A/N: Hello my loves! How have you been these past few weeks? So sorry it took so long to get this up… I was at a point in my other story where I had to plow headfirst through a few chapters. I've been home sick with bronchitis, though, so I was fortunately able to get this finished for you. Thanks so much for being patient with me. You are the best, most faithful readers and reviewers an authoress could ask for. –mwah-

I have NO earthly idea where my beta went, but I haven't talked to her in a few days. Needless to say this chapter hasn't been edited by anyone other than myself. –sighs- Therefore please forgive any technical errors on my part…

Disclaimer: -headdesk- Ai yi yi, vat a head 'ave I!

Fortunately, the following weeks' rehearsals did not mirror the calamity of the first. Giry and Reyer collaborated their efforts to keep the orchestra, chorus, and ballerinas in line and in sync; the managers, who only managed to bring disarray and uproar to my opera house, were both absent— Firmin with a head cold, Andre on vacation with his wife and eldest daughter; Carlotta and Piangi were often too busy consorting in an empty prop room to be bothered with showing up for rehearsals; and Rossini, lacking the company of his Italian friends, took to flirting shamelessly with the ballet rats between cues… needless to say he was often in high enough spirits that his superiors no longer had to fight him tooth and nail over every line. Likewise, I found my own temper lightening at the surprising smoothness with which the rehearsals were being conducted. I left Giry several notes telling her as much, along with the occasional box of her favorite imported chocolates.

But Christine was another matter entirely.

I am ashamed to admit that I was too cowardly to approach her after her bold confessions in the chapel. That was not to say that my throat did not twitch with the impulsive urge to correct her lackluster performances, or that gooseflesh and migraines were uncommon ailments in those first agonizing weeks— indeed, those would be brazen lies. Where had my passionate, talented student gone, I wondered daily. Certainly this ghost of a young woman was not she. If there was one thing I had drilled into my beautiful little pupil's mind from her first lesson, it was that soul was far more important in a performance than voice. I was terribly disheartened by her vacant expression and indifferent voice as she drudged through the role of a lifetime. My instincts as her tutor of ten years screamed for intervention, but my unfaltering pride bluntly refused.

Those rehearsals were a constant, nightmarish mood swing; I couldn't quite decide whether they were satisfactory or complete and utter failures when the curtain closed each evening. Every day was an exasperating frenzy of ups and downs, triumphs and disappointments. I was sure by the end of week two that if I was not a madman now, I would be by the night of the premiere. And so I was.

While the first fifteen days of March were of questionable quality, the second half of the month was, without a doubt, Hell on earth. At last it seemed to dawn on Signor Piangi that he had less than sixteen days to learn the entire opera, including staging, choreography, cues, and costume changes, let alone the main role of Don Juan, which consisted of five complete arias. Needless to say, I had my doubts. Hence, in my much-beloved solitude of the fifth cellar, I spent the next few nights re-creating the costume designs I had submitted for Don Juan's "seduction" outfit, worn during "The Point of No Return." Sleep was entirely out of the question— a trifling inconvenience which I satiated only when my weary body began to twitch with the almost lethal dosages of caffeine I consumed daily. Those imbeciles in the opera's kitchens never did learn where those twenty cans of coffee beans disappeared to.

On March 18th, my immune system finally gave out. Downing another shot of whiskey and two or three more cups of coffee, I tried to shrug it off at first and continue working as usual. My reddened eyes leaked like those of a bloodhound, my nose ran like a faucet, my voice was little more than a grated, hoarse whisper, and I had a violent cough which made it nearly impossible to remain hidden in one spot for any extended period of time. After denying my illness for two more days, I developed a raging fever, complete with chills and nausea. Even still, I stubbornly refused to miss a single rehearsal.

Unfortunately, even the Opera Ghost had his breaking point; I met mine on one particularly long afternoon in the third week of rehearsals. My head was searing— Carlotta had spent the past ten minutes squawking like an outraged parrot over the hem of her dress in Act Two. Madame Giry had pointedly ignored the diva's temper tantrum, insisting that her girls continue their practice as planned. I watched through increasingly blurred vision as the ballet rats spun in circles amidst Carlotta's wails, their tutus floating up around them like the petals of strange black flowers…

It was all I could remember before waking up face-first on one of the rafters, my arms and legs dangling limply over either side of the wooden plank. The rehearsals had long since ended, but no one seemed to have taken notice of my presence. At first I was horribly confused, unable to recall why I was here… and then it dawned on me. With a soft groan, I pushed myself upright. My head swam for a minute before settling, though it still throbbed viciously. Cursing under my breath, I managed to pull myself to my feet and proceed slowly and carefully home.

