had been with Christine and Raoul several years now, and, as their sole confessor, was one of very few people in the world who knew the truth of what had happened at the Opera Populaire thirteen years ago. Their chequered past had only strengthened his loyalty to them; he had long since taken it upon himself to ensure that their lives ran smoothly and without the angst they had become so unintentionally entangled in so many years ago. So far he had been very successful. He ensured that Christine never had to deal with the problems which are so common below stairs (it had been he who had managed the matter of the under-housemaid's potentially scandalous pregnancy with the minimum of fuss and worry to his mistress), and that the servants all knew that any trouble was brought to him first, and Christine second.

But now he was afraid.

He had seen the hand-written note which had accompanied the opera score which had driven Christine to break her vow to never cross the Atlantic. And he had also recognised - which Christine perhaps had not - the undercurrent of deep emotion underlying the seemingly formal words.

Thirteen years is not such a very long time, after all.

* * *

Erik paced the rooftop feverishly, his black cloak billowing out behind him in the wind. The crisp winter air bit at his exposed cheek, and the growing nausea of nerves in his stomach threatened to overwhelm him.

He glanced back over at the port and slammed his fist against the wall in acute frustration. The ship had been docked for what seemed like hours - what was the hold-up?

He closed his eyes fiercely, and tried to draw a deep breath. A roar went up from the crowd assembled in the harbour, and his eyes flew open. The gangplank had been let down, and a solitary figure, recognisable as a priest by his dress, stepped out onto it, closely followed by -

His heart thudded.

She looked positively radiant; wrapped up closely against the cold, her hair pinned tightly back under her hat, her cloak blowing backwards in the wind, her smile lighting the sky as she raised one hand to wave to the assembled crowds. The priest took her hand and guided her gently down to the red carpet which awaited her, the band on the shore beginning to play La Marsellaise - Erik barely even noticing the inadequacy of the second violin - as she made her way up to the podium which had been erected for her arrival.

He closed his eyes over a sudden pounding headache and a paralysing wave of dizziness. For a moment, he thought he might faint ... to be so close to her, after all this time ...

He stared at her with helpless longing, his heart wrenching as every memory of her came flooding back, her voice, her smile ... her lips over his ...

He closed his eyes and shook his head violently, knowing what little good thinking like that could possibly do him.

He took a step backwards until he could feel the reassuring solidity of the wall behind him. He had missed her so much ... more than he'd ever dreamed possible.

He saw her glance around briefly, flash a radiant smile at the crowd, and reach out to take Oscar Hammerstein's hand. A sudden and utterly unexpected wave of irrational and unreasonable jealousy swept over him, and he closed his hand around a pillar until the rough stone calmed the rising nausea.

She stepped up apprehensively to the podium and brushed back a loose lock of hair from her face in a gesture he still remembered.

"I would like to thank you all," she began in lightly-accented English, "for being here today. This is a very ..." she sought a word and looked round to Hammerstein for help. He murmured something in her ear and she flashed him a grateful smile before continuing. "A very important day for me, as I have never before visited this country; as you can tell, my English is not as it should be!"

There was a ripple of laughter, and Erik felt his heart wrench with helpless adoration for her.

"I am very much looking forward to performing what is a very beautiful new opera in this lovely opera house, and ..." she gave a little smile, "I hope that I will not disappoint!"

There was a roar of spontaneous approval from the crowd. Erik sank back against the cold stone of the wall in silent relief; his greatest fear had been that she would be badly received. As he did so, he caught the flare of sunlight on glass and looked sharply up. On the roof of the adjoining building stood a man, looking at him with undisguised curiosity through a pair of binoculars. Erik swore inwardly at the Fate which forbade him to watch her for even a few moments and disappeared down a concealed stairwell into his own building.

He made his way slowly back to his room and sank down into a hard-backed chair, breathing deeply for the first time in what seemed like hours.

She was back.

* * *

Oscar Hammerstein strolled happily along the corridor of the Manhattan Opera, whistling La Marsellaise.

"Hammerstein."

Oscar glanced into a side office with surprise, and smiled to see his usually silent financial backer seated within, long elegant fingers steepled together on the table.

"Erik!" He entered the room and offered his hand, which Erik ignored. "I take it you saw the arrival? It all went off beautifully ..."

Erik nodded curtly. "Yes, I saw it. Where is the lady now?"

"She's gone to her hotel to freshen up and have a rest, I believe." He smiled at the memory. "She really is a charming woman, you know, Erik ..."

Erik made an impatient gesture with one elegant hand. "Tell me, Hammerstein ... I see that she has brought a priest with her, and a maid; but I did not see her husband or her son." It was with some surprise that Oscar noticed Erik's hand clenched tightly around the back of a chair, betraying his tension. "Are they not to accompany her?"

"The boy is here," Oscar began, carefully watching his notoriously volatile partner's face for any sign of adverse reaction. "Her husband, I believe, has some business to attend to in Paris, but will be with us within the week."

There was a brief moment of silence, and then Erik nodded. "I had expected something of the sort. Very well, Hammerstein, carry on."

Oscar remained where he was, watching Erik with concerned regard, noticing the tremor of his hands. "Erik ... are you all right? You seem a little ... tense."

Erik drew his cloak over his shoulders. "I will be at rehearsal tomorrow," he said coldly, giving no sign that he had registered Oscar's words at all. "I shall expect all the cast to be present."

He strode out of the room without registering Oscar's goodbye, and when, a moment later, Oscar left the room himself, Erik had disappeared.

* * *

Erik left rehearsal the next day preoccupied and worried. Christine had looked exhausted, and performed as poorly as she had ever done; evidently she was still tired from her long journey.

He made his way through one of his many hidden passages to her dressing room, unsure what he would say or even whether he would have the courage to go in, but desperate to see her face to face again.

He tapped lightly on the door, but no reply came from within. Concerned, he opened the door cautiously and looked in.

The sight within made his heart stop; almost without knowing it, he stepped inside the room and closed the door silently behind him.

Christine lay curled on a couch, sound asleep, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other resting on her waist.

Her face looked pale, framed by clouds of tangled dark hair, and, her face relaxed in sleep, she looked not a day older than the day he had first seen her creep onto the stage of the Opera Populaire and almost unbearably beautiful.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, turning her face towards the pillow, her hand trailing over the full skirt of her costume.

Silently he moved across the richly carpeted floor until at last he knelt beside the couch, his head pounding and his hands shaking at the sudden sensation of having her so close once again, and after so long.

Against the logic of his mind, which in truth would never have let him come here in the first place, he reached up and touched his fingers lightly to her hair with all the tenderness he had been too afraid to show last time.

She nuzzled into his touch, her eyes still closed.

"Raoul?" she murmured drowsily, her lips curving into a sleepy smile.

A heartbeat of utter numbness while his mind refused to register her words, then his heart wrenched with paralysing, breathtaking agony, making him take an unwitting step back from the couch.

He was gone in an instant, leaving Christine half awake and with a sudden emptiness in her chest and the uncomfortably familiar sensation of almost unbearable loneliness.