Author's Note: Thanks to Passed Over, KyrieofAccender, Kinetic Asparagus, montaquecat and CarolROI for the first reviews of the story, and congratulations to CarolROI for being the only one to guess what was really going on.

Well, as Passed Over put it, I do love playing with you. Here's the answer to that spot of confusion that got (almost) everyone. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline 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. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Christine sat across from Daniel Arneau as his mouth continued to work like that of a goldfish. Whilst it wasn't the manifestation she had been hoping for, it was the exact response she'd been counting on.

At length, he managed to collect his wits about him and address the young redhead sat on his couch.

"Forgive me, my dear, it's just . . . you look so like her and your voice . . . At risk of being struck down, I'd say it was even better than hers."

"Sure an' you'd better not be sayin' such tings around here, Danny boy. Even if it is to me; she might still get you for it." she replied, a thick Irish brogue heightening the humour in her voice and causing him to start in surprise once again.

"Is that . . . do you really . . ?"

"It isn't my natural accent," she answered, slipping back into her true one, "but Mama was proud of her heritage and it was hard not to pick it up."

"Then you truly are the daughter of Katie O'Neill." She nodded, even though it wasn't a question.

"How did . . . I do beg your pardon, child, I'm not usually this flustered."

"I know." Christine smiled knowingly.

"Were it not for the fact you've said otherwise and that I – sadly – know better, I would swear that Katie O'Neill was sat before me. How did you manage it?"

"After you called, I dug up everything I had about when Mama worked here, from her time in wardrobe right through to her last performance. I remember every story she or Papa ever told me about The Clover, and together with what Madame Giry has spent the last week feeding me, it wasn't hard to accomplish.

"I've always had the key to her dressing room. Papa gave it to me, just in case . . . and I knew the rest anyway," she went on, idly playing with her hair, "so here I am, as requested."

"In all honesty, when I asked if you could help, it was mostly out of courtesy to your mother's memory. Although seeing you here, I must say I am overwhelmed. I think your very presence could do more than I ever anticipated."

Sitting up a little, emphasising the seriousness with which she spoke, Christine addressed the old conductor before her.

"Now that I am here, what exactly do you think I can do to help?"

"How much do you really know about your mother's performances?" She bowed her head, considering her answer carefully.

"For every performance my father attended, I know every step she took, every move she made and every note she sang. I have the cues and costumes for most of her roles and the ones Papa didn't see – her earlier ones, I know them pretty well."

"At least half of the concert is already taken care of," holding up his hand, he stopped her interruption at that little surprise, "but for the other, I've conferred with the management and as far as is possible without dishonouring her, we want to bring Katie back to the stage." Seeing her look of scepticism, he explained: "She hasn't trodden the boards of The Clover for twenty years, but she's still remembered even today. I know she'd have my head if we got an impersonator-"

"She wouldn't be the only one." Christine muttered under her breath.

"-and obviously I'd have to hear you properly first . . ."

Christine turned back to him, the reality of what he was suggesting dawning on her slowly. It was her turn to play the goldfish.

"Are you saying . . ?"

"Christine, you had me convinced that Katie had returned, and there are few who knew the theatre side of her better than I. Now, I'd never ask you to impersonate her. I'm asking you to bring her back to everyone who's remembered her all these years. Help me pay tribute to her." Seeing her still uncertain, his voice became stern. "Lass, if you knew that wretched version of 'Danny Boy' then you know how often I give out auditions on such a short acquaintance."

She smiled at that. Few were ever allowed to address Monsieur Arneau by his first name, and it was a well-known fact – to those who'd been around in her day – that only Katie O'Neill could get away with calling him Danny Boy. The idea of it alone drove him up the wall, but all she had to do was sing and he gave in. Their little routine had been one of the things that made her so much fun to work with.

"Alright. I had planned to stay here the week anyway, seeing as you agreed to my arrangements. But if you want me to 'audition', then I have one request."

"Name it." She noted that he diplomatically didn't agree or disagree straight away. Good, he was just as he'd been described.

"Don't let anyone see me." He frowned in confusion.

"I don't understand."

"If someone saw me, it would give it all away, and nothing's been agreed upon. Besides, my mother taught me well. I'm fairly confident it wouldn't take me long to discover a few secrets of this place." A conspiratorial smile crept across her lips and Daniel began to catch on.

"Are you suggesting that Katie's Ghost could be haunting this place?" he asked with a smile equal to hers.

"I doubt it would take long for an O'Neill to find out." The brogue had returned, as it inevitably did whenever she was addressed by her mother's name.

Daniel shook his head in wonder.

"You really are her daughter, aren't you." She shot him a look that said he'd better not doubt it.

"Alright, we'll do it your way." Smiling, she finally sought to have her curiosity satisfied.

"Now what did you mean by 'at least half of the concert is already taken care of'?"

"I've been trying to do a tribute to her for years, but we've never managed to find the right angle. Then a few weeks before I found you, we got a call out of the blue. A singer-songwriter wanted to play his first concert here. He's quite new, but he's already got a large following, even though he's only been around for months and never been seen. Management did turn him down at first until he mentioned that he was hoping to perform in memory of Katie.

"You have to know that I was against the idea at first. His music doesn't strike me as being her sort of thing, but he insisted that he would make it the sort of concert she would have loved."

"Then you've heard him?" Christine asked, thoroughly intrigued by the mystery, if only because it sounded vaguely familiar.

"Musically, yes, but not since that last conversation. He is certainly gifted, and his contract has been signed, sealed and delivered, as it were."

"But you're still not decided."

"I think it would take an O'Neill to manage that." The conspirator within surfaced again.

"You want the O'Neill seal of approval?" He nodded. "You haven't changed a bit, have you, Danny?"

"I see the O'Neill women remain as charming as ever." He retaliated with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

"And just when am I supposed to do that?" She humoured him, returning to the original discussion point.

"Well if you can find your way around, you can watch his rehearsal in about two hours. He's on his way here."

"Who is he anyway?"

"His name's Erik. Erik Destler."