I was asleep before my head hit the bottom of the casket.

Though I was unaware of it at the time, four days slipped by as I lay motionless in that damned coffin. My headache eventually dulled, though my nose still ran and my throat felt like sandpaper. Convinced that I was well enough to return to my supervisory post, I cornered Madame Giry and demanded to know how long I'd been gone. I was positively livid upon hearing of my prolonged absence, and for the rest of the day I drilled every last performer until they were ready to collapse, extending rehearsals well into the early hours of the morning. Letters of instruction fell like rain upon the stage, each containing particularly harsh, blunt accusations. Somehow it made me feel better to inflict my own agony and exhaustion upon those poor dopes. Unfortunately God had cursed me with a conscience that refused to be silenced, and against my better judgment I allowed everyone the next day off to rest and rejuvenate.

Predictably, Christine sulked down to the chapel to pray, refusing Raoul's offer to go to lunch in the Jardin des Tuileries and Meg's proposal for a day of open-air shopping. She had withdrawn into herself, shutting everyone else out. Even Madame Giry could not penetrate Christine's barricade… no one could.

Except, of course, me.

It was simple enough to find a violin in the second vault. Instruments of every type, brand, age, and quality were packaged and stacked in the cellar. But Gustave Daaé had played only the best— an absolute beauty, hand-carved by Antonio Stradivari himself. Demiflee strings, standard Pernambuco bow… truly one of the most remarkable instruments I'd ever laid eyes on. It would have been a miracle had I found anything even slightly resembling it… a Guarnerius would have been an excellent substitute, but no man with any respect for music would have locked such a treasure in a cold stone tomb like this. The best I could find was a smallish, American-made violin— I would have turned my nose up at it had I not noticed the "gut strings" at the last moment. Certainly not demiflee, but the sound would be acceptable. I could only hope the moisture had not ruined them…

Selecting a sturdy Brazilwood bow from another case, I drew it hesitantly across the strings, praying. The instrument was in desperate need of tuning, but by some fortunate twist of fate the strings were unharmed. I spent the next fifteen minutes adjusting the instrument to my exact taste, until it sang like liquid gold beneath my deft fingers. A triumphant gleam crackled in my eyes as I tucked the violin and bow in a spare wooden case and raced to the chapel.

For eight hours I caressed my instrument like a fond lover. The bow became an extension of my body as it danced across the strings, filling the air with music until one could almost taste it, breathe it. The chapel was alive with the Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart, the most beautiful sonatas ever composed, anything to bring the light back to her beautiful eyes. She was gradually lulled into a serene trance by the painstaking replica of her father's music. I did not sing, of course, but Christine's voice accompanied my violin in an angelic whisper so soft it might have been my imagination. Her eyelids began to droop as I played the Moonlight Sonata— her favorite, she had once told me— but panic gripped her as she began to drift off, and she raised her pretty little face to the ceiling, tears glittering like diamonds in her eyes.

"Don't leave me, Papa… please don't leave me again…"

My heart broke; I drew the bow in long, powerful strokes across the strings to ensure her that I would stay. At last she allowed her weary body to rest, curling into a warm ball on the stone floor. True to my unspoken promise, I continued to play for hours as she slumbered peacefully; only when the dinner bell chimed did I cease to caress her sleeping ears with sweet music. Once I was sure that she would not wake, I climbed down from the ceiling and gently wrapped her in my own cloak. For a moment I simply stood there, debating what to do… I could not simply leave her here, alone in this cold, dark chapel, but I feared trying to move her for fear that she would wake and scream at the sight of me.

At last I decided to take the risk— I would be so gentle that even if she were awake, she could hardly feel me lifting her. Kneeling beside her, I slowly shifted her weight diagonally so that her head rested against my chest and her knees were curled around my hip. She did not so much as flicker an eyelash as I gathered her in my arms, cradling her legs and neck. I frowned; it was too easy to lift her— she had lost weight. My concerns were quickly drowned out by a stronger emotion, however, as she nestled instinctively into my chest, whimpering in her sleep. The urge to protect her swelled in my breast… my precious angel was tired and cold; she needed a soft bed and extra blankets to keep out the chill.

And the warmth of another person's body pressed against her, my mind added before I could silence it. The idea was ridiculous; it was risky enough carrying her back to her room, let alone…

I shook my head, placing a somber kiss on her curls. She's angry with you, remember? If she wanted anyone's body next to hers, it would be the bloody Vicomte's. The thought put me in a foul mood. It was extremely fortunate that I didn't meet anyone in the halls— everyone was either resting in their quarters or eating in the dining hall— for I wouldn't have hesitated to kill them on the spot before their screams could wake Christine.

