A/N: Well, another chapter. I felt guilty about leaving it for tomorrow. I hope you enjoy. I want to keep the Phantom's presence mysterious for a while, gradually drawing him out into an actual person rather then keeping him an elusive angel like Christine believes him to be. Eventually, I haven't decided when yet, I want to switch briefly to Erik's POV to get his take on the story without revealing too much. I prefer keeping things mysterious because it adds to the emotion and sensuality of the story. Of course, I want Christine to begin to suspect that her angel is not exactly who she thinks him to be. Enjoy!

Chapter 5

She slept upon a chaise with a thin woven blanket stretched over her. The fire had died down now, and only the embers glowed faintly upon the grate. The room was no longer dark. Several candles had been placed about it, resting in elaborate candelabras and illuminating the room in a pleasant glow. Christine opened her eyes, shifting her legs slowly beneath the blanket, and glanced around the comfortable room. She brushed a hand across her face and tried to wipe away the last remnants of sleep.

She could now see that the room she had fallen asleep in was much larger then she had thought. There were a few couches spread about the room and other furniture just has exquisite as that in her room. Paintings adorned the walls. Paintings of lush landscapes and foreign architecture were most predominant. The walls were painted a dark burgundy to accompany the darker woodwork of the furniture and molding. Carpets adorned the wooden floor. The one she had slept on near the fire was a thick cream colored carpet. The others found near other pieces of furniture were dark with exotic oriental designs.

One design the room was missing was a window. No wonder it had been so dark earlier, despite the fact that daylight had spilled into her own room.

Christine brushed her hand across her cheek again, as though the action earlier had reminded her of something. She sat up on the chaise, an odd sense of déjà vu flooding her mind. Fingertips running across her skin. She shuddered slightly before lifting the blanket off and rising from the place where she had slept. How did I get here? I remember falling asleep on the floor. The angel had sung to me. She glanced at the candles and her brow creased slightly. Who lit these candles? No angel did all of this. Surely, there are other people here, she thought.

She drifted from the room, drawn by the brighter light beyond. The hall was lit with sunlight. Several windows that ran along its length, in either direction, were uncovered. Heavy drapes had been cast aside. She glided down the hall, in the opposite direction from her room. She found a small kitchen and began to look in the cupboards for something to eat before she spotted the dining room. A small platter of food had been placed there. Bread, cheese, fruit, and wine had been lain out. Christine ate hungrily, not realizing how famished she had been. When her stomach was full and she had leaned back in the cushioned chair at the large wooden table, she was reminded again of the oddity of the situation. Where did this food come from?

Finally filled with enough energy to seek out her benefactor, Christine left the dining room and began to search the large house. Its halls seemed large and gothic. A house more beautiful then she could have imagined. But there was something also oppressive about the great halls, heavily draped windows, and flickering candlelight. Something that struck fear into her heart and she did not know why. Perhaps it was the fear of being alone in such a grand place. But still, that notion did not solve the problem. She felt restless, as though she had been waiting long for something that had never come.

The world she had left behind was becoming a distant memory. She no longer paid any thought to the town that she was forced to leave. But occasionally, her thoughts would drift back to Madame Giry and her young daughter Meg. They were the only relics of her life that carried any meaning. Her father was gone.

It had only been a handful of years since his passing, but the memory still awoke a strong sorrow in her heart that it was difficult to hide. She brought a hand to her mouth, fighting back the sobs that always lay so close. Her other hand reached out, as she walked down one of the many hallways, and brushed back a curtain from one of the windows. Sunlight briefly hit her features and the starkness of it, the white searing bite of it, caused her to recoil.

Christine stopped briefly at the large window to glance outside. The forest lay just a short distance away. The trees had already begun to turn color here. Just the faintest of turnings, but autumn was undoubtedly coming. Between the house and the woods lay a small clearing and what appeared to be a coarse drive running alongside the house and stretching past her field of vision. No carriage or horses could be seen.

She stepped back from the window, allowing the heavy drape to fall back into place and remove the sun from the hall. She was restless.

It was upon this occasion that she found the library. The hidden room, off in an obscure area of the house much of which had yet to be explored, was a cozy office of sorts. Several bookshelves lined the walls. Christine hesitantly entered the room, skirting around the wooden desk that was positioned in the center of the room, and found a treasure at the back.

A larger library gave way to a smaller room. A large bay window lay straight across, allowing bright, cheery sunlight to shine through, with an inviting couch placed in the small alcove. She skimmed the bookshelves and tried to find something to pass the time. Her finger finally stopped on a book of fairy tales and a small smile formed on her face. She lifted the volume from the shelf and made her way back to the smaller room, before settling on the small couch.

She began to lose herself in the book of stories and was not aware of the passing of time. Soon, the light began to fade through the large windows and she began to look around for a candle or oil-lamp.

That was when it started.

As she bent over the desk in the library to find what she was looking for, a figure moved past the door in the hall. She spotted it as soon as she had risen. Strange that they do not stop, she thought. Christine rushed to the door in an attempt to catch up to the passerby.

"Hello?" she called out, her voice sounded rather timid.