Her bedroom door was slightly open, as if Meg had not bothered to shut it all the way before trotting off to a well-deserved meal. The lights were off, but it made no difference; I had her room's layout memorized, even if my eyes hadn't adjusted almost immediately to the dark. I picked my way steadily around the clutter— compliments of Mademoiselle Giry— and slowly sat on the edge of the bed so that I merely had to twist at the hips to lay Christine down. The mattress let out a whisper of air as it contoured to her body, but still she did not wake. I pulled the coarse sheet and coverlet up to her chin and slowly bent to press a kiss to her forehead, knowing that perhaps it would be the last time my lips would know such sweetness.

This time she did stir. I pulled away quickly, prepared to duck into shadows and disappear before she could discover the identity of her secret protector…

But the single whispered word that escaped her lips stopped my heart in my chest and rendered me paralyzed.

"Angel?"

Her eyes were still closed, her body relaxed. Perhaps she was still asleep; perhaps she was dreaming. But I could not get her tone out of my head… so reverent and longing… almost… almost…

I dropped to my knees, watching her face intently. When she made no indication of speaking further, I reached up and tentatively began to stroke her hair. She sighed softly at my gentle touch and nestled deeper into her pillow.

"That's right, ange, go back to sleep," I murmured. Her lips were parted, drawing in steady, shallow breaths. I studied them longingly, and absently found myself leaning in, desperate for just one taste…

I caught myself at the last moment and pulled brusquely away; I was not yet so desperate to kiss her that I would claim her lips in sleep. Don Juan Triumphant was just over a week away. Patience was not one of my strong points, by any stretch of the imagination, but I had waited ten years for this— certainly I could wait ten days?

Sighing deeply, I disentangled my fingers from Christine's hair and reluctantly moved away from her sleeping form. I watched her over my shoulder as I crept across the room, pausing at the door.

"Sweet dreams, mon amour," I whispered before shutting the door behind me. While the rest of my opera house would be taking a well-deserved rest tomorrow, I had wasted four precious days sleeping off a damned cold, and hence could not afford such luxuries. Ten days left, and I had a hundred's work left to do. The last-minute alterations to the score alone would take me all night. I berated myself for having wasted so many hours of the day already, and then mentally slapped myself for having called any time devoted to Christine a "waste."

My headache was getting progressively worse by the minute. Eventually I decided to simply stop thinking, as this damned opera seemed to have made me into a walking paradox.

Only after I began to swoon over the organ again, tottering dangerously on the edge of consciousness, did it occur to me to make up some kind of remedy. The time lost on brewing a gypsy potion would no doubt be made up for tenfold in the long run. Swaggering over to my potions cabinet, I glanced wearily up and down the rows, occasionally plucking a vial or two from their respective shelves. At one point I had alphabetized them, but they had long since been misplaced and cluttered so that I had to go through the tedious job of finding the right ones.

Thyme, coltsfoot, lobelia, elecampane, bone set, wild cherry bark, slippery elm, yarrow, Irish moss, balm of Gilead, and peppermint… I looked over the gathered ingredients, trying to remember if I'd forgotten anything.

"Mullein," I murmured, reaching up to rummage in the closet for its respective vial. The brief statement caused my lungs to constrict painfully, and I lurched into a long, violent coughing fit. By the time it had loosened its grip on my body, tears had gathered in the corners of my eyes and there was a foul taste in my mouth. Irritated, I swiped a hand across my brow and spat in the lake before storming over to the stove. I quickly lit a fire and grabbed the tea kettle, filling it halfway and returning to my cupboard. It had been decades since I had prepared this particular syrup, but the recipe leapt to the forefront of my mind on command, and I proceeded to add the correct measurements of each ingredient to the water. When each element had been deposited in the kettle, I hung it over the fire and went back to work for the next twenty minutes.

Act Three was driving me mad— two of Aminta's lines did not agree with Christine's voice, but each change to my already-perfect score was like a knife through my heart. To disrupt the established flow of notes was suicide to the aria, but then so was over-reaching Christine's range; she could strain her voice, which would be an unprecedented tragedy. At last I decided that I should simply rewrite the entire aria, for I could not stand to settle for either devastating option.

Twelve measures later, the kettle began to whistle. I ignored it at first, absorbed in my work, but the whistle slowly escalated into a piercing shriek. My temper reared its ugly head; I slammed my fist down on the organ keys and stormed over to the kettle, snatching it off the fire with such force that I nearly splattered the scalding contents all over my front. Panting and wide-eyed at the close call, I moved much more slowly to the kitchen area and poured the tonic slowly and carefully into a mug. The thick, brownish mixture oozed, bubbled, and hissed as it cooled, and I stared down at it with disgust. I blew on the surface a few times before taking a tiny, hesitant sip.