After no response, she tried again and again. But no one answered. Fear began to settle in her mind and she left the safe confines of the library to seek out whoever had passed this way.

"Please, is someone there?" she cried out.

She felt the shadows start to settle in the darkened hallways as daylight fled the sky and was replaced by night. Lifting her gown slightly, Christine rushed down the hall. Many of the candles that had been lit earlier were now extinguished and some still warm to the touch, with spires of smoke rising from the wicks. She glanced about worriedly, her brown eyes wide with fear and lips parted in wordless question. But then something came over her and pushed back the fear. Her breathing calmed.

Remembering words that her father once spoke, she closed her eyes and found a sort of peace. She used to sing to herself after her father died. When no one else was listening and no one else was near, she would sing as quietly as should could. It was the only connection left that she had with him. Perhaps he could hear her, even from heaven above. Even now, as a young woman, she found that singing was the only way she could alleviate the fear of being alone in this strange place. Without him. A melody suddenly found its way into her words, and she felt her voice move into song.

"Father once spoke of an angel,

I used to dream he'd appear

Now as I sing I can sense him,

And I know he's here.

Here in this room he calls me softly,
Somewhere inside...hiding."

Her voice faltered with the last word. The fear advanced again. She was still alone in the hall. Was she?

She continued down the hall, drawn by the light at the end. She passed by the kitchen and noticed no one there. Nearing the great hall with the fireplace, she noticed that there was no fire this evening. The room was dark. She continued on in trepidation, clutching the folds of her skirt tightly with white knuckles betraying her unease. She passed the door to the room she had first awoken in. Christine began to fear what was waiting for her at the end of the hall. The light was becoming brighter as she approached. She could feel her legs quaking.

When at last she neared the room, its door wide open with light spilling out onto the wood floor like an open invitation, she brought a hand up to the doorframe in hesitation. She closed her eyes and silently prayed that whatever lay beyond would not harm her. When she finally summoned the courage to continue, Christine stepped across the threshold and was stunned by the room she had entered. Glancing around in surprise, she found a room, smaller then the great room down the hall, but furnished more differently. With a couch, a mirror upon the wall, similar to the one in her room, and a great organ dominating the wall directly across from her, the room was undoubtedly a private music room. Several candelabras were scattered about the room giving it a bright, but comfortable illumination.

Christine approached the organ, drawing her slender fingers gingerly across the keys. She noticed sheet music scattered about with most of it stacked neatly on the organ. It reminded her very much of her father's disarray at times. A gentle smile spread across her face.

Suddenly, she felt a breeze on the back of her neck. Christine turned her head slightly, her long dark curls trailing behind her back, and glanced about the room. No one was there. But the candles were flickering in agreement with her suspicions.

"Hello?" she asked softly. "Is anyone there?"

Silence.

"Please answer. I wish to know whose house it is that I am now living in. Please!" Her plea seemed to go unanswered.

Again the candles flickered as a sudden gush of wind blew through the room. Christine crossed her arms before her, fighting off the chill that had spread throughout her body. She felt a presence in the room and she spun about wildly but to no avail. The candles seemed to dim. Or perhaps it was the light of oil lamps that had gone unnoticed in the room.

"Child, why do you wish to know these things?"

She glanced upward as though she might spot the winged messenger. But finding nothing, she drew her gaze back down.

"Angel, why do you not show yourself?"

"You do not need to see me."

"But I do! I am lonely and wish to see the angel that my father sent me," she cried out.

There was a pause before the voice sounded again. "You are not alone, Christine. I am watching over you."

The sound of her name on the angel's lips was beyond description. Tears sprang to her eyes but she fought them back. There had to be someone else in the house. She knew it.

"Who else lives here, angel?" she asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"I have seen someone walking the hall. There was food upon the table for me. Someone has cared for me. I know it!" she argued.

"Right now, nothing else matters. I have heard your voice. The voice that your father nurtured when you were young. I have found it worthy of my tutelage."

Christine stood speechless for a moment. A tutor? No one had cared to foster her singing besides her father. She was hesitant for a moment. Her singing was too painful for her. At least, when it was to be shared with another. She did not want to sing for anyone but her father.

"I cannot sing," she replied quietly, looking down upon the floor.

"I have heard you sing. Your voice is more beautiful then any other's, but it lacks heart and soul. There is nothing but pain in your voice. I can teach you."

If this was the angel her father had sent, she had an obligation to honor his presence and use her voice.

"Alright," she responded in the barest of whispers.

The lights flickered briefly about the room. Christine stood alone at its center.

"Angel, please, I must know who lives here. Forgive me for asking for too much, but I need someone to talk to. Someone who I can see. Someone real. Please," she cried, a tear slipping from her eye.

There was no response. But suddenly the lights went out in the music room. Christine's eyes were still closed as the room dimmed, but she could feel a slight breeze on her skin. She felt a hand touch her face, rather a gloved hand, and wipe the tear from her cheek. But as quickly as it had been there, the presence was gone.

Lady Extremely English Voldemort - Thank you for the vote of confidence!

Passed Over – One of my personal fav Gerry movies (I haven't seen many) is Dracula 2000. Very delectable.