I nearly gagged. The peppermint hardly tainted the stuff; it tasted of muddy grass clippings and horseshit… or so I presumed, as I had never tasted either. It seemed an appropriate analogy, though.

But it works, the reasonable side of my mind insisted. Just down it so you can get back to work. The sooner you finish this, the sooner you can see Christine again.

Screwing my eyes shut, I lifted the horrid sludge to my lips and gulped it down as fast as humanly possible. When I clanked the mug down on the table, gasping for breath, the urge to retch nearly overpowered me, but I fought it down with several hard swallows. Once I was sure I could move without depositing the contents of my stomach all over the floor, I strode stubbornly back to my organ bench and continued to work as if nothing was amiss.

Strange how one does not immediately notice change when one is absorbed in his work. My cough halted completely, my nose ceased to drip, and the foul coating of the tonic in my throat seemed to ebb the pain there as well. By the time I had finished half the aria, I felt better than I had in weeks, but I didn't recognize the change until it was complete.

Had I been a religious man, I would have thanked God. Instead, I praised the gypsies for their vast knowledge of the workings of the human body, and went about the rest of my work with renewed spirits.

Sometime in those next few days, Christine began to creep tentatively out of her shell. Monsieur le Vicomte was on a business trip in Berlin, which I presumed to have a great effect on the sensuality of her performance. She let go; she allowed the passion of the music to sweep her away. Each performance was more satisfying than its predecessor— I was starting to run short on roses.

All too soon it was "hell week," but the actual stress level for myself, at least, seemed to die down a bit. Everyone had fallen into the routine, rehearsals were going as smoothly as possible, Piangi had at last learned most of his role, and I only had to put up with Carlotta's voice for about an hour every day. The managers returned to their offices, and surprisingly stayed put. After my initial contentment with the situation, I began to grow suspicious and anxious; things were going just a bit too well. Of course, I knew the arrangements the managers and M. de Chagny had set up for opening night, but the gendarmes were of no concern to me. At last I decided to overlook the odd quintessence of the rehearsals and be satisfied; if the idiots thought that by bringing in the police they would bring my opera to a halt, they were gravely mistaken. I was four steps ahead of them— they thought they were lulling me into a false sense of security with the fluidity of the rehearsals, but my security was altogether warranted. I had nothing to fear from the proud little toy soldiers, let alone in my domain.

So I sat back and enjoyed the performances, my letters of instruction growing fewer and farther apart each time. Reyer and Giry knew my standards and expectations, and almost always made corrections before my quill could finish writing them.

An apprehensive, excited buzz began to whisper through the opera house as the premiere ticked closer. The performers were not entirely daft; they understood that Don Juan Triumphant was an opera unlike anything the Parisian aristocracy had ever seen before. It was raw, controversial, erotic, and dangerous— and somehow this combination made it unexplainably attractive. After their initial discomfort, the actors and dancers and musicians began to experiment and have fun with their roles, touching on an uncomfortable, yet strangely seductive side of themselves that was brought out by my music. Their doubts about the reactions of the audience members were entirely justifiable— what they didn't understand was that was precisely my point. I was not bound by the laws of man, his society or his God; Don Juan Triumphant was my bold declaration of that statement. It was a means for seducing Christine, of course, and without a doubt its most focused, paramount goal. But this was also something grander, larger… this was my first and last address to the human race that shunned me. This was my mark on the world, a cultural and social phenomenon. This was my determining step… supposing, just supposing it didn't work, and Christine was not enraptured by my music— I would have at least presented my life's work to the public to be scrutinized, criticized, and secretly obsessed over by the swine who ruled Europe. And then I would take my own life, retiring for the last time to my tomb beneath the Opera Populaire.

But I would not think such morbid thoughts. Christine would give in— she had to. She had to.

Five days. Then four… three… two… one…

A/N: -drumroll- Ooh, I'm excited for PonR! Sorry, I know it's taking awhile, but this was the last filler. I have an obsession with detail; it would have killed me to breeze over an entire month and jump right to opening night. Anywho, the next chapter will be the pre-show happenings and a bit of DJT, and the one right after it will be PonR. It's so sad… this story is coming pretty close to its end, and I think I'm subconsciously trying to drag it out, haha. –blushes- I know you're anxious, though… a lot will be happening in the next few chapters, so buckle up!